Through My Eyes. Again
Copyright© 2019 by Iskander
Chapter 18
Early – mid April 1964
I was woken during the night by the windows in my room rattling. My old brain knew this was Russian Migs breaking the sound barrier over West Berlin – part of the continuing intimidation of this western enclave in the Soviet empire. I drifted back to sleep, wondering what it must have been like to live every day with the fear of Soviet forces appearing in your city.
Unease wove its way into my brain and I woke in fright.
What had I been thinking, bringing Oberstleutnant Schmidt’s photo with me?
I grabbed my duffel bag and pulled out my Maths textbook. The newspaper cutting fluttered to the floor and I picked it up, staring at the face to fix it into my brain. I tore it into shreds and put the pieces in my jacket pocket, dumping them down the toilet after I dressed.
At breakfast, we were told to meet back in the foyer with our luggage at half-past eight. I found Ginnie already there. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, thanks, Will. The walk yesterday afternoon helped me calm down.” She blushed. “You must think I’m awfully silly, being sick on the plane.”
I smiled, reassuringly. “New things can cause anxiety. What about the flight home?”
She swallowed. “I’ll be fine ... but please, sit with me?”
“Okay.”
Once everyone was there, Mr Stock collected our passports, explaining they had to be handed over to the east German authorities at Checkpoint Charlie. They would be returned when we cleared the border. With our bags in the minivan, we found seats. Ginnie saved me a seat next to her.
When we passed through Checkpoint Charlie, our minivan was waved into a bay. Mr Stock got out with all our documents and was directed to a window in a building alongside. After about five minutes, an upright Border guard officer walked up. After some words, they approached the minivan and the officer followed Mr Stock inside, stooping to avoid knocking his high-peaked cap on the roof. He scanned the bus, moving his head to pick up all our faces.
“You are the lucky winners of an essay competition, hmm? Welcome to the German Democratic Republic, we have been told to expect you this morning. I am Major Koch. We will need to wait a minute for the person who will be your guide throughout your visit. Her name is Fräulein Elsa Hartmann.” His English was accented, but excellent. As he knew about the competition, he knew we all spoke German. He was taking the opportunity to practice his English or perhaps he was showing off to the guard watching us. He paused until he saw a woman half running, half walking towards us. “Ah, here she comes.” His voice held annoyance and condescension.
A moment later a woman in civilian clothes hurried up to the minivan. “Herr Major.” She nodded in deference.
“Better late than never, Fräulein Hartmann?” He voiced his disapproval and, from her worried frown and pursed lips, Fräulein Hartmann heard it.
Civilian clothes, but was she a junior Border Guard officer or perhaps Stasi? Someone to keep an eye on us and check we are not spies or agents provocateurs?
“Travellers from England. Allow me to introduce your guide, Fräulein Elsa Hartmann. She will be accompanying you throughout your visit here.”
A sardonic emphasis on ‘Fräulein’, perhaps? Was she military dressed in civvies?
Fräulein Hartmann nodded towards us and Major Koch waved Fräulein Hartmann into the front passenger seat beside our driver and turned back to us.
“I trust you will have a pleasant stay in our great country,” he pronounced pompously, stepping down from minivan.
Fräulein Hartmann leaned across to the driver and said something inaudible. The driver nodded and the minivan set off. We stopped about fifteen minutes later. Once we were off the minivan, Fräulein Hartmann waved us into a building. The FDJ logo announced it as student accommodation run by and for the FDJ – the Freie Deutsche Jugend Col had mentioned. The Free German Youth was the official youth organisation of the ruling party – the Socialist Unity Party of Germany.
Mr Stock and Miss Turner sorted out room allocations with Fräulein Hartmann and we were told to leave our bags in our rooms and come straight back to the entry. Peter Farquar strolled in about five minutes later than everyone else, causing Fräulein Hartmann to give him a short but sharp lecture on punctuality and its importance in a community. There was definitely something military in the way she dealt with him.
She then turned to the rest of us. “This afternoon, we will have a tour of the city ending at six o’clock at Karl Liebknecht Haus, the FDJ headquarters, where you will be welcomed by and meet some of the youth leaders of east Germany and enjoy Abendbrot.”
We took our previous seats and spent two hours touring east Berlin with appropriate socialist commentary by Fräulein Hartmann. She emphasised the rebuilding effort since the war, from blocky concrete apartment buildings in the suburbs for the workers to reconstructed historical buildings. Indeed, Karl Liebknecht Haus itself was an example of this reconstruction, as was the nearby Volksbühne theatre. As we toured, I tried to work out why the cityscape looked odd. Then Ginnie remarked there were no advertising hoardings but lots of propaganda instead.
Of course.
We rolled up outside Karl Liebknecht Haus at six o’clock and were ushered into a reception room where about a dozen people came forward to greet us. In the background were four middle-aged people and I recalled what Mutti Frida had told me about never meeting ordinary people or having free conversations.
A young woman gave a welcoming speech, followed by an awkward pause. They were expecting one of us to respond, something none of us had expected.
I sidled up to Ginnie. “You’ll have to say something, Ginnie. You’re the only girl.”
She shook her head, terrified at the idea.
“Thank them for the welcome and tell them we are looking forward exploring their society and culture.”
She hesitated, but I urged her forward. Eyes swivelled towards her and she, with an increasing blush, repeated what I had suggested almost word for word. The rest of our party were relieved at Ginnie’s shot speech and, interestingly, the faces of the young FDJ representatives hinted at relief. I also noticed hard glances from the older east Germans directed towards Fräulein Hartmann.
Had she made another mistake by not briefing us properly?
“Why did you do that?” Ginnie hissed at me. “I was terrified.”
I smiled. “It might have been terrifying, but you did it beautifully.”
Ginnie’s frown softened.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Ginnie. You’re more capable than you think.”
Ginnie gave me a tentative smile. “Thank you, Will.”
Waiters appeared, setting out tables of finger food and circulating with glasses of wine and beer. Water and glasses were on one of the tables.
I was hungry. “Come on Ginnie, let’s get something to eat.”
We filled our plates with the cold meats, cheeses and salads and perched ourselves on the chairs round the edge of the room. One of the FDJ people walked across and pulled a chair out to sit opposite us, balancing a plate of food on his knees.
“Good evening. I am Friedrich Meyer.” He smiled at Ginnie. “Thank you for your response.”
Ginnie nodded in acknowledgement and we introduced ourselves.
“You both speak German well.”
A waiter appeared with what appeared to be glasses of Champagne.
Friedrich queried the waiter. “Is it Rotkäppchen?”
The waiter nodded.
“Ah. You must try this – it is not available in the West.”
After its reaction to the Schnapps, what would my body make of wine?
Friedrich pressed a glass into our hands and raised his. “Cheers.”
Ginnie cast a sideways glance. I shrugged. “Prost.” I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip.
Ginnie followed my example. I was expecting something sweet. Instead, I tasted a delicious dry sparkling wine. My old brain savoured the flavours blossoming on my tongue?
I smiled at Friedrich. “I like this.”
“Really?” Ginnie asked. “I don’t think I do.”
“You prefer something a bit sweeter, perhaps?” Friedrich retrieved the glass from Ginnie’s hand and found a waiter, returning with a white wine. “Try this Riesling instead.”
Ginnie took a tentative sip and smiled. “Thank you.”
Miss Turner appeared behind Friedrich. “Will, you should not be drinking wine.”
Friedrich turned smoothly. “I’m sorry, but I insisted they try some of our great wines.”
Miss Turner eyed him. “Will is fourteen. Do children drink wine in East Germany?”
Friedrich gave Miss Turner an ingenuous smile. “Surely one glass is not dangerous?”
Miss Turner frowned at me. “Just the one glass, Will.” She turned to Ginnie. “Be careful – take care of Will.”
Ginnie nodded and Miss Turner walked away. I watched her pick up a glass of Rotkäppchen and sip it appreciatively.
Friedrich talked to us about the FDJ and its important place in east German society. During this monologue, he acquired another wine for Ginnie and himself from a passing waiter. He asked us about the youth organisations we were part of in England.
I shrugged. “I’m not a member of anything. I used to sing in a church choir.”
Friedrich appeared surprised and turned to Ginnie. “And you?”
Ginnie seemed a little flushed. “I’m too busy with school and working on the farm.”
“Good, Ginnie – you are being a responsible citizen. Farm work is honest labour for your society.” He gave me a thin smile. “You need to find a way to contribute too, Willi. But I am glad you are no longer in the hands of the reactionary church.”
Mr Stock extracted himself from the group of older people and walked across to where we were sitting. “We will be leaving soon. Ginnie, when I gather everyone together, I would like you to say a few words of thanks for the hospitality.”
“Why me?” Ginnie blurted.
“Because you stepped up so well when we arrived, and they will expect it.” He smiled reassuringly at her.
Perhaps the two glasses of wine had given Ginnie some Dutch courage, but her short speech graciously thanked the FDJ for the welcome and introduction to east Germany and earned her some polite applause.
Back in the minivan, Ginnie turned to me. “I can do more, Will. Thank you for helping me.”
Perhaps some of her newfound confidence was due to the wine, but not all: the following day Ginnie thanked the FDJ members who conducted us round the Bode-Museum and Pergamonmuseum. Both museums were fascinating – but the tractor factory on the following day was not. We spent half a day there as earnest workers and managers proudly showed us around their outdated factory making pre-war tractors. Afterwards, on the way back to the hotel, Ginnie, who knew her tractors from working on the farm, was critical of the old-fashioned machinery. Fräulein Hartmann gave Ginnie annoyed looks.
In the evening we were guests at the Staatsoper for a performance of Wagner’s The flying Dutchman. My compatriots found the performance boring but managed to be polite about it. Mr Stock sensed my enthusiasm and asked me to make the speech of thanks to our FDJ hosts.
After breakfast the following morning, we left for Dresden, a trip of some two hundred kilometres, which would take five hours. My old brain knew this city was carpet-bombed by the British and Americans in February 1945, creating a firestorm killing over twenty thousand people. It destroyed the historic city centre. I wondered how much reconstruction had occurred – and how a group of English people would be received.
We were staying in student accommodation, this time at the Technische Universität Dresden, outside the city centre. We had a late lunch and then a pair of FDJ members arrived. They guided us around the city, usurping Fräulein Hartmann’s role. There were some ruined buildings showing no sign of any restoration. I was unsurprised the cathedral – the Frauenkirche – was still a ruin, given the regime’s antipathy towards religion. Despite still showing a great deal of damage, the work occurring to restore the baroque Semperoper was proudly pointed out to us as were the many new buildings in the centre of the old city. Our tour ended at the Zwinger – the baroque palace and gardens of the kings of Saxony. Our guides pointed out this complex had been severely damaged by the bombing in 1945, but work on restoration was started by the Soviet occupying forces almost immediately and had been continued and finished by the east German regime. FDJ volunteers had helped in this work we were proudly advised.
Ginnie examined the gorgeously restored interiors with some confusion. “Why is a communist state restoring a king’s palace?”
One of our guides turned to her and said, “This is now owned by the people. Why would we not restore our own property? Besides, it is also important to learn the lessons of history, how the people of Saxony were oppressed and exploited to allow an elite to live in luxury.”
Ginnie stopped herself before asking another question. Then, as we continued following our guides, she whispered to me, “An interest in restoring history doesn’t extend to a baroque church, though.”
I raised an eyebrow and we walked on as our guide pointed out architectural and artistic highlights of the building and contents with socialist pride.
We were again hosted by the FDJ in the evening. on this occasion at the Hochschule für Musik. We were treated to a movement from a piano quartet, which I did not recognise. It was written by Carl Maria von Weber, who spent a large part of his career as conductor of the Semperoper. After, the conversation accompanying the buffet was one-sided, with much exposition of the benefits of being young in east Germany. Mutti Frida was correct: I would not meet ordinary people and all I would hear was the party line. But I sensed in the few questions the young people asked of us later in the evening there was interest in exploring wider ideas. Thinking back, I had sensed this also at the tractor factory: a feeling they could do better if they were allowed.
After breakfast the following day, we were driven out to the industrial area, visiting a factory making radios – using valves. There were even ‘portable’ versions, weighing several kilograms with their heavy transformers and lead-acid rechargeable batteries. Back in England, Japanese transistor radios had appeared a year or so earlier – tiny radios fitting in a trouser pocket. After my Premium Bond win, I had contemplated buying one but decided the lack of FM capability was a huge drawback in terms of listening quality. I wasn’t interested in listening, again, to the pop music of the sixties: I wanted to tune in to the Third Program on FM, with its broadcasts of classical music and live concerts.
We had lunch in the factory canteen, joined by the workers and the manager who had been our guides. I asked if they had seen the tiny Japanese transistor radios available in the west. An embarrassed silence descended on the table until the manager leaned forward and said, “Yes, I have seen such things, but they are difficult and expensive to make.” His voice took on an earnest tone. “We feel it is important to provide all our people with a usable radio before we spend our resources trying to produce such things.” There were unconvincing murmurs of agreement around the table.
We spent two further days outside Dresden, at a forest camp used by the FDJ in summer. It turned out we were part of a working party bringing the camp out of its winter hibernation ready for its summer visitors. On the first day, each of us was paired with an FDJ member, removing shutters from windows, piling them on to carts and depositing them at a storeroom where they were stacked to wait for autumn; then we cleaned the winter rubbish from outside the dormitories and the paths through the forest.
Perhaps it was the shared work, but some of the reticence on both sides wore off. After supper in the evenings, the talk round a glowing fire pit was relaxed, with some veiled criticisms of the way things were done in east Germany. On the second day, we spent a morning putting up posters promoting the FDJ and its activities. I thought one of these would make a great memento of the trip and asked if I could take one back to England. I caught some surprised looks at this – the posters were propaganda and I had heard some sardonic remarks about their content from the people with us.
“What would you do with such a poster?”
I smiled. “I’d display it in my bedroom to remind me of the friends I made on this trip.”
After some consultation, I was given the nod and chose a poster. I rolled it tightly to fit in my suitcase hoping it would not get crushed.
After the days at the forest camp, we drove to Leipzig, where we were once again hosted by members of the FDJ at the University of Leipzig in Augustusplatz – near the Gewandhaus and the nearly brand-new Opera House, on whose steps Col’s father had been photographed.
This time, our hosts spent a great deal of time with us. They were carefully dismissive of the central organisation as being stuck in the past – old fashioned as one of them said. Things might be loosening up in the Warsaw pact, or at least in east German young people. However, I caused a stir when I asked about a visit to Thomaskirche, where Bach was Kantor. The church in all its forms was officially regarded as a reactionary organisation and not something a proper party member would be associated with. I didn’t receive an answer.
To my delight, we were going to be treated to both a concert in the Gewandhaus and an opera – Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte. There were rolled eyes by my companions and Ginnie asked me why I loved classical music.
“I don’t know – I suppose it’s the music in my life, the music speaking to me most clearly.”
The concert featured Václav Neumann conducting Shostakovich’s seventh Symphony – The Leningrad Symphony. The program notes talked at length about the great suffering during the siege and the symphony’s first performance in the besieged city of Leningrad. I found this interesting programming, given the German audience, some of whom would have served in the Wehrmacht or had friends or relatives who had been involved on the Eastern Front during the war.
The following morning was a Sunday and I headed for Thomaskirche. Despite the early hour, there were people in Augustusplatz and I asked for directions.
An old woman eyed me with suspicion. Perhaps my youth helped reassure her. “Go north to Grimmaischer Straße and then west. You can’t miss it.”
I set off towards Grimmaischer Straße, to be pulled up by a voice calling my name across the square. “William Johnstone. William Johnstone. Stop.”
I turned round to see Fräulein Hartmann almost running to catch up with me.
I waited for her and she arrived, dishevelled as if she had dressed hurriedly. When she reached me, she raked a hand through her hair.
“What are you doing, William?”
“I’m going to visit Johan Sebastian Bach’s church.”
“But you were told we would go everywhere as a group. You shouldn’t be out by yourself.” There was something in her voice behind the anger I was hearing.
“Why not? Is it dangerous here in Leipzig?” Irresistible, despite knowing twisting her tail was a dangerous game.
“Of course not. The whole of the DDR is peaceful and safe.”
“Then why cannot I go out by myself?”
Fräulein Hartmann searched for a response. After a moment, she managed, “Because you might get lost.”
“I’m going to Thomaskirche – it’s past the university along Grimmaischer Straße. How could I possibly get lost?”
“How do you know that?” she snapped.
I shrugged. “I asked for directions.”
Fräulein Hartmann swallowed and her eyes darted round the square.
“Come. We are going back to the FDJ dormitory.” There it was again – fear underlying her anger.
“I want to visit Thomaskirche.”
Fräulein Hartmann’s head snapped back towards me. “William Johnstone, you will return with me.” She commanded and without waiting, turned smartly on her heel and started walking back towards the university.
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