Berlin

My Piece of the Wall

The mission for the U-2’s flying out of England in the mid-1980’s was simple – border patrol. If the Warsaw Pact countries were to attack Europe, which was the fear, they would have to prepare for battle, upgrading equipment and practicing tactics. From our perch above 70,000’ we could look well into the Eastern bloc countries, monitoring the state of readiness in the Communist countries. We flew nine-hour missions daily along the West and East German border, carrying a variety of sensors, acting as a trip-wire to catch the bad guys in the act of being bad guys.

The West German government, in recognition of our role in protecting their country, paid for each U-2 pilot to visit Berlin. At that time Berlin was an occupied city, governed by the four conquering powers of WW II. The French, British, and American sectors quickly combined to form West Berlin, an island of freedom surrounded by Communist East Germany. The Soviet sector became East Berlin, supposedly the showcase of all that is good about Communism.

I arrived in West Berlin for the weekend visit with Jan, another U-2 pilot, and his wife Sarah. We traveled by military transport, as commercial airline travel into Berlin was not allowed. Friday’s schedule was filled with tours of West Berlin and lectures about the history of the two Germanys and the two Berlins since the war. That night we were turned loose on the city to sample the cabarets, the bright lights and incredible shopping along the Kurfurstendam, the city’s main street. Highlights included the KDV, the world’s largest department store whose food court put even London’s Herrod’s to shame, the Kaiser Willhelm memorial, the bombed-out shell of the city’s cathedral, left as a memorial to the horrors of war, the inscription saying, “Never Again!”, and the city’s parks full of happy, healthy, joyful people.

Saturday morning we met for the visit’s real purpose, a bus tour of East Berlin. Jan and I, as part of the occupying forces, had to wear our class A uniforms. Sarah was allowed to accompany us.

First stop was Checkpoint Charlie, a border crossing point and site of a museum full of artifacts left by East Germans making successful and unsuccessful attempts to escape Communism. Some methods were very clever, like hiding a person as the upholstery stuffing in an automobile seat or under a car. Some used brute force, ramming border gates with trucks, crossing the Berlin Wall on a wire strung between buildings, or swimming the River Spree, though mined and strung with barbed wire. Small memorials along the Berlin Wall gave testimony to the many that tried to escape and failed.

Back on the bus, we crossed the bridge into East Berlin and took a driving tour of the city. The many massive memorials were impressive. The ramshackle apartment buildings with gaps between the sections and blocks of rooms tilting slightly, were not.

We stopped at one memorial, and our American guide pointed out all the video security cameras following our every move. The bus passed yet another checkpoint and, as predicted, Stazi guards radioed in our progress.

Finally we arrived at the shopping area in the center of the city, and were told to return in four hours. We were free to explore on our own, to see and feel for ourselves the “enemy,” the feared and hated Communism.

The department store windows were full of goods, the shelves inside empty. The few things available were cheaply made and shoddy, many of our souvenirs falling apart before we could even get them home. One pilot bought a set of Mariachi dolls, the kind that nest inside each other, and they almost disintegrated in his hands. In the Russian goods store, where access was limited to foreigners and politicians, the shelves were full. What l remember most was the pretty Russian clerk. I gave her my most seductive smile. She smiled back until her gaze took in my American uniform; her jaw dropped and the color drained from her face.

Jan and Sarah and I decided to have lunch at the base of the TV tower, the symbol of East Berlin. We went into what I called the Stadt Café, got a plateful of basic German peasant food, potato dumplings, a sausage, and sauerkraut, for the equivalent of 25 cents, with a beer for another quarter. Great! Carrying our trays, we looked for a place to sit at the high-school type folding tables for eight. Not finding an empty table, we went to one with just one little old lady at the end. We sat at the end of the table, after asking permission in our limited German. The lady promptly got up and moved to another table.

What I remember most about the meal, and East Berlin, and the people, was the quiet. The diners in the cafeteria did not carry on conversations; the loudest noise was the rattling of the dishes in the kitchen. The people in general appeared in good health and wore nice clothing, but they walked around with their heads down and would not make eye contact. When children laughed or a baby cried it seemed out of place.

Everyone arrived well early at the rendezvous point. Back on the bus, the guide offered to take us to a few more sights. We’d seen enough, and demanded to go home, to the West, now! Crossing back through Checkpoint Charlie, it was like a great weight had been lifted from our shoulders, that we could talk and laugh again, that the oppression that we had felt just visiting a Communist country was palpable.

The West German government got its money worth sponsoring our trip. We went back to our jobs observing the governments across the Iron Curtain with a renewed sense of purpose, that we must keep Communism under control until it collapses of its own weight, which was exactly what happened.