My Dream to Be Free

by Juergen Stollin

  My explanation that I had transported hippies from Amsterdam to Nepal and this income was used finance my travels, which as dedicated exclusively to tourism, was probably not enough, because they still continued searching.

  Even my shoes had small holes in the soles, which an official drilled with a driller, to see if the soles were filled with any substance. I knew they would not find anything. So gradually I got angry and said it, and also that I had had any breakfast yet and that I would not say anything anymore or answer any questions, if I did not get my breakfast.

  I could not believe that breakfast arrived and I had to pay 15 Mark, since I did not have any Danish Krones. They let me sit on a vacant bench now and have my breakfast. I was allowed to put away the contents of my suitcase once again.

  Except for a book, everything was back in the suitcase. It was the book I had brought for Erling. The chief of the officials, who had arrived now, took this book in his hands and said that he had the same book at home. A book about handguns.

  But this book here in his hands, was the same and yet not the same.

  I did not understand and asked him what the difference was and also that it did not matter to me. He said however that it should matter to me, waving the book with open book cover before my nose back and forth.

  Now I saw the difference, the book from Erling had a black filling in the cover - it was beautiful, hand pressed Nepalese. There were hashish plates neatly bound in both the covers and they had taped them well together again damn well. Just because the man had the same book, the difference in weight had been noticed.

  The officer drove home, brought his book and put both separately on the balance. Lo and behold, my or Erling’s book weighed nearly 600 grams more than his!

  So in each cover there were 300 grams of finest hashish. That meant that I was in the shit again!

  Ironically, it was once again not my substance. I was once again in connection with smuggled goods, which were not mine.

  What should I tell the customs officers, if they asked me who owned this substance? This question was always asked first. But the official was so clever and had already asked me earlier, who owned the book. And I had not suspected anything and had told the truth and brought my friend Erling into play. Here I was in for real problems.

  I would have to give up a night like the last one for a long time. I would have plenty of time to dream of it.

  The expired passports were the answer for the question as to why they had expected me on the train. Everything would have been okay, I could have explained why these passports were in possession of the Danes, if they had not laid a trap for me again.

  It was almost eerie that when I myself consciously smuggled at my own risk, everything had been fine and I did not have any trouble with the customs. But if I had something that did not belong to me and knew nothing about it, it went wrong.

  Just as in Greece.

  Had they betrayed me? So that I got busted and the bottle Hash Oil did not have to be paid? It was amazing, because who could be so stupid and engage in such a risk of treason? Even without me wanting it, a lot of truth came to light. The Danes were specialized in interrogations of smugglers, particularly narcotics smugglers.

  I survived an interrogation of a few hours, in which there were also quite a few banal questions.

  But on closer listening and thinking, each question made sense.

  What was important were my answers.

  Then two officials took me to Helsingør (Elsinore) in custody to await my trial. How much would I get for these 600 grams? This time I was not thinking about dollars but about the months, I was hoping it would not years. Of course I had to say that it was my stuff. I could not and did not want to pull Erling and the others into the shit.

  I had to go through this alone.

  Of course, I could forget about Christmas. I was sorry for my family, I had failed again. Again I had not kept my promise although this time it was not my fault. Officially I was obviously guilty, alone due to the fact that I was involved with the stuff. Whether it was the buddies or the stuff, it was not legal and thus I was guilty after this was detected.

  But morally I did not feel guilty because it was not even my stuff.

  If I had told the police or at the hearing that it was not my stuff, they would ask me to take them to the owner. Then I could go. But it was not as simple as that. Then many others would come into the spotlight of the authorities and I did not know who all these people were. It could also be very nasty, if it was to do with influential people and then I would not ever have a chance to see my family again.

  No, I had to play the hero, whether I wanted to or not. I could not possibly let down my friends.

  And so I stayed with this version that I had indeed taken the book for Erling, but that I myself had prepared it and someone wanted to pick it up at the hotel. They did not believe me but let hotel to be monitored.

  I knew that, because a few days later the police came with names for identification. I should say if the names were known to me, I knew them all. Thus, the police caught some of them from the Nepal community without my help. The Danish authorities were trying to get some more information out of me. They did not understand that I did not deny that the stuff was mine - like other smugglers or criminals - they really said ‘criminals’! That I persistently claimed that it was mine. Again and again, they wanted to know whom I covered.

  But at the trial I insisted that it was all my stuff alone, which I wanted to smuggle in Erling’s book. This put me in jail in Denmark for 6 months.

  The two civilian officials, who were my companions from Puttgarden, told me that they had given a positive report, so my judgment would be lenient. Should I thank them perhaps that they had me locked up? After all, I was not guilty.

  I just could not say anything and these officials noticed that and wanted me to betray the real owner of the book by their chummy behavior. But I said nothing and kept my mouth shut.

  Since I was a narcotics-prisoner, I was allowed to be alone for 45 minutes in the fresh air, after the normal occupants had finished their walk in the yard. I had been told that I was not allowed to have any contact with other prisoners because the process was not yet complete. I could also go just to the library or to the shower rooms only when the others were locked up.

  No contact with other prisoners.

  Since it was believed also that I was an addict, I got special treatment in a different way. In the morning an official came with another inmate, an odd-job man and I got breakfast, which could not be better in a 4-star hotel. Black bread, brown bread, white bread or rolls, two kinds of jam, honey, cheese slices, sausage slices, grits with hot or cold milk and tea, unfortunately no coffee, because it was not good for narcotics-patient. Lunch could compete with any food from a hotel. In the evening I once again had an assortment of bread with cheese and sausages, boiled egg or a salad. The windows were without bars, but bulletproof.

  It was allowed to smoke cigarettes as much as you wanted, if you had money to buy them in the prison shop. I still had money and so smoking was all could do until I complained and told the management that it was too boring for me and that I wanted to work. So I got a box of clothespins that needed to be plugged together. I had to put together both the individual pieces, which were made of plastic, with the spring. That was a stupid work but it even brought money, which was for buying cigarettes. I also treated myself to some candy now and then.

  Although I had a lot of time, I avoided thinking of my parents and the girls, as much as possible. It was too late to blame myself. I had to bring this matter to an end and then consistently change my life. It was the 24th of December and I was not with my loved ones and could not even prove to them that I had forgotten my cooking skills. What would they eat now on Christmas Eve?

  Most likely, as always, a bratwurst bun on sauerkraut and homemade mashed potatoes. If Mother had no time, there would be potato salad instead of puree or just slices of rye bread. On Christ
mas Day Father's cutlet, this time a veal cutlet, not the usual pork cutlet. Father would not live without cutlet (Schnitzel). Probably French fries and lettuce with sour cream sauce, as they prepare it in Hessen.

  Father once told me that he had viewed his imprisonment as something normal after a certain time, it was only the meager food, which had wrecked the people

  Homesickness came only later. But first there was the food, which the people missed. But last of all, people complained about the heavy work. And he had dreamed of this very food time and again while in captivity. Now he could enjoy it daily if he wanted to. What did I dream here in my self-inflicted imprisonment? I dreamed that my parents would forgive me.

  It was the second day of Christmas, when they brought me into the manager's office; my two plainclothes officers received me and took me in their car to a restaurant.

  What was that?

  Did they want a name from me again? Should I sign anything, which was important for the investigation?

  Was I to recognize someone here?

  Here in Denmark it was a holiday, so it could not be any negotiation or the like. We sat at a table on which there still was the Reserved-sign. The table was the last one in the room and you could overlook the restaurant very well. The men ordered a meat platter - as we would say in Germany. And they asked me if I wanted a beer. Of course I wanted it. They themselves did not eat anything and drank coffee. I was sure that this was a ploy to get some specific information. The two of them were behaving very strangely and slid around in their chairs, as if they were small children, no sign of the confidence that they otherwise had. Carefully I sipped my beer and devoured the enjoyable meat platter. What did the two officials want from me? They looked at me like a cobra, who had brought down a rabbit. They would quite certainly not go with a criminal, as they otherwise said, to a restaurant on a holiday, to provide the convict with beer and food.

  It had to be something special.

  Lo and behold, I had hardly swallowed my last piece, they came out with a piece of news.

  The younger of the two addressed me by my first name and told me to be strong, because they had to inform me that my father had died on 24.12. They had already negotiated with the judge for a shift in the prison but it was not possible since I was a German and they were afraid that I would not come back any more. And they could not send an official abroad.

  Slowly I registered what the officials had told me there. My father died on Christmas Eve.

  I could not attend his funeral. I could not comfort Mother. I couldn't do anything.

  These two officers had tried everything to get me to Germany, of course, it was useless. There was no way for a foreigner to go out on parole, even if it was for a relatively small sentence. Not even for Father's funeral. They wanted to express their sympathy with the beer and the meat platter.

  What did a criminal police official have to do with a convict and his family matters?

  What was so special about me?

  No, what was so special about these officials?

  I asked why they did this for me and the response was that they were still convinced that I was taking the penalty for another person.

  Now it would be the time to tell them the truth. Ah, that was the reason for the whole sympathy from the two of them. Nevertheless, I thanked them and asked them to bring me back to the prison. I still wanted to enjoy a cup of coffee and so I even got a delicious cappuccino.

  I could not suppress my tears and I cried in the car. Whether from grief and pain, or simply out of anger at myself and my stupidity, that was not clear to me.

  Back in prison, the guards looked at me as if I were a ghost. They all had known it, only no one had had the courage to tell me. Perhaps they thought that I would make a riot and so the two officers came, who knew me best and they also knew that I respected them. Somehow I had the feeling that they did not only see the criminal in me, but also another human being. Back in my cell I found two packs of cigarettes on my desk, next to the box with the clothespins. I never found out from whom they were.

  Even in prison you will be treated as how you make it out to be.

  Since I had enough brains and respected the rules of the prison, I got a reduction on my discount on my serving time and was in the administrative office in the end of March to receive my private things.

  The paperwork was done. Among other things, I had to sign a document that indicated that I was not allowed to enter a Scandinavian country for the next 5 years. Since I did not want to travel any more anyway, this prohibition did not matter to me. Now I was sitting in a police car and was taken to Puttgarden to be bundled off into the train in the last minute.

  I had such a bad conscience that I would have preferred not to drive home, but I had to do that.

  There was a lot things, which I had to make up for! Now was the time, when I had to look after my mother and daughters.

  At the expense of others, I always had lived a good life, always by lying to myself that it was all Chitra's fault.

  Father had once told me that I was just a very small cheap actor but the script was written by a completely different person. No matter what I did, I did not do anything more than minor roles.

  That was Father’s characterization about me and my life!

  He was probably right up to now but I was disappointed that he was not there to see the new direction, which I would take now. Father left us too early at the age of 65. I had to look after Mother now. Mother who had forgiven me so often, pardoned me this time too. A mother could not do otherwise. How much suffering could a child inflict on a mother, till she casts the child away or does not love the child anymore, even when the child had gotten so old?

  My mother had not only raised me and my brother in very difficult times, now she also raised my children.

  I could not travel to India because the Russians were in Afghanistan and occupied it. For how long, and why, I did not know. But I knew they would not remain there long. The Afghans love their freedom more than their lives. Better dead than enslaved. That was their pride.

  Here and now I should make an end to my life so far! We discussed what I should do next. But there were no jobs for a Chef or a confectioner in the surroundings of 100 km.

  My mother gave me the idea that I would still definitely get a job as a bus driver or lorry driver with so much experience.

  First, I had to confess to Mother that I did not have a driver's license. My little bus was a "Mickey Mouse copy" from South Africa. I could not possibly drive in Germany. Mother's reply was succinct - I should just get a driver's license.

  Since she was already used to me so much, she was not surprised any more, not even that I had driven for so many years without a valid driver’s license. So I got my truck-driver's license.

  Since there were no big trucks in this driving school, the driving lessons were held in a touring coach. So that it was not apparent that I had already sat for a few hundred thousand hours behind a steering wheel, I pretended to be a little clumsy, but the driving instructor saw through it very quickly and I told him the story of my hippie-trips.

  From the second hour, we drove on the highway to the nearest service station, where we had coffee and I had to tell him stories. I had to complete certain compulsory hours, which was done by drinking coffee in the service area and not on the road.

  The driving instructor, who was also the owner of the driving school, was highly amused by my stories. With his help, I had a job as a truck driver in the local transport quickly.

  I fetched clay from pits in the Westerwald and delivered this to a ceramics factory. After my normal shift, I changed the car and was allowed to bring pig iron from an iron-smelting plant and deliver this to an iron foundry.

  My day started early in the morning at 5 am and ended sometime around after even 10 pm. I drove two cars with two different wheels. It was prohibited but how my haulage contractor did that, I do not know.

  I earned a lot of money, but after a whi
le, it was too much for me and I needed a break and changed to long-distance transport.

  I found a job in the Italian transport business. It was more interesting to drive around than just in the neighborhood. I n long-distance transport, you could not get so wild with the hours. I now had more free time and was also mostly at home during the weekend. Driving around was a lot of fun because I could occasionally take my daughters along. I had managed to jump out of my loafing around!

  That is what I thought at that time.

  Meanwhile, the mother of my children got in touch with me and wanted money. She was in prison and was lucky or unlucky that she could still be in Germany. All had now turned their backs on her, even the lawyer had dumped her. She should burn in hell! She would not get even a single German Mark from me. She wanted to come out as a great lady from Ceylon and had these innocent little girls from her homeland to come to her and had forced them into prostitution. Now she was allowed to stick clothespins together in Preungesheim or simply glue bags. I do not know what you were allowed to or had to do in a jail in Germany. I've never been in a German jail. Everything came to light when a reporter also wanted to be spoiled by Asian women. This reporter had lived in Sri Lanka and spoke Sinhala.

  One of Chitra's girls told the man that she was not doing it voluntarily but was forced by her lady boss, who had brought her from her homeland to work as a domestic helper at home.

  So it got around to the public and the press.

  And Madam Chitra went to jail. The charge against me that I should pay them maintenance, was also off the table. After her time in jail, she would be deported anyway.

  Only it was not possible to get the divorce. That did not matter, I could catch up on that later because at the moment she could not do any harm. My problem was not my depraved woman, but my neglect of my daughters. Mother told me that the younger daughter was in a gang with others aged 12 to 15 years old; they had caught her during a burglary and had nabbed her with her friends while smoking hashish. That was not good news that my mother told me. What should I say?