Twenty-years ago this week the hated Berlin Wall was breached.(1) East Berliners climbed upon the concrete barrier and chipped away with hammers and axes taking chunks out of the wall that had divided the East from West Berlin, brother from sister, mother from son. Almost in a blink of an eye the entire country of which East Berlin was the capital disappeared, and with it a major bastion of communism. What is not widely known – with apologies to Spike Milligan(2) – is the story of ‘Berlin Wall: My Part In Its Downfall’.
In 1982 I was a student working as an intern with the company, as Fate would have it, which has been my employer for the last twenty-seven years. Barely in my twenties I availed myself of the opportunity to buy an InterRail card that entitled students under 26 years old to travel the railways of Europe for 30-days basically free. With my pass tucked in my pocket, I packed my rucksack and headed off on an adventure.
First stop was Brussels, the capital of the emerging European Union, though it was still called by its less aluring title European Economic Community. I was fortunate to have a friend who had settled there and rented a flat. From Belgium I travelled to The Netherlands and spent a happy time exploring the Rijksmuseum, Ann Frankhuis and other sites in Amsterdam, the modern port of Rotterdam, the touristic Delft among other places; then on through Germany via Bremen and Hamburg to Denmark. There I stayed in one of Europe’s best youth hostels in Copenhagen, saw the mermaid, and took the train to see the Viking ships at Roskilde. Heading south I went to Celle and Hannover and it was there that I met my friend from Brussels who had been joined by his brother from Athens. We had set ourselves a bold mission – to go and visit the Deutsche Demokratische Republik (DDR) – East Germany.(3)
In 1982 the Cold War was still years from thawing. Visiting the DDR seemed almost to be an act of provocation to my idealistic travel companion. We went in his car bearing its ‘EUR’ number plate which indicated the owner was an employee of the European Commission and, clearing passport control, we crossed over the border heading east to Berlin. Traffic had to follow a narrow corridor formed by a motorway and was not permitted to make any detours. We arrived in West Berlin and were amazed by the bright lights and round the clock lifestyle of the city. I recall we attended a performance of Mozart’s Die Zauberflötte and the Queen of the Night’s exquisite voice, which hit the high notes precisely each time (I am sure her voice still ricochets in the attic of the opera house there).
We arrived in the city of lights and were amazed that it lived up to its reputation as a city that never slept. Next day we went to the Brandenburger Tor and saw through its columned archway the figures of people looking back at us. These were the faces of the enemy, my friend pointed out! Dividing the city was the high concrete wall, die Mauer, and we took a trip to a section that had an observation platform. It was early evening and I recall looking across the expanse of no-man’s land with its mercury lamps, traps and armed guards peering back at us from drab green-grey Trabis. “Behold the Workers’ Paradise”, I recall an Canadian standing beside me saying sarcastically. From the platform it was clear that there were few bright lights in the Hauptstadt der DDR: when the sun set, good communists went home to rest ready to face the next day with renewed fervour for the creed of Lenin.
It was then that my friend convinced me that we had to cross over to the other side and see this Workers’ Paradise for ourselves. So next morning we drove to 'Checkpoint Charlie'. On the Allied side w
e were encouraged to leave items that might be considered contraband or subversive by the East Germans, which included newspapers and cassette tapes. My bold friend, however, was intent on playing his part in shaking the state. In his glove compartment he had a copy of that great organ of counter-communism, Time magazine. This he did not want to remove. So the barrier was lifted and we crossed through No-Man’s Land. The red carpet had been kept firmly in its protective brown paper wrapping that day and our welcoming reception was a brooding guard in a drab grey uniform that looked like army surplus from 1945. He inspected the car and quickly found the Time magazine and other items he did not like. We were called in turn to be interviewed – I hesitate to use the word 'interrogated' – by the man in his plain drab office. My friend was jubilant, but I was anxious. I had not read any books by John Le Carre but I felt inspired to write my own at that moment.
We were finally ‘released’ and permitted to enter the country. First stop: a petrol station. The DDR needed hard currency and for visitors enticed them with cheap petrol, with which we filled our tank. Already I had the sense that Berlin was stranded in a time warp. Its brown grey buildings seemed unchanged since the Russians had taken it street by street in the closing weeks of the Third Reich. We went to the main square and noticed that the public buildings were still pock marked by shrapnel and shells. It was as if the government wanted to constantly remind its citizens of the war. There was a monument to the victims of Nazism guarded by tall, skinny, but emotionless East German soldiers in their oddly flared helmets and jack boots. I watched as visiting off-duty American soldiers studied their adversaries cockily: West meets East, I thought, the enemy looks into his opponents’ eyes: but what does he see?
We ate a not very good lunch at the Volkskammer, a stark modern building quite out of place with its surroundings. I recall drinking a glass of flat, dark and sickly sweet Club Cola while listening to a pianist who, curiously, was playing an electronic organ made by a well-known Japanese manufacturer. We went to the see the astonishing collection of ancient sculptures on display at the 'Pergamon Museum'. What stands out in my memory is not the Pergamon Altar, but my friend looking at his change. The DDR used aluminium for its low denominations and to a westerner, it seemed almost like toy money. Contemptuously my friend threw his handful of next-to-worthless coins up in the air. They cascaded across the polished floor with a tinny sound. The few visitors to the museum looked on in horror - as did I.
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We also attended an exhibition that presented the life and times of the Prussian leader Frederick the Great whose palace, Sans-Souci, had been surprisingly renovated by the authorities. A man heard us talking and engaged us in conversation. I recall that, even allowing for my O-level German, I understood him describing how the DDR was confidently rediscovering its pre-20th century history, and how Socialism was not far removed from National Socialism – lofty concepts to comprehend in a language that I had learned only by studying the life of the fictitious Familie Ehlers. For myself, I was ever fearful for the presence of the Stasi, the state secret police: I really did not want to be trapped in this awful city for the rest of my life, and urged that we go.
The Deutsche Mark had to be exchanged into the local Ost-Mark currency at some preposterous rate, and you were not permitted to take the money out of the country. The trouble was there were few places we could spend it. Fortunately for us, nearby was a shop for tourists - the only shop for tourists. It was while standing in the shop browsing, ironically enough, at imported western goods, that I became aware of a presence. Standing beside was a lanky boy in his teens wearing demin jeans and a jacket. I was struck by his mop of blond hair and spotty face. He had seen me carrying a German-English dictionary – and he wanted it. It was a special dictionary, about seven inches long by half an inch that opened like a fan. Its ‘pages’ were blades that were printed both sides and which could be separated but pushed back together to be tucked into a pocket. The boy looked agitated. He offered me his pen knife. My friend was excited. “Give it to him,” he urged. “Go on!” I was terrified I was being watched by the Stasi. The boy persisted and would not go away. My friend kept saying “it will help bring down communism”. I relented and gave the boy my dictionary. In an instant he disappeared. My friend was very pleased and congratulated me on my good judgement. Secretly I was terrified that I might not be let out of the country that night.
In the evening we bought tickets to see Beethoven’s Fidelio at the historic StaatsOper. Historic because it was an old opera house, but also because Adolf Hitler had attended performances here. Our German marks bought us the best seats in the house and a programme each. I recall trying to read its explanation of the opera. It told how Beethoven’s work showed the corruption of capitalism and the heroism of the proletariat – it was amazing that the classical period German composer should have had the foresight to anticipate the values upon which the DDR was built: sehr klug. The performance was magical, but I recall that it was the voice of the lead singer visiting from West Berlin that had the best voice.
It was dark and wet when we left East Berlin and returned to the bright lights of the city’s decadent sister. As we drove back next day through the southwestern part of the country along Hitler’s almost traffic-less Autobahn in its now pot-hole ridden state, I wondered about that blond boy who had my dictionary. Eventually we reached the border with the Bundesrepublik and I gave a sigh of relief. As we put the miles between us and the DDR, I felt increasingly sure that in some small way my act of subversion would lead to the overthrow of the enemy state, that I had struck a blow for the West and thrust an, albeit, very small dagger into the thorax of the heartless communist state.
Seven years later, in 1989, that result came.
The rest, as they say, is history.
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