The young man standing awkwardly in the kitchen of Rudi Dutschke's Berlin apartment in spring 1967, watching him tidy the books from the kitchen table, is me. Looking back over forty years, I don't recognise myself, this tall, dark-haired, diffident student. He is familiar to me only from the many photos of him which still exist. My memories of Rudi Dutschke are far more vivid. He was a man of his time, of that time – and not only because he died so young.
By Gaston SalvatoreMore ...