A weekly web column by Roger A. Baylor.
Right about now -- at some point near the end of May, but 25 years ago -- I was on my way to Berlin, with a stated intention of remaining in Europe for seven months.
It astounds me that a quarter-century has passed since that momentous time, one made far more meaningful than the mere ramblings of a 20-something American traveler by the fact that 1989 was the year when the Soviet Bloc collapsed.
Berlin wasn’t the capital of Germany in 1989, at least in part because there were two Germanys … and two Berlins. Bonn was the capital of the Federal Republic, known to us as West Germany. My flight in May, 1989, landed in West Berlin, a municipality entirely surrounded by the territory of the German Democratic Republic, or communist East Germany, of which East Berlin was the capital.
Berlin remained divided into zones of occupation, as administered by the triumphant Allies of World War II. The western side included American, British and French zones, and representatives of the three countries still met at regular intervals to discuss their stewardship.
To the east, continuing all the way to Vladivostok, was the Soviet zone. The Berlin Wall was the line of demarcation between the Allied zones and the sovereign territory of the GDR. It had graffiti on one side, and machine guns on the other.
In short, it was the Cold War in everyday life, although those first three days in May were intended only as a teaser. A return was planned for August, when I’d arranged a month-long stay in East Berlin. I’ve written previously about my experiences working for Herr Honecker, and hope to repost the essays later this year. For now, I’ll sketch the 1989 trip’s overall parameters.
Quite early in the morning of June 2, 1989, I tiptoed out of my West Berlin hostel dorm and took to the street, where I caught the first bus of the day into the center of the city. At Zoo Station (later immortalized by the U2 song), there was a suburban rail (S-Bahn) train to catch, a few stops east, above the wall, into the Friedrichstrasse station in East Berlin.
Clambering off the train, I found myself standing on a sealed platform. It was possible to transfer to other commuter trains (and subways) headed to destinations in West Berlin, but not to walk out onto the street outside without passing through passport control and customs. Such was the bizarre transport arrangement reflecting the city’s division.
I had a time-sensitive transit visa for East Germany, allowing me to pass through the country without stopping. My ultimate destination was Prague, in the nation then known as Czechoslovakia. After a brief orientation stroll and gut check (the streetscape in East Berlin was so different from what I’d experienced less than a mile westward that it might have been another planet), it was back onto an “Ossie” S-Bahn to a different train station, and my rail connection via Dresden.
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For the next five weeks, Czechoslovakia was my home, courtesy of the family of by dear friend George Hrabcak, who at the time was a criminal defector who’d have been arrested and incarcerated had he so much as set foot in his homeland. There is no telling how many miles I covered walking during two weeks in amazing Prague, followed by the same amount of time exploring Ostrava, then the Pittsburgh of Czechoslovakia.
Pork, dumplings and delicious Pilsner beer were consumed in abundance. It was a very happy time.
In early July came the long-awaited 36-hour “express” train from Prague to Moscow. “Back in the USSR,” indeed. In theory, my time in the Soviet metropolis was supposed to be spent learning conversational Russian as part of a program at Moscow State University. It was an experimental teaching method, and it didn’t much appeal to me, especially considering the lessons (and foment) waiting to be learned outside the classroom during the high point of glasnost.
I’ll share just one anecdote about my time in Moscow in 1989. Several fellow students planned to leave the city heading in the same direction, and our sponsoring organization helped arrange train tickets back to East Berlin, but we had to obtain a Polish transit visa on our own. Three of us arrived at the Polish embassy, only to find a block-long line composed primarily of Soviet citizens and foreign students from socialist countries (i.e., Cuba, Ethiopia and Vietnam) seeking visas.
After standing for a very long time, some English-speaking Russians nearby advised us to walk to the front of the line and ask (in English) to be allowed to skip the long queue and enter. We shrugged it off … for about another hour, and then we took their advice.
The Polish military guards were delighted to see us, and we were processed within minutes. It was a valuable metaphor about imperialism, and how in those days, it ran in both directions.
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After another week in West Berlin, it was August, and time to cross into East Berlin for my work assignment. By early September, I was in Copenhagen visiting friends. There followed a swing through Western Europe and Ireland, and a brief foray back into Czechoslovakia and Hungary. In mid-November, somewhat exhausted, I was back in Denmark.
Snacks and beers were gathered, and we sat around the television and watched news reports of the Berlin Wall being pulled down. Briefly we debated boarding a ferry and train to go there ourselves. It was only five or six hours away, and looked like a wonderful party. In the end, we decided against it. It was a party, but it was theirs, not ours.
Certain things were ending, and others beginning – both with Europe, and my own life. I returned home, and the cycle of trip planning began anew.
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