Let’s not bury the lede here. I was full cavity and striped searched entering East Berlin from Check Point Charlie. I was eighteen.
This Storytime Diary was inspired by the East Berlin story BeninSC posted on 12/14. It started with a question from a friend:
What is something you’ve done or experienced that you’re pretty sure no one else on my friend’s list has done or experienced?
My family was not known for big vacation trips. Driving to Florida once a year to visit the grandparents was about the extent of our travels. Notable exceptions were a trip to Quebec City when I was about 12 and to Expo 67 in Montreal.
So when my folks suggest a trip to Europe the summer after high school it was a bit out of character. Their rationale was seeing another part of the world might broaden my horizons and expose me to some history I might need to read about in college.
So the deal was struck. They would pay to get me there and back and stipend me for some of my lodgings in guest houses. How long a trip depended on how much money I saved in my Senior year. It worked out to three weeks. I planned the itinerary myself.
There were some parental restrictions. No youth hostels. Didn't take long once on the Continent to side step that one, And every four nights had to be in a “real” hotel.
After England, it was on to Paris and Normandy. Then a week in the Rhineland and three nights in West Berlin.
Berlin was divided into four sectors after World War Two. British, French, American and Russian (Soviet Union). There were various places where commerce and travelers could enter the Russian Sector. With few exceptions it was forbidden for East Germans to leave East Germany. For nine years the news was full of stories about tunnels under The Wall, hidden compartments in trucks and too many tragic attempts to climb the wall that ended in death.
I had a very small room on the third floor rear of a guest house. The first level was a bakery. The smell woke me each morning. For a couple days I made a thorough walking tour of central West Berlin; taking photos along the way. At some point I found a poster for East Berlin sightseeing bus tours. My flight home was the next day and I still had enough Deutschmarks for the tour and a couple meals.
The bus wound its way around the barriers to enter East Berlin at Check Point Charlie and went directly to Brandenburg Gate. During the time of The Wall the road there was blocked off to both vehicles and pedestrians. Large concrete boxes filled with flowers set well back from The Gate adorned the area. There was little visual intrusion of The Wall when viewed from the East. Even the presence of border guards was minimal.
Many residents sat on the flower boxes looking to the West. I was told later that people would look for a gimps of someone on the other side. The bus trundled up the main street past beautiful apartment buildings with colored tile fronts. Flower boxes on balconies. An array of retail stores lined the street. This was the show place Russians wanted tourists to see. We proceed to the famous TV Tower. The guide explained this was the location of Nazi book burning and, with a smile, on another day we could return to the East and visit the several museums around the area.
By chance I was seated next to a Canadian college student. We struck up a conversation. She was traveling Europe like thousands of other North American college students did back in the day. She was a bit surprised that I was just out of high school. This was a common reaction when I ran into students with back packs on trains or a Rhine River packet boat. They always folded me into the group but were a little amazed I wasn’t in college yet.
After the bus tour we got lunch and decided to go back into East Berlin on foot. Entering the Russian Sector check point was like stepping into a different dimension. There were large white concrete blocks staggered in the road to force vehicles to slow down and weave through them. There were two long narrow buildings on either side to process arriving and departing traffic. And of course large concrete guard towers and, unlike what was seen at Brandenburg Gate, conspicuous guards with assault rifles.
First you were required to change 25 West German Marks for East German Marks. Things unraveled quickly after that. After waiting in line for about twenty minutes, my Canadian friend was allowed to pass but waited for me. In my case, there was much discussion by the guard at the window with, I assumed, a supervisor. Everyone was in uniform. Some looked like police. Others clearly were East German army border guards: Grenztruppen. They asked for more identification so i gave them my drivers license. With no explanation they took the license and passport and went into a side room. I was told, “You. Go sit down there.” The guard motioned to the bench where my friend was waiting.
Two things are probably helpful here. First, it’s July. Sunny and very hot. There is no air conditioning. Second, for reasons not relevant here, my hair was very short. Many of my classmates grew their hair out to varying degrees of just shaggy to full blown hippie. I wasn’t wearing jeans but what back then might be called “school clothes.” So if they were profiling a hippie with drugs, I didn't fit.
At this point I was becoming apprehensive. I took my seat and without looking at her, told my traveling partner to leave. Not to wait outside or even acknowledge that we were speaking. I didn't want her hassled because she was with me.
If the documents were confiscated or lost, I had no way to prove who I was and, other than my new friend, no one knew where I was that day. After twenty or thirty minutes I made the mistake of asking where my documents were and when I could go. This resulted in a torrent of German and English ordering me to sit down and shut up. Not long after that I was ushered into a very small back room and ordered to wait.
Paranoia was setting in about now. The window in the room was wide open with a lovely view of the gravel “death strip” between the concrete wall and a double line of tank obstacles. I was already sweating and the imagination was running overtime. Although “The Gulag Archipelago” was a few years from publication, I knew something of Soviet work camps. “On Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich,” also by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, was a made for TV movie in 1963.
After nearly two hours of waiting two men entered the room. One about six feet tall in a German Grenztruppen uniform and the other, a Russian officer in his forties and about my height. I assumed the officer spoke English but everything went through the German. The Russian had a pistol on his hip.
After a few fairly innocuous questions I was told to strip. Open mouth, lift the genitals and a rectal search. Nothing was done gently. They let me get dressed and the questions continued.
“What does your Father do?” “What does your mother do?” “How much does your Father make a year?” “What kind of home do you live in?” “ How many rooms are there?” “Did you study chemistry in school?” “Do you have brothers and sisters?” “Why are you traveling alone?” “What do you intend to do in East Berlin?” The questions continued for a long time. It was exhausting.
All the questions were brusque. The translation came across with the same abruptness the Russian used. Both were very stern. This was no joke but a deadly serious interrogation. Fortunately I had done my homework and knew the names for three museums and a couple of street names.
But two things caught their attention: my shoes and my camera. The Russian made a close inspection of everything I wore. He took apart my wallet and scrutinized the cash, every card and paper. The shoes were of particular interest.
“When were you in Czechoslovakia?” My shoes were made in Czechoslovakia.
“I’ve never been to Czechoslovakia.”
“Where did you get these shoes?”
“I bought them in the U.S.”
The Russian shouting now in English. “No ! It is not possible to buy Czechoslovakian goods in the United States. You are lying!” With that he threw down the shoes and stormed out. The German and I looked at each other for just a moment then he also left.
By this time I had lost track of time. The sun was getting lower and if I did not get out soon the museums would be closed. There was no point seeing East Berlin in the dark.
The dynamic duo returned and the questions started again. Some recycled from the first session. “What did you study in school.” “Will you join the army?” “What does your middle name mean?” “Why were you in England and France?” “Do you go to church?”
The camera. The Russian turned the camera over and over and had a side conversation with the German. My heart, already racing, sank. At least he didn't open the back. My camera was a Werra made in the German Democratic Republic, AKA East Germany.
The next few minutes felt like an eternity. “Where did you get this camera?” “No. East German goods are not sold in the United States.” I was accused of trading on the black market. The Russian was angry at my answers. I bought it at a local camera shop back home.
Looking back, it was a rare display of diplomacy for an eighteen year old to explain the purchase. I waxed on about the Carl Ziess optics, the lens ring film advance and that I wanted a fine quality camera. I couldn't help that it was made in the GDR. Flattery may not get you everywhere but it worked. The German border guard beamed while interpreting my praise for the little camera.
After a few more questions they both left. Again, the sun is getting lower and it was pushing six o'clock. The waiting felt long but was probably brief. The border guard returned alone my passport and license in hand. Just as he closed the door his whole countenance changed. He smiled, apologized for the Russian and encouraged me to explore his fine city. I explained that the museums were all closed and I was leaving the next day. He had an answer for that too. He reeled off the names of night clubs for “young people” I should visit that evening. He clapped me on the shoulder, escorted me to the exit like we were old friends.
By now I was hungry and totally paranoid. I looked at my watch. I had been detained and interrogated for over five hours. I just knew if I crossed the street and tried to return immediately to the American Sector I might never get home. For the next forty minutes or so until the sun set, I was determined to document the sections of Berlin not seen from the bus.
Residential streets looked abandoned. There were almost no cars and no litter. It took some close inspection to realize the windows with sheer curtains were apartments, I found a church (Deutscher Dom on Mohrenstrasa) left to fall apart clearly suffering from war damage twenty-five years before. Another factory looking building was gutted, also from war damage. Older buildings had visible gun fire marks. There were city blocks covered in grass and weeds where the rubble of war had been removed. Post war housing was typical Soviet style slab side, grey/brown cement. It was a dismal experience.
At every intersection was a small guard hut. A few had a guard. I was convinced I was being followed.
There was no one on the streets until I got closer to the commercial area near Brandenburg Gate. There I managed a few pictures with the sun behind the Reichstag building.
It was dark by the time I made it back to the check point. Clearing the East German side was relatively painless. Except that it was illegal to take East German Marks out of the country. There was a convenient glass jar where one could make a “donation” to some sort of charity.
Check Point Charlie was a simple white guard box in the middle of the street manned by American soldiers. Pedestrians were waved through. Vehicles going either way only had a quick document check.
Of course I was traumatized by the experience and began relating the ordeal to the two soldiers. The Corporal cut me off. He was unimpressed and explained that it happens now and then but generally nothing comes of it. He was of the opinion that it was a form of entertainment for the border guards. That they probably had a stop and search quota to report each month. Neither option made me feel any better.
The experience was seminal in a lot of ways. Mostly it became a touch stone for when things in my life got tense.
When facing aggressive, belligerent questioning from a lawyer representing the guy who rear ended me and accused me of faking Traumatic Brain Injury - I could think back to my Russian and German border guards. Yea, go ahead. I’m not afraid of you. I was interrogated and cavity searched by a couple East German border guards,
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