A Grey Area
John Hollinshead of Leek, Staffordshire remembers:
My second visit to Berlin was soon after the wall was built. I was now in civvies, after previously being in the British Army of the Rhine (BAOR) stationed at 13 Signal Regiment near Rheindahlen, but the cold war still raged. I looked out, from scaffolding, over the wall into East Berlin, towards the impressive Brandenburg Gate and a bare dirt area laced with barbed wire and landmines. Many East Germans who tried to escape were cut down by machine gun and sniper fire. Below me were numerous crosses and photos marking those who had died trying to flee into the free world. Their bodies had been retrieved, despite bullets and landmines.
I booked a day trip into East Berlin, knowing as an EX-BAOR serviceman there could be extra checks. There would also be spies everywhere: secret agents, double agents, triple agents, undercover agents. I’d been warned to trust no one but took no notice.
Our coach halted at the border. East German guards swarmed on board, searching everywhere, examining passports – mine twice. Two small guards were pushed up into the overhead luggage racks with torches and they crawled all the way along, finding nothing.
Reluctantly we were allowed through. What a difference from West Berlin, with its noise, colour and crowds. Here everything was grey, including the faces and clothes of the few civilians seen on the streets. “Everyone is at work,” explained our guide. The few vehicles were chugging Trabants, while official ZIM limousines occasionally shot past.
The only group we encountered were youths, throwing stones at our capitalist coach. Stonework was still pockmarked and splintered by bullets and mortar shells from the war. Unter den Linden, once one of the most beautiful streets in Europe, was bare and deserted. The museums, though, were fabulous, with jewel-encrusted scimitars from Samarkand, Uzbekistan and Queen Nefertiti’s head from ancient Egypt, which especially interested our coach party professor. But many rooms had buckets catching dripping water, while wrapped-up old women sat silently on guard.
We left for a meal, but I slipped away for a walk by the canal. Two fishermen seemed dazzled by my green coat. I sensed I was being tailed. A bulky bloke slowed when I slowed but never got too close. Then came barbed wire and a “verboten” notice. A large dog and its handler suddenly stood on the opposite bank, watching me. I turned and hurried back, passing my stalker. I imagined the dog’s growl getting closer – there was a bridge over the canal – but when I dared glance back, there was no dog, no handler, no tail.
At the coach, our guide was counting heads but there was no relief from the sinister atmosphere, conjured up just by being in East Berlin. Perhaps the handler was phoning the Stasi about an ex-serviceman spying on a secret establishment. Then the guide announced a problem: “All traffic between east and west is halted.” We were ordered to a “tourist” hotel, which was, no great surprise, a grey concrete block. It was already crowded with many Cubans and Chinese.
Our party was dispatched to bedrooms, sofas and sleeping bags, or, like me, to the attic dormitory with bunk beds. Three of us went down for drinks but there wasn’t much choice: watery East Berlin beer or expensive Russian vodka. There were three blondes at a nearby table but as we moved over, the prof’s voice thundered: “Have you three idiots never heard of a honeytrap? Drink up sharpish and buzz off back to your bunk beds.” We buzzed off.
The next morning, we boarded the coach fearing another torturous delay, but at Checkpoint Charlie we went through without stopping. This was the American section, and the sergeant – who had his feet up on his desk and was smoking a cigar and holding a beer – just waved us through.
My third visit to Berlin was just after the wall came down. You could now walk across no man’s land and through the Brandenburg Gate. Bits of the wall, along with East German military badges and caps, were on sale.
The once solemn streets were crowded and joyful, but entering the Stasi prison was not joyful. The cell walls were streaked with dark splotches. Piles of personnel files contained masses of trivial detail of innocent people, but the Stasi were paranoid. Each street had a Stasi agent who reported (or made up) suspicious activity – innocent people were interrogated and imprisoned. There were videos of demonstrations which were broken up brutally. People were beaten, bundled into vans, many never seen again.
Then came the final video on 9 November 1989. The military stood still, then threw down their clubs to join the demonstrators. In scenes of jubilation, the crowd realised their long-awaited freedom had arrived. They surged towards the Berlin Wall which was smashed through that night. The bronze charioteer above the Brandenburg Gate looked out over a soonto-be united Germany.