The inside story on losing a piece of the Berlin Wall
Take a step behind the scenes as we highlight some memorable moments from the Ottawa Citizen’s storied past. Chris Cobb, who covered the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe, recounts how his quest for a memento of his adventures fell short.
It was late in 1989, my last day in Berlin after a stretch working in Eastern Europe, watching and writing as the Soviet empire collapsed.
Before I left, I wanted a few pieces of the famed Berlin Wall. And Christmas was coming. What better gift could there be at this momentous point in history?
For those of you too young to remember, the Berlin Wall was the tangible symbol of the “Iron Curtain” that enveloped much of Europe following the Second World War. Built in 1961, the Wall separated Communist, Soviet-held East Berlin from West Berlin. Few people were authorized to cross. Germany itself was divided in two, East and West; families had been parted for decades.
But by 1989, the Soviet empire was disintegrating; countries were wrestling their way out of Moscow’s grip, and many journalists, myself included, had been sent to Europe to witness these astonishing events. In Berlin, people were being allowed to pass through some areas at the Wall.
So I woke early one day, bought a hammer and chisel at a hardware store, and, in the chilly morning mist, set to work to get my chunks of the Wall.
Things didn’t go so well. The chisel was little match for the graffiti-coated concrete and released only small chips.
This was still before the Wall was totally breached. And one glaringly obvious fact hadn’t occurred to me: The Berlin Wall was in East Germany.
A Japanese news crew appeared and began filming me. I noticed them at the same time as I noticed a uniformed, armed East German border guard sauntering towards me.
He looked pleasant enough. He held out his hand with a “Here, let me show you how to do it” look. I willingly handed over my tools, genuinely touched by his consideration. Then he turned his back on me and began walking quickly toward his post, partially hidden behind a checkpoint in the Wall.
My faith in human kindness temporarily shattered, I followed him, shouting angrily. He broke into a jog. I started running. The Japanese camera crew followed in hot pursuit, filming our every interaction.
The guard eventually reappeared — without my hammer and chisel. He slapped the Wall. “Ostberlin,” he shouted. “Ostberlin.” Another guard, brandishing a rifle, stood behind him. That’s when the Deutsche Mark dropped. My tools had been captured and were being held in East Berlin. I was never going to see them again.
On reflection, I felt some sympathy for the guards. The rapid political change and social upheaval they were experiencing must have left them totally bewildered.
I had spent time, the previous two days, moving back and forth between East and West Berlin with relative ease across Checkpoint Charlie, the most famous crossing point of the Cold War. East German guards there were barely going through the motions. The old order was collapsing, and they obviously knew it. However, that certainty hadn’t yet percolated to these particular Wall guards.
I went back to the hardware store, bought another hammer and larger chisel and relocated to a more secluded portion of Wall.
I gradually developed the knack and chipped off some handsome, yet portable portions of rock. By now, several busloads of schoolchildren and other assorted tourists were swarming around, asking to borrow my tools. I eventually gave the hammer and pick to a group of them and left the Wall, with my plastic bag holding some 15 pieces of concrete history. I returned to my hotel, packed my bags, put the Wall in carry-on and headed to the airport.
At that time, the Southam News Agency, for which I was working, had a flat in the upmarket Kensington district of London. On the airplane to Heathrow, and during the bus and underground train back to the flat, the bag of Berlin bounty never left my sight. I peeked at the chunks and occasionally took one out and admired it as another resident of Kensington might admire a rare jewel.
My chunks contained wonderful, colourful examples of the famous Berlin Wall graffiti and were magnificent compared to the puny little pieces that would subsequently start hitting the western market for ridiculously high prices. I arrived home and placed the bag of Wall on the floor next to a radiator in my small, one-bedroom flat.
Meanwhile, during the many weeks I had been away, the Southam cleaning lady, a charming, extremely helpful Portuguese person, had dutifully come to clean even though, after the first week, there was nothing left to do. That wasn’t her fault, and not wanting to deprive her of 20 quid a week, I allowed it to happen.
My wife arrived for a visit from Ottawa the next day and, dutifully impressed with my Wall haul, went shopping for ornate boxes. The plan was to keep a nice piece for ourselves and reduce the rest to size-appropriate pieces, put each in a container and hand them out as gifts.
She arrived back later in the evening, having spent a substantial amount of money on glass and ceramic boxes. “Let’s see how the pieces fit,” I suggested.
I strode over to the radiator. I froze.
“Where’s the bag?” I asked. “What bag?”
“The bag with the Wall in.” “I didn’t move it.”
I was sure I had left it by the radiator. Perhaps not.
Halfway through searching the bedroom, a thought occurred to me. “Oh no!”
I ransacked the kitchen garbage bag. Nothing.
I ran outside to where the garbage containers were stored for emptying. I threw the lids off all the containers.
Nothing. It was garbage day in Kensington. My heart sank as I stood in the pouring English rain staring at the empty containers.
Not only was it garbage day; it was also cleaning lady day. A perfect storm.
I had the insane notion to run around the streets until I found the garbage truck. Instead, I shuffled inside and called the cleaning lady.
“I thought it was for rubbish,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” I mumbled, while simultaneously suppressing a scream of anguish. “Merry Christmas. I’ll leave the 20 quid in the mailbox.”
The multi-coloured bath crystals looked lovely in their boxes.
Perfect gifts for Christmas. Chris Cobb covered the fall of communism for Southam News, then proprietor of the Ottawa Citizen and several other major Canadian daily newspapers. He still doesn’t have a piece of the Berlin Wall.