Sunday August 13th 1961
Aged 17 and on an exchange visit to Hamburg prior to returning to school for my A Level year, I was awoken early on Sunday 13th August 1961 by Herr Kansdorf, the father of my exchange partner Gerhardt, stating incredulously time and time again, “Berlin abgesperrt, Berlin abgesperrt….” (Berlin barricaded). He had been listening to his local radio station which conveyed the news that in the preceding night, East German frontier guards, in an attempt to stem the flow of would-be migrants to the West had erected barbed wire and concrete barricades. My thoughts went immediately to another family I had met two years previously in another part of Germany. There I had met a member of the family from Magdeburg (formerly in the “Ostzone”), allowed briefly in to the West on compassionate grounds to visit his ailing elderly mother and who had been planning for the day when the whole family might be re-united in the West. What would happen to that family now?
That afternoon Gerhardt and I, together with what the local press estimated to be some 100,000 others, attended a rally in front of the Hamburg Rathaus (town hall). On the way we all received our complimentary copy of the “Hamburger Abendzeitung” which devoted itself to the sole theme – Berlin, the division, the indescribable acts of cruelty perpetrated by the Pankow (E Berlin) regime and its unspeakable leader and puppet of the Soviet Union, Walther Ulbricht. From the balcony of the Rathaus, high above the dense crowd, the mayor of Hamburg powerfully urged his fellow citizens to imagine what it would be like if their city were divided in a similar way and contact with friends and family were to be forcibly denied. Very rapidly the mood of the crowd became very angry. At that point I understood for the first time my own father’s fears when he had described a rally he had been “encouraged” to attend in 1935 in Freiburg im Breisgau when he had witnessed Hitler addressing a large crowd. Such a gathering in the hands of a skilled demagogue can very quickly demonstrate its feelings.
The impact of what had happened in Berlin and the events since the end of World War II came home to me a few weeks later. As A Level students we were asked to consider the question: “Ist Berlin eines dritten Weltkrieges wert?” (Is Berlin worth a third World War?)
Early August 1971
Ten years later now as a young schoolmaster, I found myself in Hamburg once again. On learning that I had not visited Berlin previously, my hosts insisted that I spent at least a few days there. After all, how could any respecting teacher and student of the language of the German be able to teach with any authority without first hand knowledge of Berlin? Hamburg to Berlin was one of the three “corridors” between the West and Berlin. I would go by train and then return, again by train, but this time via another corridor, Berlin to Hannover.
My first impression was the sense of fear the East German frontier guards instilled in to all on the train at the first check point. They operated in threes – under the train, through the train, on top of the train. They were armed, the dogs were not muzzled. The same operation was repeated at the border between the “Zone” (E. Germany) and West Berlin. This emphasised the sense of isolation: West Berlin was an island in the middle of a politically hostile, but culturally similar state. Again, the political sub-division of the Third Reich at the end of World War II became apparent. Time and time again, West Germans referred to East Germany as “die sogenannte (so-called) DDR”. So –called because in their opinion it was neither “deutsch”, nor “demokratisch” nor a “Republik”.
From the train, the contrast between the “Zone” with its underdeveloped agriculture – ploughs and wagons being pulled at best by horses, in some cases people, level crossing gates being manually opened and closed by elderly women, the shortage of motor vehicles – and the busy, prosperous streets of West Berlin could not have been starker. One of the first sights of West Berlin was the Kaiser Wilhelm GedÄchtniskirche, (NB a small a – but it won’t play, for some reason!)nicknamed the “egg box” because of its architectural style. Rather like Coventry Cathedral, it is a fusion of both the original bombed church and a modern building – an imposing symbol of on the one hand the then recent past and on the other hope and confidence in the future.
This contrast was more than at a superficial initial level. West Berlin was enjoying the benefits of the “Witrschaftswunder” (the “economic miracle”) which had its roots in the Marshall plan. Despite the superficially prosperous “Schaufenster” (“shop window”) of part of East Berlin, the cost of war reparations paid to the Soviet Union had been high, skilled labour was not plentiful and many of the suburbs drab and depressing.
Having enjoyed the sights and consumerism of West Berlin, I visited East Berlin on two occasions. As a British citizen I was entitled to do what was forbidden to the citizens of West Berlin – and for which citizens of West Germany required special permission. After passing through Check Point Charlie the initial impression was one of anticipation and triumphalism: East Berlin was about to celebrate ten years of the Wall. In West Berlin this was going to be a very subdued affair, consisting mainly of vigils at places by the Wall marked by wreaths where some had perished in attempting to escape. In the West the Wall was known as “die Schandmauer” (wall of shame), in the East as the “anti-fascist “Schutzwall”” (“protection rampart”). In the East a special rostrum in the shape of the Brandenburg Gate was erected where the march past in front of the East German hierarchy and their allies was due to take place. My first visit was on an official tour, where the major sites were proudly displayed – the imposing new flats “sugar lump” style along the Frankfurter Allee, built for party members and selected workers, the war memorials such as the one at Treptow and the cultural highlights such as the Pergammon museum and Brecht’s Berliner Ensemble. My abiding memory of this carefully supervised visit was on the return through Checkpoint Charlie: a Vopo had rather lazily waved a West German Ford Taunus bearing a Stuttgart number plate to turn right in to a parking bay. Presumably the Taunus driver misunderstood the sign and drove slowly forwards. In next to no time, a whistle was blown, the car was surrounded by armed guards and the car was stripped, even including the removal of the seats and the separation of the tyres from their wheel rims. Our bus had to wait whilst this scenario unfolded. As we drove away, we watched the Taunus driver as he struggled, by himself, to put his car back in to roadworthy condition.
My second visit was unaccompanied. On arriving by S bahn at the Friedrichstraße I had to go through passport control. The image of a film version of George Orwell’s “1984” flashed through my mind. Taken in to an underground room, with no windows, the walls painted grey and with only a couple of wooden chairs, my passport was taken from me – and I was left completely alone in a locked room for what must have nearly two hours. A sense of panic grew within me – no-one in the West knew precisely where I was! The imagination starts to run riot in such a situation. Even though I spoke fluent German, no-one came in answer to my calls. My sense of relief was immense when I was finally re-united with my passport and allowed to go on my way.