The Berlin Tunnel

by Roger L Liles

  We were shown to a long table with bench seats that was occupied by two other couples and a family of four. Introductions were made as best we could over the loud music. Soon a waitress clad in a puffy-sleeved blouse, loose-fitting skirt, and checkered apron came over to us. Anna gave her our order.

  “I hope you approve. I ordered traditional bratwurst with sauerkraut and a half liter of beer for each of us,” Anna announced over the blare of the band.

  Rising from the bench, I bowed deeply and, in my best German, asked, “My lovely companion, would you please honor me with this dance?”

  Both Anna and I put our arms around each other, intentionally taking positions where our bodies barely touched; we smoothly moved in time with the fast waltz. Deliberately, I placed my right hand on her dress, avoiding contact with her bare back. That lovely skin was all too inviting. As we moved around the dance floor, she gradually moved closer to me. Soon we moved as one and even managed to end with her twirling into and then out of my arms.

  I bowed again. “Anna, my compliments. You expertly followed my clumsy lead.”

  “No, just the opposite. You are an accomplished dancer, whose lead is easy to follow.”

  The band announced they would take a break. We returned to our table just as our meals arrived. Now we could talk.

  “Anna, please tell me about your family—everyone seems to know them.”

  “Tomorrow I will go to the East to visit my parents. Many things are unavailable there. So, I take gifts. I earn money in West German Marks so I can afford these trifles.”

  “And your family—who are they?”

  “Many of the people we visited today were helped by my father and mother in one way or another. So, they give me a little discount to ensure that my family has these few luxuries,” she said, gesturing to the shopping bags beneath the table.

  “They certainly were deferential to you and your family. I thought you might be nobility or something.”

  Laughing, Anna replied, “My maternal grandfather was a minor nobleman, but all of that is over now. My father is a medical doctor, and my mother is a language professor. They are ordinary people who, over the years, have helped others in need.”

  After a brief silence, she added, “My family are just ordinary citizens of a country that is broken in two, divided by two political ideologies. These are not normal times for us. The difficulties we experience should not be part of anyone’s daily life.”

  Suddenly, her chin quivered. She looked like she might cry. To comfort her, I put my arm around her bare shoulder and took her hand in mine.

  She shuddered. “Robert, please remove your arm from my shoulder. It makes me uncomfortable,” she said in a calm, firm tone.

  Disappointment followed my surprise, but I complied, shifting so our bodies no longer touched.

  Anna looked apologetic and reached for my hand. We sat there, hands clasped and communicating to each other that our relationship could grow without words. Anna’s brief outburst might have been behind us, but I could not forget it. Why did she, at times, recoil from my touch, but seem loving at other times?

  When the band started again, she jumped up and opened her arms wide in invitation. “Let us forget about all that bad stuff and just have fun.”

  For the rest of the evening, she rested her head on my shoulder during each slow dance.

  Too soon the evening came to an end as we walked into the nearby subway station. Still a little concerned by her rebuff, I took her hand in mine and kissed her palm. To my surprise, I received a warm hug in return. Although I hoped for another kiss, it didn’t happen.

  Anna then said something in English that surprised and pleased me. “I just want you to know that many young American men who come into the bookstore have asked me out. I always refuse. You are the first American man I have talked to this way. Your willingness to learn German and your respectful attitude make me want to know you. I want to help you become truly fluent in the German language. As you know, there is much more to understanding a language than just words.”

  With an impish grin, she added, “Your accent does need much work.” She turned and walked toward the oncoming train without looking back, leaving me a bit off-balanced.

  Chapter 9

  Saturday, October 15, 1960

  Loud banging on the door woke me up. When I opened it, Scott Taylor was standing there. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, a western shirt, a Stetson hat, and a leather vest. His short military haircut, trimmed mustache and pale complexion contrasted sharply with his western attire. Holding out a bottle of beer with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he drawled, “A little of the snake that bit you last night might be appropriate this morning.”

  I raised my hand in refusal. “Let me get my shower and breakfast, then we can go on your tour.”

  “Did you have fun with the lovely Anna last evening?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Word spreads fast in this tiny American village that’s our little airbase. Every red-blooded man on the base has tried to get a date with that gorgeous creature. You’re the first to get the time of day.”

  Smiling, I felt pleased Anna hadn’t dated others. I attempted to deflect his comment by saying, “She wants to help me improve my German. I took her out to eat so we could talk.”

  “Oh, that’s right, you speak and read German. When I tried my German on the beautiful Anna, all she did was laugh uproariously. I still don’t understand why she’d be interested in the likes of you.”

  I chuckled at his expression of mock dismay. “I’m sure that with your Texas drawl, your German was almost unintelligible. No wonder Anna laughed.”

  An hour later, we sat in a dark-blue 1959 Chevrolet convertible sedan with side fins and green USA license plates. The sky was solid gray, and it was cold, so the top was up and the heater on.

  Scott offered, “This is my car, which you can borrow if you need wheels.”

  “Thanks. What’s with the green USA license plates?”

  “They identify me as a member of the US military German occupation force. The East Germans can’t interfere with our passage in all of Berlin or on the three autobahn routes between here and the West.”

  “Where can you go? Isn’t Berlin surrounded by a fence?”

  “Yes, it is,” Scott replied. “I brought a map of Berlin—the American Zone of occupation is here in the south and west. Tempelhof is here,” he said, tapping various spots on the map. “The British are in the west center here, and the French are in the north. The Russian Zone is here in the east.”

  Scott started the car. “I don’t know if anyone has told you, but the Russians and East Germans have over half a million trained troops surrounding Berlin. The US Army Berlin Brigade numbers around 10,000. If we assembled all of the Army, Air Force, British, and French forces, including all of the desk jockeys like us plus the cooks and bottle washers, we would number less than 30,000.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel safe,” I admitted. “Once armed, most people like us would be more of a danger to ourselves and others on our side than the enemy.”

  Scott chuckled. “You’re right. We’d primarily be using small arms against tanks and armored personnel carriers. Not a pleasant thought, old buddy.”

  “So, what you’re saying is the Russians can take West Berlin anytime they want to.”

  “You got it, my friend,” Scott replied. “It might mean World War III, but they could do it. Although there’s currently free access between the two Berlins, West Berlin is encircled by a ninety-one mile-long barrier which consists of both concrete walls and barbed wire fences. Movement between East and West Berlin is controlled by eighty-one checkpoints, which the East Germans man. At these points, they exercise control over their citizens and tourists.”

  “That’s amazing—I had no idea.”

  “Over 200,000 people a year leave East Germany to settle in the West. Virtually all pass through Berlin. Once in East Berlin, they take the subway to the West. T
he West German Government flies five, sometimes six airplane loads of immigrants out of Berlin every day. Most aren’t allowed to stay here, because the infrastructure is overloaded with the people who already live here.”

  “So, the people from the East are rejecting Communism with their feet, big time.” I remembered Anna’s words about the battle between competing ideologies.

  “Those who are leaving are the trained doctors, dentists, engineers, teachers and scientists who can get good jobs in the West. In the East, it’s rapidly becoming a nation of the old, infirmed, and uneducated. How much longer can a country of 19 million afford to lose its most capable citizens?” Scott asked.

  “And the Russians can take Berlin at will. Perhaps it’d be healthier to be stationed elsewhere,” I quipped.

  “Ah, but the lovely Anna lives here. Plus, you are stuck for the next three years. Remember you agreed to serve and defend, old buddy. Most military men across the world would trade their left nut to be stationed here. Enjoy it while you can, compadre.”

  “My service commitment ends next April, and I intend to get out then.”

  “I’ve decided to stay in until it stops being fun, and I really like Berlin. I also understand that the inherent danger isn’t for everyone.”

  “I haven’t fired a weapon in two years,” I said. “We’re in the civilian branch of the military services, which is the reason I joined the Air Force.”

  “During orientation on Monday, you’ll be issued a complete set of summer and winter camouflage fatigues and combat gear. You’ll be scheduled for firearms training, using a good old US Air Force .38 caliber pistol. If war starts, you’ll be expected to defend this city to the death.”

  We pulled up, and I saw a body of water.

  Scott spoke quietly. “The building on the left is the structure which will contain the western terminus of our tunnel. The River Spree is on our right.”

  I looked around, trying to get my bearings. “This building must be about two miles east of Tempelhof.”

  “About that. The border is the near edge of the river. Here’s a pair of binoculars. See the four East German Peoples’ Police standing on the far shore? They are the Volkspolizei—VoPos in German slang.”

  I mentally noted two groups of uniformed young men located behind a barbed wire fence, intently surveying the river.

  Scott continued, “Twenty-four hours a day, they’re positioned in pairs every fifty or so feet along the entire ninety-one mile long fence and wall that surrounds West Berlin. You’ll notice they’re carrying AK-47’s. Those weapons are loaded, and they’re authorized to use them on the ‘spies and saboteurs’ who try to enter or leave the ‘worker’s paradise’ by unauthorized routes.”

  “They do look like they mean business.”

  “Notice that boat flying the East German Flag, and its machine guns? They patrol the river almost continuously.”

  A few minutes later, we drove through the Friedrichstrasse Checkpoint into East Berlin. After only a brief delay, East German passport control personnel waved the car through as they tilted the red and white barriers up and out of the way.

  “We can enter East Berlin that easily?” I asked in amazement.

  “Because this vehicle has green license plates, they aren’t allowed to ask for any type of identification.”

  We drove past uniform rows of drab, gray multi-story buildings, which Scott said contained most of the East German government agencies.

  We parked to the side of a massive ruined building. A tiny car following us pulled over and parked down the street. Scott nodded his head and turned toward them, advising, “They’re assigned to ensure that no one contacts us or gives us anything. They’re almost certainly the Secret Police—the dreaded Stasi.”

  “Stasi?”

  “Those bad boys apply the worst repressive tactics of the Russian’s KGB and the Nazi’s SS with a vigor and ruthlessness that’s unique. They use every conceivable means to force their citizens to report their friends, neighbors, business associates and even relatives for the smallest infraction of their rigid communist dogma. Unfortunate individuals who’re brought to their attention are subjected to the worst mental and physical torture imaginable. Many just disappear.”

  “What are we doing in East Berlin? Aren’t we viewed as the enemy?” I sensed real danger all around us.

  “The objective of our excursion into the East is for you to see the enemy and take his measure. The Russians stay in the background and allow the East Germans to harass us in any way possible. We’re perfectly safe—protected by the four-power agreement on free access to all four sections of Berlin by all occupying troops. Watch and learn!”

  “I hope you’re right.” I sighed. “I don’t see any of those powers protecting us right now.” Even I heard the irony in my tone of voice.

  “Most of their attention is focused on East German citizens. My girlfriend, Mia, lives in the East. One of her neighbors is still in prison because his seven-year-old son reported that he called the East German leader Walter Ulbricht a dummkopf (blockhead) at the dinner table one evening. The son’s teacher brainwashed the poor child with propaganda and encouraged him to report anyone who opposed the communist regime. So, he informed on his father.”

  “That’s frightening. How can anyone live in that kind of society?”

  “Nineteen million people do. You’ll find that most of them are nice, ordinary people who were unfortunate enough to end up on the wrong side of a line some foreigners drew on a map at the end of the war.”

  Shaking my head, I again thought of Anna’s remarks. It appeared that had happened to her family, too.

  “Let’s wave at them to show that they don’t scare us.” Scott swung his right arm up and down. “See the car they’re driving?” Scott pointed. “It’s a Trabant. The only East German production car. It has a 500cc, two-cylinder two-stroke engine whose twenty-five-horsepower engine takes twenty-one seconds to accelerate to its top speed of sixty miles per hour. The East German joke is, it’s so underpowered you can catch one by placing a piece of used chewing gum on a roadway.”

  I observed, “It’s a sterling example of the superiority of free enterprise. Compare it to the Mercedes and BMWs built in West Germany!”

  We walked around the east end of the domeless Reichstag building. Its massive charred and windowless walls, columns, and porticos still displayed pockmarked patterns of bullet and shrapnel holes.

  “Hitler used the burning of this edifice as an excuse to declare martial law and become the dictator of Germany,” Scott observed.

  “As I remember, his own people intentionally set the fire.”

  As we drove past the Brandenburg Gate, Scott recited history, “This neoclassical monument was originally built in the late 1790s to celebrate peace with Napoleon. On October 27, 1806, after the victories at Iéna and Auerstädt, Napoleon rode in triumph into Berlin, passing through it. You may remember a classic World War II photo, which shows Russian soldiers raising a Soviet flag atop this Gate.” He pulled over on Unter Den Linden Street. “That huge building on our right is Russia House. From there the Russians direct East German domestic and foreign policy.”

  “Wasn’t this street one of the scenes of the East German uprising in 1953, which the Russians brutally suppressed?” I cringed at the vivid images of tanks firing on young men throwing rocks.

  “It was also the scene of a victory parade. Hitler stood in the back of an open Mercedes, giving the Nazi salute to the perhaps one million people who lined this thoroughfare. He came through the Brandenburg Gate on his way to be sworn in as Chancellor of Germany. The date was January 30, 1933.”

  A short drive later, we arrived at a large vacant lot. “The Third Reich that Hitler claimed would last a thousand years ended here at the Fuhrer’s bunker on April 30, 1945—twelve years and three months to the day after it started. Hitler committed suicide, and his body was burned at a spot just in front of us. His bunker has been sealed, but it’s down there.”
Scott motioned to our left.

  After several turns, he pointed to a nondescript building. “That’s the office of Walter Ulbricht. He’s the hard-line Stalinist East German leader. He’s vowed to reunite Germany under a communist regime in his lifetime. His stated first target is West Berlin.”

  Hearing a rattling noise behind us, we turned to see the Trabant pull up. Two individuals in leather trench coats exited the vehicle. They donned fedoras and approached us. In German, one man demanded, “You have entered East Germany. Please show us your identification.”

  Scott responded in his Texas-twanged German, “As members of the American Occupying Forces, we refuse to recognize your authority to stop us or to otherwise impede our movements.” He walked around the Stasi men, heading for his car. I followed him and climbed into the passenger side. One of the Stasi agents blocked our car with the Trabant. The other stood behind us to prevent us from moving.

  Scott exited his car. In forceful-sounding German, he said, “We request that a Russian officer be summoned immediately so we can protest our illegal detention. Move your vehicle quickly, or you will be in trouble—big trouble, Herr Dieter Holburg of the Stasi!”

  While Scott challenged the Stasi, I spotted a third individual using a camera to photograph the encounter.

  Six-foot-four Scott towered over the five-foot-six Stasi agent. They stood toe-to-toe, as if taking each other’s measure before a gunfight.

  The Stasi agent pushed his homburg hat back on his head. I finally saw his face. A long scar down one cheek gave his face a permanent scowl. His flattened nose looked broken, perhaps more than once. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, I saw the bleary eyes of a man who frequently drank too much. The thumb and forefinger of his right hand were missing, the skin around the wound was grotesquely scarred. I estimated his age to be mid-to-late forties. His physical infirmities led me to conclude he’d seen many battles in and out of uniform.