In my parents' house is a bookcase containing the usual figurines, trinkets and memorabilia that a family tends to collect or inherit over the years. A stranger might find a bit unusual that one of the many items in it is a brick. It's not the kind of brick that your house here in the States might be made of, but one made from concrete poured around small rocks.

I don't actually remember the night my father brought it home, but it must have been sometime in 1961 or 1962. He'd received it from an Air Force buddy of his who'd had guard duty at CheckPoint Charlie (the main access between East and West Berlin during the years of the Wall) the night a very brave man made his break for freedom.

I don't know the man's name or what his motives were for risking his life to get into West Berlin. I don't even know if he survived. All I know is that he drove a truck past the East German guards and crashed it through the Wall in order to escape.

The Americans on duty at CheckPoint Charlie gathered the bricks that were scattered in the escape attempt, and one of them found its way to our family.

To me, it's always been a symbol of one of the greatest of human strengths, the ability to face overwhelming odds and have the courage to do whatever you have to to reach a goal.