Chapter 18

Early – mid April 1964

The windows in my room rattled me awake. My old brain knew Russian Migs were breaking the sound barrier overhead. Part of the continuous intimidation of this western enclave in the Soviet empire. I drifted back to sleep, wondering what it must have been like to live with the fear of Soviet forces appearing in your city.

That unease wove its way into my brain. I woke up in a 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. After a couple of minutes, 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 was about five minutes early but 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 silly, being sick on the plane like that.”

“Not at all. New things cause anxiety. What about the flight home?”

She swallowed. “I’ll be fine ... but please, sit with me?”

“Okay.”

Once everyone arrived, Mr. Stock collected our passports. He explained they had to be handed to the East German authorities at Checkpoint Charlie. We would get them back when we cleared the border. We put our bags in the minivan and found seats. Once again, Ginnie saved me a seat next to her.

When we passed through Checkpoint Charlie into East Berlin, our minivan was waved into a bay. Mr. Stock got out with all our documents and a guard directed him to a window in a building alongside. After about five minutes, an upright border guard officer walked up to him. After a few 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 were expecting you this morning. I am Major Koch. We will need to wait a few minutes 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 must have known we all spoke German. He paused until he saw a young woman half running, half walking towards us. “Ah, here she comes.” His voice gave away both annoyance and condescension.

A moment later, a young woman in civilian clothes hurried up to the minivan. “Herr Major.” She nodded in deference.

“Better late than never? Hmm?” Fräulein Hartmann must have noticed the disapproval in his voice from her worried frown.

Despite her civilian clothes, was she a junior border guard officer, or perhaps Stasi? Someone to make sure we are not spies or agents provocateurs.

“Travellers from England. Allow me to introduce your guide, Fräulein Elsa Hartmann. She will accompany you throughout your visit here.” I detected an almost sardonic emphasis on Fräulein.

Is she military?

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 said and stepped out of the minivan.

Fräulein Hartmann leaned across to the driver and said something inaudible. The driver nodded and the minivan set off. We arrived at our hotel 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 FDJ 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. Fräulein Hartmann gave him a short but sharp lecture on punctuality and its place in a community. There was something quite military about the way she dealt with Peter – as if she were giving a junior rank a dressing down.

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 and meet some of the youth leaders of the DDR and enjoy Abendbrot.”

We took up our previous seats and spent a couple of hours touring East Berlin with socialist commentary by Fräulein Hartmann. She made much of 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.

Somehow, the cityscape differed from England and I couldn’t put my finger on why. I was still trying to work this out when Ginnie remarked there was no advertising but lots of propaganda, which answered my unvoiced question.

We rolled up outside Karl Liebknecht Haus before six o’clock and were ushered inside to a reception room where about a dozen young people came forward to greet us. In the background, I saw four middle-aged people. I recalled what Mutti Frida had told me about never meeting ordinary people or having free conversations.

After a young woman gave a welcoming speech, there was an awkward pause as 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.”

“No.” The idea terrified her.

“Thank them for the welcome and tell them how much we are looking forward to exploring their society and culture.”

She hesitated, but I pushed her forward. Eyes swivelled towards her and she, with an increasing blush, repeated what I had suggested almost word for word. I saw expressions of relief on the faces of the rest of our party and on the faces of the young FDJ representatives. I also noticed several hard glances from the older East Germans directed towards Fräulein Hartmann.

Had she made another mistake by not briefing us?

“That was terrifying, Will. Why did you do that?” Ginnie turned and hissed at me.

I smiled. “It might have been terrifying, but you did it beautifully.”

Ginnie’s frown softened.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Ginnie. You’re very capable.”

Ginnie gave me a tentative smile. “All right, Will.”

Waiters appeared, setting out several tables of finger food and circulating with glasses of wine and beer. Fortunately, I saw some water and glasses on the table as well.

“Come on Ginnie, let’s get something to eat.”

We filled our plates with the cold meats, cheese and salads and perched ourselves on chairs round the edge of the room. One of the FDJ young 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.”

At that moment, a waiter appeared with what appeared to be glasses of Champagne.

Friedrich queried the waiter. “Is it Rotkäppchen?”

The waiter nodded.

“Ah.” Pride filled his voice. “You must try this – it is not available in the West. This trip will be your only opportunity to taste it.”

After its reaction to the Schnapps, what would my young body make of wine?

Friedrich pressed a glass into our hands and raised his. “Prost.”

Ginnie cast a sideways glance at me and I shrugged. “Prost.” I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip.

Ginnie followed my example.

I was expecting something sweet, but this was a delicious dry sparkling wine. My old brain savoured the flavours blossoming on my young tongue.

Pinot Chardonnay, perhaps?

I smiled at Friedrich. “This is good.”

“You like this?” Ginnie asked. “I don’t think I do.”

“You prefer something sweeter, perhaps?” Friedrich retrieved the glass from Ginnie’s hand and accosted a different waiter, returning with a white wine. “Try this Riesling instead.”

Ginnie took a tentative sip and smiled. “Thank you.”

Miss Turner appeared behind Friedrich. “William, you should not be drinking wine.”

Friedrich stood. “I’m sorry, but I insisted they try some of our great wines.”

Miss Turner eyed him. “William is only fourteen. Do children drink wine in East Germany?”

Friedrich gave Miss Turner an ingenuous smile. “But one glass is not dangerous?”

Miss Turner frowned at me. “All right, one glass, William.” She turned to Ginnie. “And you be careful; keep an eye on William.”

Ginnie nodded and Miss Turner walked away. I watched her pick up a glass of Rotkäppchen and sip it with appreciation.

Friedrich talked to us about the FDJ and its important place in the DDR society. During this monologue, he acquired more wine for Ginnie and himself from a passing waiter. Eventually, he asked us about the youth organisations we were part of in England.

“I’m not a member of anything. I used to sing in a church choir, but not anymore.”

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.”

“But that is good, Ginnie. Farm work is honest labour for your society.” He gave me a thin smile. “You need to contribute too, Willi. But it is good 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 leave in a few minutes. Ginnie, when I gather everyone together, I would like you to say a few words of thanks for the FDJ’s hospitality.”

“Why me?” Ginnie blurted.

“Because you stepped up so well when we arrived, and they will expect it.” He smiled at her.

Perhaps the two glasses of wine had given Ginnie some Dutch courage. Her brief speech 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. “You’re right, Will. I can do more than I think.”

How much of this nascent self-confidence was the wine talking?

It turned out some was due to the wine, but not all. The following day Ginnie spoke well, thanking the FDJ members who conducted us round the Bode-Museum and Pergamonmuseum. Both were fascinating – but the tractor factory on the following day, not so much. We spent half a day there as earnest managers showed us around their rather outdated factory making pre-war style tractors. Afterwards, on the way back to the hotel, Ginnie, who knew her tractors from working on the farm, was caustic about the old-fashioned machinery, which annoyed Fräulein Hartmann.

That evening we were guests at the Staatsoper for a performance of Der fliegende Holländer. My compatriots found the performance boring but were 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, taking five hours. The Allies had carpet-bombed Dresden in February 1945. This created a firestorm, killing over twenty thousand people and all but destroyed the historic city centre. It would be interesting to see what reconstruction had occurred – and how a group of English people would be received.

As in Berlin, we were staying in student accommodation, this time at the Technische Universität Dresden, outside the city centre. We had a late lunch and a pair of FDJ members joined us to guide us around the city, usurping Fräulein Hartmann’s role. I saw a few old buildings showing no sign of restoration. The cathedral – the Frauenkirche – was still a ruin: no surprise given the regime’s antipathy towards religion. Despite showing a great deal of damage, they pointed out the extensive work occurring on the baroque Semperoper and 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 told us the bombing of 1945 damaged this complex, but work on restoration was started by the Soviet occupying forces almost immediately. It had continued and finished by the DDR. FDJ volunteers had helped in this work.

I saw Ginnie staring around at the restored Baroque 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, allowing an elite to live in luxury.”

Ginnie was about to ask another question, but she stopped and nodded. Then, as we continued following our guides, Ginnie whispered to me, “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.

That evening, the FDJ hosted us again. On this occasion at the Hochschule für Musik. We were treated to a movement from a piano quartet 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 a young person in the DDR. Mutti Frida was correct: I would not meet ordinary people and all I would hear was the party line. But I was sensing in the few questions the young people asked of us when alone there was interest in something different. Thinking back, I had sensed this also at the tractor factory: a feeling they could do better if it was permitted.

After breakfast the following day, we were driven out of the city to the industrial area. We visited a factory making radios – using valves. They even had ‘portable’ versions, weighing several kilograms with their heavy transformers and lead-acid rechargeable batteries. Back in England, Japanese transistor radios had appeared a year earlier; tiny radios that would fit in a trouser pocket. After my Premium Bond win, I had contemplated buying one but decided the lack of FM capability (or VHF as it was then being called) was a huge drawback in 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 some workers and the manager, who had been our guide. 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.

“Yes, I have seen such things, but they are difficult and expensive to make. The factory would have to change completely.” His voice took on an earnest tone. “It is more important to provide all our people with a usable radio before we spend our resources trying to produce such things.” Murmurs of agreement ran round the table, but they did not sound heartfelt.

We spent two more days in Dresden, at a forest camp used by the FDJ in summer. We were part of a working party bringing the camp out of its winter hibernation ready for its summer visitors. On the first day, they paired each of us with an FDJ member. W removed shutters from windows, piling them on to carts and depositing them in a storeroom to wait for autumn; then we cleaned the winter rubbish from outside the dormitories and the paths through the forest. Some of the reticence on both sides wore off and, after supper in the evenings, the talk round a glowing fire pit was more relaxed, with some veiled criticism of the way things were done in the DDR. 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. There was a modicum of surprise at this – the posters were propaganda and I had caught some sardonic remarks about their content from a few of the FDJ.

“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, they agreed and I chose a poster. I rolled it up to fit in my suitcase, hoping it would not get crushed.

After two 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 almost brand-new Opera House, on whose steps Col’s father had been photographed.

Our hosts spent much more time with us. I gained the impression they were dismissive of the central organisation as being a bit stuck in the past – altmodisch – as one of them said. I sensed things might be about to loosen up in the Warsaw pact, or at least in the DDR. However, I caused a bit of a stir when I asked about a visit to Thomaskirche, where Bach was Kantor. The church in all its forms was regarded as a reactionary organisation and not something a proper FDJ member would be associated with. I didn’t receive an answer.

Much to my delight, we were going to be treated to both a concert in the Gewandhaus and an opera – Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte. A few of my companions rolled their eyes at this and Ginnie asked me what I saw in classical music. I was a bit stumped how to answer without revealing too much.

“It’s the music in my life, I suppose, the music that speaks to me.” I thought of the essay I had written. “I’ll lend you the essay I wrote – it might help.”

I dug the copy of my essay out of my duffel bag and gave it to Ginnie at Abendbrot. She smiled and put it in her handbag, promising to return it in the morning.

The evening concert featured Václav Neumann conducting Shostakovich’s seventh Symphony – The Leningrad Symphony. The program notes talked at length about the people’s suffering during the Nazi siege and the symphony’s first performance in the besieged city of Leningrad. I found this interesting, given the German audience. Some of them 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 was up early and walked out of the dormitory, heading for Thomaskirche. I saw a few people in Augustusplatz and so I asked one of them for directions.

An old woman eyed me with some suspicion. Perhaps my youth helped reassure her. “Go north to Grimmaischer Straße and then west. You can’t miss it.”

“Vielen Dank.”

“Bitte sehr.”

I set off towards Grimmaischer Straße, only to be pulled up by a voice calling my name in English, “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 in haste. When she reached me, she took several deep breaths and raked a hand through her hair.

“What are you doing, William?”

“I want 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 else in her voice behind the anger.

“Why not? Is it dangerous here in Leipzig?” I knew I was twisting her tail, but I couldn’t resist.

“Of course not. The whole of the DDR is peaceful and safe.”

“Then why cannot I go out by myself?”

That stumped Fräulein Hartmann. After a moment, she summoned up, “Because you might get lost.”

“I’m only going to Thomaskirche – it’s the other side of the university along Grimmaischer Straße. How could I get lost?”

“How do you know that?” she snapped.

I shrugged. “I asked for directions from someone walking in the square.”

Fräulein Hartmann swallowed and her eyes darted around.

“Come. We are going back to the FDJ dormitory.” Fear underlay her anger.

“I want to visit Thomaskirche.”

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