Berlin: June 2, 1988
Friedrichstrasse intersected the wide boulevard that was the old main street of a unified Berlin, Unter den Linden. More than twice the width of the street that I had just walked, with young, bare trees that had only just started to bud. The stately buildings seemed in better shape than those on the road that led me up from Checkpoint Charlie, and I could see a few shops that ran along the street level. It seemed brighter. Indeed, a small clearing in the otherwise overcast day reminded me that I was wearing extra layers. Thankfully, it appeared as though the sunshine was only going to last a few minutes.
I spied what looked like an ice cream shop, and with the sweat starting to run down my chest and underneath the fat suit, I decided to get a cone, with the intention of cooling off. Nothing out of the ordinary for an overweight twenty-something-year-old to get a sweet treat before lunch hour, was there?
“Ein Eistüte bitte,” I asked the middle-aged shop keeper, having consulted my tourist booklet before entering the establishment.
“Es ist eine, nicht ein,” the shop keeper corrected me. I had pronounced the German word for one without saying the final e, like ah. I paid the man with the small, thin paper currency and received coins with my change. The metal was so thin that I was sure that I could bend it with my bare hands, but refrained from doing so, lest it be an offense that would be worse than my pronunciation, and cause the shop owner to call the police. I took my small cone with a “Danke,” making sure to pronounce the final vowel, and stepped back into the street, where the sun had once again hidden behind the clouds.
Standing on the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden, I looked to the west and could see the tall columns that were the Brandenburg Gate. The horse-drawn chariot was the colour of corroded copper. Though I was several blocks away, I could see what appeared to be an angel in the chariot and a winged banner rising above all. I was tempted to go in that direction but I wanted to avoid the wall, and I wanted to head to where the upcoming mission was going to go down.
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| © Ross Brown |
The square of Alexanderplatz was massive and wide open, with little place to hide. I could see the red-bricked building of the East Berlin City Hall, the Rathaus, mostly covered by scaffolding and tarps. It’s central clock tower, the only part left bare, showed that the time was nearing noon. It had taken me longer to reach this part of the city than I had planned. I was due back at my hotel for 3:00.
More photos, with the medieval church juxtaposed the modern TV tower, the old brick clock tower, and the Soviet-era block of concrete that made nondescript buildings that could either be tenements or government offices. Continuing on, I strode down Spandauer Strasse and into a small neighbourhood that could have been its own quaint medieval German town, with its terra cotta-coloured roofs with peaked lines. At the center was the towering old church of St. Nicholas. I stood on the corner of Nikolaikirchplatz and Propststrasse, near an old street lamp that looked as though, at one point in time, it was lit by gas, and snapped a photo of the church. Surveying the area around me, there were very few people. My eyes searched for anyone who may have been following me, but saw only people going about their business. If someone was tailing me, they were good.
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| © Ross Brown |
Most of my time with CSIS had been spent on or near Parliament Hill, watching and photographing protesters. We kept records on the most vocal people who waved homemade flags and crudely written signs, focusing on those who seemed to show up at several gatherings. Because of my age, I was able to blend into the crowds and could casually snap off a photo without attracting too much attention. At times, I would follow the crowds as they dispersed, following the leaders and regular protesters to see where they went. I was good at tailing someone without being seen. Could I spot someone who was tailing me? Would there be several tails, each communicating through radio about my whereabouts and the direction in which I was heading?
To be sure, I doubled back several times, moving with purpose from the church, toward the Spree, then changing directions and heading back toward the Rathaus, only to turn around and go behind city hall, along Grunerstrasse, and toward the train station at Alexanderplatz. When I reached the World Time Clock, I snapped more photos and casually looked at the crowds around me. No one seemed familiar from the neighbourhood around Nikolaikirche. If people were following me, they were good.
The Weltzeituhr was where Charles Townsend wanted me to reach. He wanted me to make myself familiar with the surrounding area, the Bahnhof, and Alexanderplatz to the northeast. I was to memorize the names of the streets of Dircksenstrasse, Bundesstrasse, Rathausstrasse, and Spandauer Strasse, and all of the side streets that fed from them. Observe where the entrances to the Bahnhof ran to Dirckenstrasse. When I had a good layout of the area, I was to head back to West Berlin.
Before turning back, there was something else that Charles asked me to do. Sitting on a bench near St. Mary’s Church, I casually crossed my legs, bringing my left foot to my right knee, and rubbing my ankle. As I did so, I slid the remaining East German coins and paper money into my shoe, sliding them under my foot. Though any unused currency was supposed to be returned at the checkpoint, I was to smuggle mine back.
Back at the Soviet side of Checkpoint Charlie, the line was equally long for those wanting to cross into the West. The sun was coming out from behind the clouds, which were dissipating and clearing away.
“It’s going to be a nice afternoon, after all,” came the woman’s voice from behind me. I turned to see a blond woman, about my age, waiting in line. Her round face was smiling, showing gapped teeth.
“Seems so.” Remembering that I was still Alexander James Carson, I applied my best East London accent.
“God, I thought we’d have rain into the evening.”
“Luckily, the rain’s held off for most of the day.” I could see that she was alone but looked like an experienced traveller. Sensible walking shoes, light clothing, and a day bag that didn’t seem stuffed. A small pin on one of the shoulder straps showed the American flag. “Was today your first time in East Berlin?”
“First and only time,” she said. “I’ve been in West Berlin for three days and I wasn’t sure if I would cross over, but I thought, I didn’t come all this way not to see how the Communists live.”
“Have you been anywhere else in Germany?”
“Heck, ya. I spent some time in Munich and along the Rhein—it’s beautiful. I’m Gwen, by the way. I’m going to spend my summer seeing all of Europe but thought I’d start in Germany and work my way counter-clockwise. Next is the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Spain, Portugal, and then I’ll swing back to Italy and Greece before moving up to Austria and Switzerland.”
“That’s quite the trip,” I said. “And doing it alone?”
“I have some friends who will join me in Paris, others who will meet me in Rome and go with me to the Greek Islands, but I like to be on my own timetable.” Gwen eyed my camera bag and asked, “How about you? You travelling alone.”
“All on my own,” I said. “Berlin’s my first stop.” I didn’t really want to continue the conversation, as I knew that I’d have to start making things up. I’d have to try to remember where other cities in this country were in relation to one another, and German geography was not something that they taught me in school. Luckily, my turn to go through the customs desks came up, and I bid the American safe travels.
The man at the customs counter was an older man, in his mid to late forties, and didn’t seem to care about receipts or even ask about the East German currency. He retrieved the slip of paper that was stuck in my passport, stamped it, and waved me through.
Standing at the American hut on the western side of the wall, I took one final snapshot of the East German station before deciding my best way back to the Kurfürstendamm. My American friend was close on my heels and seemed to be thinking something similar.
“Where y’all stayin’?” Gwen asked as I was looking at a short line of taxi cabs.
“Oh, not far from the Bahnhof Zoo.”
“That’s where I’m headed,” she said, “I’m in a small hotel on Kantstrasse, just a few blocks from the station. Want to share a ride?”
Alarm bells went off in my head. Getting into a cab with a stranger was not a good idea, especially in my fat suit. In close quarters, she would likely notice the disguise. I looked toward the taxis and could see a sign on a building that read It Happened at the Wall and Museum.
“I’d like to, but I was thinking that I’d check out the Berlin Wall museum.” I pointed to the building for emphasis.
“That looks interesting.”
“Listen, I don’t mean to sound rude but I don’t know you. I like to explore on my own.”
Her eyes went from lively to sad, as though she had accidentally let a balloon slip from her fingers and was watching it, helplessly, as it floated out of sight. “Oh, I just thought, since we’re both travelling alone.”
“Alone,” I said, “operating word. Enjoy your travels.” I turned and headed to the museum, making a point not to turn around, lest she was still standing there, waiting for me to change my mind and call for her to join me.
I looked at my watch. It was nearing two. I had just enough time to quickly visit the museum before hailing a taxi back to my pension. Having used this diversion as an excuse for losing the American girl, I felt I should follow through. If anything, Alexander James Carson was no liar.
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