Sacred Truths

Berlin Wall Story

December 22, 2020 Emmy Graham Season 1 Episode 17
Sacred Truths
Berlin Wall Story
Show Notes Transcript

The Cold War is still going on when Emmy treks across the Soviet Union on the Trans Siberian Railroad in 1987, landing her in Moscow .  There, she meets  the legendary Russian music icon Stas Namin and his rock band the Stas Namin Group.  Together they travel to East Berlin where Emmy and her new friends are forced to face the horrors and reality of the Berlin Wall and the political borders that define their fates and separate her from her friends.  It is a story of fate and coincidences, friendships despite borders, heart ache,  and the harsh realities of post-war Germany.

"This is brilliant. You are gifted." KH, Atlanta, GA

"
Such an absorbing account!" CC, Medford, OR 

"Another amazing story, beautifully told...you have a gift for storytelling, touching the heart of the listener... " GP, Port Townsend, WA

"
What a powerful experience you describe! I think many of us have walked through metaphorical "checkpoint Charlies" but to hear your build up to, and literally crossing through the Berlin Wall puts the courage we all may take for granted ("I only did what needed to be done...") in its right place, at the center of the story." MKJ, Great Barrington, MA


Photo credit: Freeimages.com/Andy Reid  

www.sacred-truths.com

Berlin Wall Story  by Emmy Graham

 I once took a short walk through a tunnel in a concrete wall that led from one country to another. It was a walk that to this day, haunts me still. It may seem strange to tell a story about a wall, an ugly wall at that, that eventually got knocked down with sledge hammers, about 30 years ago. But the Berlin Wall that divided the city of Berlin into two sections, was once a harsh, ugly reality for the people who lived in East Germany, a communist country that no longer exists today.  That day in 1987, I had arrived at the wall by car, from the East German side, at 2:30 in the morning. I was with four friends, three of them Russian, one of them East German. Only moments earlier had we discovered, quite suddenly, that it was urgently required for me to leave East Berlin and cross to West Berlin, despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, forcing me to separate from my friends, who couldn’t leave. They stood outside the car in the darkness, rigid and quiet, watching me go, sober to the realities of this wall and to any accidental motion they might make that could be misinterpreted by the armed guard, who held a semi-automatic rifle. They watched in silence as I slowly walked away from them, toward the guard at the gate, floodlights shining in my face.

 After World War II, Germany was divided among the four allies: the United States, the United Kingdom, France and the Soviet Union.  Eventually, it became two countries: West Germany, a western, democratic country, and East Germany which was controlled by the Soviet government and became a single party, communist state.  Different currencies existed between the two countries and East Germans were not allowed access to West Germany. The city of Berlin, nestled within East Germany, was also divided into four occupation zones after the war, and essentially became divided in two: West Berlin, under Western ally control and East Berlin, under Soviet control.    The city was divided right down the middle at the point of the famous Brandenburg Gate. However, too many people were escaping East Berlin into West Berlin, so in 1961, a barbed wire fence was installed around the entire border of West Berlin to create a barrier restricting emigration of East Germans to West Berlin. By 1975, a concrete wall replaced the barbed wire one with guard towers placed at various intervals manned by armed guards.  The wall was 96 miles long and circumscribed the entire city of West Berlin.   At various points along the wall were checkpoints where people from the West, with proper papers, could come and go and on very rare occasions, people from East Germany could also travel.  Some people tried to escape from East Berlin to West Berlin, and while a few people made it, more often they didn’t, and were shot on sight by the guards. 

 This story doesn’t begin in Germany, however, but begins in Moscow at the end of April in 1987 when I was a young woman of 23 waiting outside the train station to board a train. It was early evening and the city of Moscow was still recovering from a long hard winter.    Urban women in full length brown wool coats, high boots and enormous fur hats hustled after men in red caps, porters who pushed clunky carts of busted trunks to and fro.  The men wore fur hats as well, with ear flaps.  People from the country stood apart from these more stylish Moscow residents.  The country people mulled around outside, and held their own bundles.  These rural women wrapped scarves around their heads and with the bulk of their coats, their wraps and their bundles, some stood as large as refrigerators. 

 I was sitting on a concrete wall near the trains shivering.  I had spent the past 18 months travelling and living in southeast Asia and with no winter coat, was not prepared for the coldness of Moscow. I wore all three of my long-sleeved shirts and a very thin cotton jacket that I had bought in Thailand two months earlier.  I looked very different from the other waiting travelers, for my clothes were thin and too colorful, I was tanned, and I carried a blue back pack unlike the large brown trunks or suitcases of the others. I had a train ticket for East Berlin for I was on my way to explore Europe for the first time with money I had saved teaching English in Japan.  I would leave Russia that night, travel through Poland and into East Germany and arrive in East Berlin the next evening, a 28 hour train journey.  

The trains pulling into the station huffed and hissed, the smell of diesel fuel mixed with the crisp night air of the early spring evening.  This was the Soviet Union, a communist country at that time and there were a number of military men in forest green wool coats - broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist – positioned here and there about the station, their feet in shiny black laced boots.  The biting wind touched not a one, didn't even rumple their trousers.  Some smoked cigarettes with quick impatient drags, while others opened the station doors for women carrying large bundles.  Their hats were pulled forward, almost resting on their noses, forcing them to stand with their heads back, looking down at civilians.  Many had tight mustaches and all of them moved with quick, snappy steps.  None of them entered the train station, and it appeared to me, they had their eyes on everyone.  

 There was no food at the station, not even hot coffee, nothing but a few ticket window booths with long queues of tired, cold travelers.  The station offered little warmth as the main doors were constantly swinging open letting in the cold damp night air.  The train departure and arrival times were posted outside in front of the train platforms, so most travelers waited outside to board.  I watched an unshaven man in a tattered gray coat who stood with one holey gloved hand in the air, reading the huge screen in front of the platforms, unable to find his track number and departing time.  Every so often an announcement echoed over the loudspeaker and he looked around in confusion.  Others like him were staring at the board, talking amongst themselves.  It had started to sprinkle.  

 A week earlier I had boarded the Trans-Siberian Railroad in Beijing and for 6 days and nights traveled across Mongolia and Russia before arriving in Moscow, the final destination. I noted two distinct features on this journey through Russia: one was a scarcity of food, and the other was a strong military presence.  I believe I was the only American on that Trans-Siberian Railroad journey.  There was a small group of European travelers, mostly young people like me, and an entire car of Chinese men, who I was told, were on their way to work in Russia. The Chinese people never entered the dining car but instead had brought bags of instant noodles with them and using the hot water available to all, prepared and ate them in their compartments. The dining car was first overseen by Chinese staff and at meal time, I lined up with the other European travelers and we sat in the dining car and got to know each other, and ate the Chinese meals provided by the staff, paying for these meals using Chinese currency.   In Mongolia, the dining car changed staff and we now ate Mongolian food and had to change our money at a kiosk station stop in order to pay for it. Instead of change, we received gum or chocolate from the Mongolian crew.  Once we got to the Russian border, the dining car once again changed staff and menus and currency.  And we gained several cars full of Russian people, but none of these people ever went to the dining car on the remaining days of the journey.  Once again we all lined up at meal time and waited for a spot in the dining car.  Once seated, we were handed large menus with a tantalizing list of dishes.  The women who waited on us spoke little to no English but were able to convey that each dish we asked for was not available. Finally, we understood that the only dish available was the Stroganoff.  Well, that was ok, so the four of us seated at my table all ordered it, and it was quite good.  The next day however, after feeding all the Europeans and myself the previous day, the dining car apparently had run out of food.  I sat down at a table with three others only to learn that the only thing available to us was bottled kefir, a fermented milk drink. So, we ordered it just so we would have something to put in our stomachs.  Eventually, we all just stopped going to the dining car, as there was no point. We still had 3 more days on the train with nothing to eat.  I admired the Chinese passengers for their wise choice to bring their own food.  

 The other significant piece to my experience was the military presence in Russia.  As an American, I was very aware of the decades of hostility and distrust that existed between our two governments since the Cold War.  I was both extremely curious to enter Russia and very hesitant on how I might be received. My fears came to a head when the train stopped at the Soviet border on the Trans-Siberian Railroad.  The Russian immigration officers wore heavy black boots and dressed in full military uniform.  They stomped loudly onto the train in a way that felt intimidating and authoritarian. It was 10 pm and I shared a cabin with 3 other people: an Australian man, a woman from Copenhagen, and another woman from Shanghai. When the officer came to our berth he collected our passports.  We were all quiet and I think it was a terrifying moment for all of us, not just me. When he got to my passport, he glared at me with a fierce intensity and shouted something in Russian.  He was a young man with blond hair. Kind of handsome. I glanced nervously at my fellow passengers and staring back at the officer simply said, “I don’t understand. I only speak English.” He continued to shout getting louder and louder as if that would help.  All four of us were befuddled.  What could it be?  Finally, a Chinese man a few doors down, bravely in my opinion, stood out in the hall.  He explained to the officer that he spoke Russian and understood what the man wanted. He approached our doorway and spoke to the woman from Shanghai in Chinese.  She was on her way to East Germany to study and was fluent in German and by that time had befriended the woman from Copenhagen, who was also fluent in German, so she explained it to her in German.  The Copenhagen woman, who could also speak English, then turned to me and told me he wanted to see my hotel voucher for I was spending the night in Moscow and it was required that all visitors make their hotel arrangements prior to entering the country.  This was found and handed over.  The Australian man also had a hotel voucher and when he retrieved his, the immigration officer didn’t want to see it.  He only wanted mine.  He then returned everyone’s passports, but took my passport, visa and hotel voucher and left the train. My companions looked at me with what I would call “sucks to be you” faces.  We were at the border for two hours. Around midnight the train engines started back up and the whistle blew signaling departure.  But I still didn’t have my papers.  He can’t just keep them I thought.  Finally, when I really thought I was doomed to travel without any documents, I heard the boots returning accompanied by shouts.  The officer returned at the very last minute and handed all of my papers back to me.  He was still severe, and gazed at me with a sharp eye, but as I returned his gaze and took my papers, wondering what kind of scoop he could have possibly found on me, and before he turned on his heel to go, I noticed a shred, just a tiny hint, of a spark in his eye that showed me he was human, with a sense of humor and maybe a soft heart.  Perhaps he had enjoyed intimidating me, perhaps he respected my bravery in making such a journey at all. I don’t know. But his look always stayed with me. 

 All was well, so everyone went to sleep. The next morning I was the first in my berth to awaken at 8am.  I lifted the window blind a bit and saw that the train was circling around the southern border of Lake Baikal on its way to the city of Irkutsk.  As far as I could see, nothing but snow.  We were in Siberia. MUSIC – the Spirit of Russian Love – also try Kosta T

The Russian military were at each station stop where we were allowed to get outside and jump around and get some fresh air. It was challenging to be cooped up in a train for 6 days, but it was also fun.  I spent my time reading Anna Karenina by Tolstoy and talking to fellow travelers. 

We arrived in Moscow in the afternoon.  Most European travelers had a short transit visa and were continuing by train on to their homes in their respective countries. My hotel voucher and an extended tourist visa allowed me to stay in the city for another day. I said good-bye to my fellow European travelers at the train station and watched them hurry off to meet their waiting trains.  I however, got in a line to take a taxi to my hotel, which was not cheap, and, I was sorry to see, was some distance from downtown in a remote part of the Moscow suburbs and far from shops or restaurants.  So, after settling into my room, I went to the hotel dining room to get some dinner that evening. I hadn’t eaten in days.  The small dining room was completely empty and there were two women working behind a refrigerated deli counter, talking with each other.  I approached them and no one spoke English.  There was no menu, instead, one of the women pointed to the refrigerator indicating I should pick something out to eat from there.  But the shelves were bare with the exception of one thing: a cold plate of a piece of boiled beef and a boiled potato.  It was not at all appealing, but I had no choice. I was tired. I was hungry. I glumly pointed to it, and with much disappointment, sat at a table in the empty dining room and ate it.  It needs to be said that I had spent 18 months in Asia where I mostly ate vegetables, rice, seaweed, tofu and fish. I hadn’t had much meat and no dairy in all that time. So, the kefir on the train was very hard to digest. And the boiled beef, was difficult to chew and had no taste and I was concerned about how my digestive system might respond to it. After paying for this meal, I returned to my room and took a much longed for bath. For the entire evening the room swayed as if I were still on the train.

The next morning I returned to the city center and deposited my large backpack in a locker at the train station that I would retrieve that evening before departing Moscow. I needed to get a transit visa for traveling through Poland so I made a trip to the Polish Embassy.  I had to ride the Moscow subways and experienced the longest escalator I’d ever been on, that brought passengers up from an astounding depth. I also visited Red Square and walked all around that central area.  I found no food. I searched for restaurants or markets.  How did these people eat, I thought. I couldn't distinguish between a restaurant, a bank, or a school. All buildings had a similar impoverished bland gray look to them.  At various street corners I might find a statue of Lenin or Stalin, but nothing else remarkable stood out amongst all the bleakness.  I did find a huge indoor market for goods and eventually I found a small grocery store, but upon entering, I found it to be pretty much empty of food.  Many of the shelves were bare except for some scattered canned vegetables, one type of boxed cereal, and in the back of the store where there was a small bakery, several loaves of freshly baked bread.  I chose a loaf and the woman behind the counter just handed it to me. It was not wrapped in paper or placed in a bag. Paying for it at the check-out counter at the front of the store, I waited for the cashier to bag it, only to realize there was no bag so I stuffed it, unwrapped, into my cloth hand bag along with my hairbrush and the Tolstoy novel I was reading. This was the only food I had to bring with me for the 28-hour train ride to East Berlin that evening.  I wondered how many people in Russia had ever experienced the sight of a full refrigerator.   

By late afternoon, I found a coffee shop.  It caught my eye because I’d noticed a long line of people curling down the sidewalk. Upon further inspection I saw that all these people were in front of a shop waiting for a single cup of hot coffee that was dispensed from a single urn.  I got in the line. There were no pastries, no buns, no food of any sort that was for sale.  Just a cup of coffee.  But it was cold outside and the coffee shop offered warmth. A young Russian man behind me in line told me in perfect English that there was better coffee across the street.  I agreed to go there with him, and as far as I could see, it was exactly the same thing: just another café with a long line of people waiting for a cup of coffee that was dispersed from a single urn. However, I instantly had a new friend and we spent several hours chatting in the warm café, drinking the hot beverage.  Dinner hour was approaching and my companion invited me to join him for dinner.  I would have enjoyed extending our evening, and I was very curious to know where people went to eat, however, I had to catch my train soon so I had to decline the invitation, foolishly thinking I could eat dinner on the train.  However, as I was to find out, there was no food on the train, either. 

Now, at the Moscow train station, waiting for my train to take me to East Berlin I felt sad to leave Moscow.  I wanted to spend more time exploring the city, meeting the people. I was chilled waiting outside on the platform and was grateful when I finally boarded the warm train with my pack and my loaf of bread. 

Once settled on the train, I shared the small berth with an older East German man and two middle aged East German women, who sat close together on their bunk whispering to each other.  Perhaps they were sisters.  They seemed nervous about traveling. 

The door to my compartment was left open and I often caught glimpses of long-haired young men in black jackets and tight jeans tromping down the train hallway in their black leather boots.  They were making a lot of commotion loading equipment: a drum set, microphones, sound equipment, amplifiers, guitars.  Occasionally they hooted with excitement as they ran down the hallway.   The East German women huddled closer and gave furtive nervous glances at the doorway whenever one of the young men passed.  When the train was finally underway, I went out to the hallway, and stood at a window to get a long, last look at the city of Moscow, a city I had no idea if I’d ever see again. After a few minutes, I was approached by a Russian man who asked me in perfect English to join him for some vodka. He was somewhat short and a little pudgy, roughly 35, and looked Armenian.  He had coal black hair and dark eyes. He told me his name was Stas Namin.

He pointed to some of the long haired guys at the end of the car who were also looking out a window and running in and out of their compartments and told me they were all part of a rock band and he was the manager.  They were called the Stas Namin Group.  

I had no idea that I had just met one of Russia’s most famous rock musicians. Stas Namin was a legend, a music icon in 20th c Russian culture or soon would be.  As a young man he had formed the band the Flowers whose music was often banned by government authorities. It wasn’t until Mikhail Gorbechev took office the year before, in 1986 and the start of Perestroika that Stas Namin was able to form his band again now called the Stas Namin Group, and tour the West including the US and Canada and later, parts of Europe and Japan. 

Of course I knew none of this as I stood there in the hallway conversing with him. He again invited me to join them for some dinner and Russian Vodka.   I was delighted to accept his invitation and as he slid the door to his berth open, I uttered a soft and surprised, “Oh” when I entered, for I wasn’t expecting the scene that was before me.  Roughly 12 young Russian men who were crowded into the compartment.  Some of them were stretched out on the top bunks (but they sat up when I entered) and most of them were crammed into the lower bunks.  Most appeared to be in their mid to late 20's.  I looked around the room and caught glimpses of leather boots with silver buckles, beard stubble on well-chiseled jaws, shoulder-length hair, tight t-shirts, leather pants, silver studded belts, strong biceps, black jeans.  Sexy maleness everywhere.  All the chatter and activity that had been going on immediately stopped the moment I entered as they all stared at me. 

 “Hello,” I said, timidly.

“Hello!” everyone sang back in unison.  

 Stas introduced me in English and in Russian explaining he had met me in the hall and had invited me to join them. The small table by the window was loaded with brown bread, cucumbers, greens, cheese, liverwurst, beer, wine and vodka.  Somebody moved over and I sat down, squeezing myself into a space on the lower bunk between two of the guys.  The conversations continued and I found myself with a glass of vodka in one hand and a piece of brown bread topped with cheese and cucumber in another that someone had handed me.  I was very hungry and they were feeding me. Stas remained standing and leaned over me telling me the names of some of the members and who played what.  Everyone looked a little too thin and a little too pale. 

Sergei Voronov, the lead guitarist, sat across from me on the opposite bunk.  He was tall and lean and his long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he wore a black beret. He wore a surprising T-shirt that said  'Stop US in El Salvador.  The Reason is Freedom.'  I wasn’t sure who could speak English but I asked him where he had gotten the shirt. He told me in perfect English that it was a gift from Jackson Brown, that they had played with him in Tokyo. That was surprising and I told him it was a cool shirt. 

 “Yeah.  And he was a cool guy,” was his response.  

The guy sitting next to him, the bass player named Yuri also wore an unusual t-shirt that said: ‘You’ve got a Friend in Pennsylvania“ with a depiction of a map of PA. I told him I had gone to college there and knew the state quite well. He also spoke English saying “Oh, really?  I can't believe that,” not once taking his eyes from my face. I learned from him that their band had toured through Pennsylvania and New York, playing at the Limelight which I knew to be on 6th avenue, before heading to Los Angeles. This was unbelievable to me, that a Russian band could travel so freely.  I was from New York and had connections in Pennsylvania and in meeting this band, I suddenly felt a little homesick as we sped through the night on a train heading away from Moscow and towards Europe.

 There were so many people to meet and I tried my best to connect with all of them, or at least those who could speak English.  I met an older man in his 40s with hair like Rod Stewart named Sasha who was the lead singer. He also spoke fluent English and when I told him I liked his name he smiled and told me Sasha was a nickname for Alexander and that there were 5 Sashas in the group. So I met all of these Sasha’s but none of them spoke English except Sasha the drummer, who was learning English and carried around a little phrase book.  He sat next to me and opened his book and pointed to sentences: I am divorced.  I have one son.

I looked into his dark brown eyes and asked, “How old is he?”

“Two,” he said. “I have only studied English for two months,” he added.  He had a mustache and curly brown hair that came below his ears. He also kept a notebook and showed me all that he had studied thus far. I told him he had to practice and that I would be his teacher, and he would learn quickly, which made him smile.

All the while Yuri the bass player kept my glass filled with vodka and Stas or someone continued to hand me bread and cheese and liverwurst. The night continued with drinking and talking and lots of different faces popping inside the cabin while others ran outside to smoke cigarettes.  It was, essentially, a party in the tiny, cramped cabin.  I felt very welcomed by these people and was having a good time.  I admitted to Stas that before coming to Russia I had assumed that Russians had strong prejudiced feelings against Americans. 

 Stas chuckled and said,  “That's because of all the propaganda against the Russians you get in the States.  I know, I saw it when I was there.  One thing I can say is Russian propaganda against America is strictly against the US government.  It doesn't include people.  So Russian people have no bad feelings against American people, like you do in the States.  In fact, Russians and Americans have the same mentality.  We think alike.”

 I considered this for a while and thought about, with the exception of the immigration officer, how comfortable I had felt with all of the Russians I had encountered in Moscow: the porter at the train station, the taxi cab driver, the hotel clerk, the shop clerks, the people on the subway, the man in the coffee shop.  It was a totally relaxed feeling, unlike anything I’d ever felt in my travels with Europeans or Australians.  

I told him people from other Western countries often had a bad impression of Americans, complaining that we were loud or fat or obnoxious.  He insisted Russian people didn’t feel that way at all. That they liked Americans and felt most comfortable with them. Then he added, “I told you, we're similar people.”

 Perhaps it was true, I thought.  This evening was the first time in over 18 months of traveling, that I had forgotten I was American. I felt very comfortable with my new Russian friends. 

Around midnight, I returned to my own berth and found it to be dark and quiet except for the reading lamp from the German man in the bunk above me who would be departing in an hour.  The German ladies were asleep.  Lying under the covers in my little bed I thought about my new found friends.  My stomach was full and cramped slightly as I was having trouble digesting the food.   Still, I was fed, warm,  a little drunk and very content.  I fell asleep quickly and never heard the German man leave. 

The next day at midmorning Sergei the lead guitarist stuck his head into my berth and asked me if I wanted some tea. He was holding a tray with four glasses of hot black tea nestled in ornate silver tea cup holders.  I wondered where he had found hot water and such containers but didn't ask.  The German ladies bristled and looked at him nervously.  I shot them a look that I hoped said, “He really is a dear, despite his appearance!” I secretly had a crush on Sergei for he was the most handsome and extremely gentle and kind to me. I was happy to join him and followed him to his berth where Stas was waiting with Sasha the drummer and his English phrase book. 

Sergei set the tray down on the table. Stas handed a glass to me and I sat down next to Sasha.  Earlier that morning they had fed me breakfast.  I brought in my loaf of brown bread as a contribution.  Over breakfast, Stas and Sergei discussed the idea of my staying with them for a while in East Berlin, seeing the concert, joining them at their hotel.  I had no plan and it all sounded good to me. 

 As we drank our tea, Sergei asked me where I had disappeared to after breakfast for I had left my cabin.  I had met an East German woman on the train, I explained, a teacher, who was on a field trip to Moscow with her high school students and she asked if I would speak with them.  I spent several hours with these East German teenagers.  Some of them spoke English very well. They asked mature questions that were difficult to answer such as: How do Americans feel about Gorbachev? What about the nuclear arms race? Do Americans hate East Germans?  We are afraid American people hate us because we are East German they told me.  I studied the faces of these innocent young people and felt such love for them. I answered as best as I could, and told them nobody hated them. 

 Now drinking tea with my Russian friends, I learned that Sergei spoke fluent German, and that he had lived in East Berlin for 10 years.  When I asked him about it he responded,  “I think I was pretending I was somewhere else, you know.  Escaping it all.  But I wasn't.  It's no different over there.  I guess that's why I came back to Moscow.”  He had taken his hair band out and his black hair hung down well below his shoulders.  It was getting greasy.

Stas had told me about their tour to New York and Los Angeles.  He had met Yoko Ono and was just on the phone with her last week.  I wasn’t sure I should believe him, but it turns out it was true. Stas left to talk to their Production Manager and Sergei kicked off  his black boots and sighed as he laid back on his bunk. He asked me again to consider staying with them for a few days in Berlin. 

 I absolutely wanted to but something about staying in East Berlin didn't feel right to me.  I would have to apply for a visa to stay longer and had no idea how to do that. I completely trusted Stas and Sergei, but something was off. Sergei sensed my unease.

 “Hey, don't worry,” he said. “I have friends there,” he rested on one elbow to face me. “We'll work something out.  Don't worry.”

“Don't worry,” Sasha added and patted my arm.

Sergei took an apple from the table and started to slice it.  He offered some to me and I took the rest from him, sliced a piece for myself and another for him and fed it to him.  I was enjoying this intimacy with him, sitting on the bench beside him, feeding him and laughing together.  Sasha snapped our picture. 

Sergei laid back and shut his eyes so Sasha invited me to follow him to his cabin. He patted his bunk and asked me to sit. He sliced a piece of flaky pastry and offered it to me saying “please”. I took it and he rummaged through his bag and brought out some photographs.

 “My son,” he said.  I flipped through the photos of his sweet little boy and I felt very sad for him regarding his divorce. He handed me another explaining it was a photo of him playing the drums. 

I looked closely at his picture.  His hair was flying as the camera caught his face in mid swing.  He looked like a boy I had known in high school, the curly brown hair, the eyes set deep with a purpose, the lips lightly touching as if all that mattered was the beat of his drum, the rhythm in his arms and body.  There was something about this comfortable way he carried himself that reminded me of all high school boys. 

  That afternoon we traveled through Poland.  Back in my cabin I leaned over the table and stared out the window.  Whenever the train passed a town, the Polish people stood at the crossing waiting for it to pass so they could cross.  I looked at their sincere round ruddy faces, the women's heads were wrapped in kerchiefs or scarves. Sometimes I saw a cart full of hay pulled by two donkeys just like in a story book.  While on the Trans Siberian Railroad, I had also watched the Russians who would line up whenever the train passed a small village.  All the dilapidated houses were clustered closely together, smoke pouring out of chimneys, surrounded by miles of country covered in snow.  Everyone was wrapped up in winter coats and fur hats and their weathered faces watched the train go by.  

 I had a new bunk mate: a young Polish man who was studying engineering in the Soviet Union and was on his way home to visit his mother and sister in Warsaw.  He spoke very little English but as I sat with him he was able to tell me that much.  I wracked my brain trying to bring up every Polish word I had ever learned from three summers of waitressing at a Polish resort hotel in New York while I was in high school. A few things came back like: good morning, good appetite, hurry up, and give me a kiss.  The Polish boy laughed hilariously, shook his head and slapped his knee at each Polish phrase I spoke.  We were having a great time. At 3pm when the train arrived at Warsaw, I was sorry to see him go.  I helped him with his bags and smiled at his eagerness to get home and see his family.  He thanked me profusely. I waved to him from the train doorway where he stood with his bags on the platform and he waved back vigorously, shouting good-bye as if we’d been friends forever.

The rest of the day was spent with Sergei, Sasha and Stas, talking, snacking and playing music.  Sergei had an acoustic guitar and he played familiar American tunes and I sang along with them. Whenever the train stopped at a station, I stepped outside for air and exercise.  One time I was out with Sergei and when the train whistle blew he headed for the train just before me, placing his hand on the handrail exposing a very white and pale forearm.  I held the rail just below him and my arm was golden colored in comparison.  

“You need a suntan!” I said.

“Yeah!” he answered happily, but I regretted my words. I realized my American passport granted me the possibility to spend the winter on a tropical island in Thailand, while he had no choice but to endure the long hard Moscow winter.

 By evening I stood in the hallway, outside the open door of Sasha's compartment, watching him pack his bag.  He moved a blanket over and patted the hard sleeper and said to me, “Please sit.” I sat across from him.  His greasy brown curly hair hung around his neck  and he had changed into a black sweatshirt.  In one hour, the train would stop at the final destination. 

 Sasha handed me a small square pin depicting a few Russian buildings with traditional blue onion bulb roofs, surrounded by gold swirls. The top right corner was colored in a rich maroon with a Russian word printed in gold letters. This was all covered in glaze. It was beautiful.

“This is a very old city in my country.  I was born here,” he said.  “It is for you...”

“Thank you, Sasha.”  I had nothing to give him.   

“Please remember,” he said.

“I will never forget,” I answered.

When Sergei stepped inside the compartment to say something to Sasha, he touched my hand and tilted his head and said, “Emmy, you look so sad!  Why?”  His deep blue eyes were steady on my face as I looked back at him.  I trusted him like a brother.  

I told him I was nervous about entering East Berlin so late at night because I didn’t have any arrangements. Something didn’t feel right. He assured me that I could stay at their hotel and if needed, he would call his friends to see if they could help. He smiled and patted my knee and told me not to worry. 

He left, but still I fretted.  There was much excitement on the train. People were packing and handing in their bed sheets.  Everyone was anxious to get off after the 28-hour trip from Moscow.  Everyone had some place to go.  

At 10:30pm the train pulled into the station in East Berlin.  It was chilly outside as I stood at the platform near Stas. A bus was waiting for the band and some of the guys unloaded equipment from the train into the bus.  An exuberant and outgoing middle aged East German man named Andreas was there to help manage the logistics of the band and take care of their needs during their stay.  I boarded the bus and sat up front with Stas and it was a few minutes until everyone and everything was loaded.  When the bus arrived at the hotel, I followed Stas into the lobby, and sat on a couch in the lobby with my backpack beside me.  I waited while Stas and the others checked in and inquired about a room for me. Sergei came swiftly over.

“They won't let you stay at this hotel,” he said. “They don't allow Americans here.”

Of course, I thought.  Communist countries have special hotels for foreign visitors as I had experienced in Beijing and Moscow.  Of course it would be the same here.  Why hadn't I thought of that sooner?

Sergei removed his beret and ran his hand across the top of his head.  I watched all of him - his black boots, black jeans, black t-shirt, and black beret - as he paced back and forth in the hotel lobby and then spun around and headed for the check-in counter with a new idea.

The rest of the band members and stage-hands were unloading the bus parked out front.  Everyone wanted to get settled and showered and get some dinner.  Andreas stood in the doorway speaking loudly to Stas about logistics. When someone came through the doors with equipment he'd step aside and theatrically wave his arms saying, “This way fellows, this way.  Elevators are to the left.”

Sergei was arguing in German with the woman behind the counter and it pained me.  I wished I had another plan. 

Stas came over to me and said, “Let me get my bags upstairs and then we'll figure something out, OK?” I felt I was becoming a nuisance. Surely there was a hostel or nearby hotel where I could go. 

Sasha came out of an elevator and sat down beside me. 

“Finished,” he said.

Sergei came striding over quickly.  “They won't budge,” he said.  “Look, would you mind staying with my friends?  I can call them right now.”

 I agreed and Sergei was off to a phone booth, his hands searching his pants pockets for some change. He called several numbers, but there was no answer.  By the time he returned, Stas, Sasha and Andreas were there. Apparently, Andreas had an idea.

 “You boys are all settled, eh?” Andreas asked.  “Well, let's go have a drink, sit down, relax, get something to eat, and talk about it.”  He led the four of us to the hotel restaurant.  Sasha carried my backpack. It was now after midnight.

The restaurant was dimly lit and full of people at the bar and the cocktail tables.  We were led to a small table and somebody ordered beer and food.  I sat between Stas and Sasha and Sergei was across from me, with Andreas to the left of him. Andreas ordered a bottle of champagne.  Before I knew it, a plate of wienerschnitzel with boiled potatoes and cabbage was placed in front of me.  Suddenly I was extremely hungry and so grateful to them for ordering food for me, for once again taking care of me.  I hadn’t had a hot meal in over a week and ate everything on my plate.

“So, we have a plan to sneak you in the hotel so you can sleep here,” Andreas was saying.

Stas leaned his chin on my shoulder and giggled in my ear. 

I listened closely.  Andreas was certain I could get in unnoticed through the back door. I was willing to try it. I was happy to sleep on the floor in someone’s room. I desperately wanted to stay with them and see their concert.  This was a stupid rule.   

Suddenly Sergei jumped up from his chair.  “Let me see your papers!” he exclaimed.  

I handed them to him and he read the German visa. 

“My God!  You've only got four hours here!” he exclaimed.

I was quite alarmed for I thought I had 24.

 He looked at his watch.  “It's 2:20am now.  We've got to get you to the border right now.”

“Now?  But what will she do?” asked Stas.

“I'll sleep in the train station.” I said.  “What else can I do?” 

Sergei asked the most practical question: “How are we going to get there?”

Stas turned to Andreas and said, “We'll have to take your car.”

“My car!” he said.  “I can't drive.” He held up the half empty champagne bottle. “I'm in no condition to drive.” It was true.  He was quite inebriated at this point. 

“Well then, I'll drive,” said Stas.  “But you're coming too.  You've got to give me directions.”

“Oh God.  It's my new car,” Andreas said and lowered his forehead into the palm of his hands.

“Come on. Give me your keys.  You think I can't drive?” coaxed Stas.

“We've got to go now,” said Sergei. “I'm serious.”

“OK. OK.  Off I go!” said Andreas.  We quickly left the restaurant and jumped into Andreas's car.                                                                                            

Stas drove down the empty, dark streets of East Berlin while Andreas sat in the front giving directions.  I sat in the back seat between Sasha and Sergei. I didn’t want to go anywhere.  I wanted a hotel room and a shower and to see their show the next evening. Sasha held my hand and patted my arm frequently saying, “Don't worry.”  Sergei squirmed this way and that and could not sit still in the back seat and couldn't agree with Andreas on the best route to take.  

“Slow down, you idiot!  This is a new car!” Andreas screamed at Stas from time to time.

Stas merely giggled in answer and sometimes swerved into the opposite lane rocking the car intentionally.

“Oh, God damn...” Andreas kept muttering.  

This went on for several miles until Andreas shouted for Stas to stop.

“Stop? Why?” asked Stas.

“Stop the car.  We have to stop here.”  Stas slowed down and pulled over. 

Andreas said, “We have to show the beautiful lady the most wonderful sight in East Berlin before she goes.” He got out of the car and opened the back door for me.

Sergei slumped down in his seat and said, “We don't have time for a stop!”

We were parked in front of a large open and empty plaza, and I crawled over Sasha to get out of the car. Andreas took my hand and we quickly jogged over to a huge stone building with pillars and a flight of steps leading up to ornate main doors.  All was dark and deserted and it was difficult to make out what the building was in the quiet of the night.  Andreas had managed to bring the champagne bottle and two wine glasses.

“The old opera house,” he said as he poured. “The only thing the bastards left us.  The only reminder we have of the way things used to be.” He handed a glass to me.

“Of course,” he added.  “It's not an opera house anymore.”

He raised his glass and I followed.

“A toast!” he said.  “To this place and to the lovely lady who came for such a brief visit!”  We drank and lifting his empty glass high into the air, Andreas smashed it down on the pavement.

“Hoo hoo!” he said, laughing.  I couldn’t bring myself to smash a glass in this public plaza, so Andreas took the glass from my hand and smashed it for me.  Then, he turned abruptly and held my hand as we ran back to the car.

“Hurry, hurry,” he said, “We're not far now.”

Back in the car, Stas sped off while Sergei gave directions.  We were headed for Check Point Charlie, a main gate in the Berlin Wall where Germans and non-Germans could pass.   The streets were empty of cars and pedestrians.  We turned down a side street and came suddenly to a halt for a large and imposing cement wall blocked our way.  

“This is it,” Sergei said.

But it was closed.  We had to turn around and find the next gate.  Sergei and Andreas argued about which was the closest one.   Again Stas drove through various side streets before coming to a halt in front of the wall again.  This time there was a light and a guard on duty.

“This is definitely it, now,” said Sergei.  This was a gate for Germans only, but we had no other option. 

The wall was about 12 feet high and the top was covered in two more feet of barbed wire.  Stas parked the car about 50 feet from the guard's booth and when we all got out, the figure of a guard with a large semi-automatic weapon could be seen in the shadows.  We all stood in front of the car. It was eerie. It was horrifying. 

“This is terrible,” I uttered, staring in disbelief.

“Ya.  We know how terrible it is,” Andreas softly said beside me.

The guard hollered out in German and Sergei began explaining why we were there.  He was shouting across 50 feet of blackness. The five of us took a few steps forward and the guard shouted again and motioned with his gun.  We immediately stopped.  I felt the bodies of my friends stiffen as they became instantly sober, quiet and alert.  I knew my friends understood the realities of an armed boarder guard at the Berlin Wall.  I knew people were killed at this wall every year.

The guard spoke again and Sergei replied while the rest of us waited silently. Finally, he turned to me.

“Go ahead, Emmy,” he said softly. “He wants to see your papers.”

“This is it?” I asked.  “I'm going through?”

“Yes,” he said.  “He won't let us come any further.”

I didn’t want to leave them.  It was painful that I couldn’t stay. In any other European country, I could have stayed without any problem. Numbly, I prepared to depart. Sasha helped me with my back pack.  “Good luck,” he said and kissed my cheek.

“Take care of yourself, now,” Sergei said as he bent down and hugged me.  I took one last look at his face.  Stas said nothing but rubbed my head and then hugged me tightly. I shook Andreas’s hand.

“Good-bye.” I said.  “Thank you all,”   

Feeling dazed, I turned and walked toward the guard.  There had been no time to exchange addresses.  Perhaps I could have gotten a visa and returned to East Berlin to see their show, but I didn’t know where they were performing.  There had been no time for any of this. Sadly, I knew I’d never see any of them again. The guard shined a flashlight in my face and examined my papers. I was afraid my visa had expired and I’d be in some sort of trouble.  But he grunted and pointing, indicated that I should go through the entrance.  Feeling like Dorothy about to return to Kansas, I turned and glanced back one final time and lifted my hand to wave at my friends.  They were standing in the same place watching me go.  I felt a piece of my heart rip as I turned and entered the gloomy passageway.  Instead of going from color to black and white like Dorothy, I went from the world of black and white to the world of color. For I was about to leave the dreariness of East Berlin and re-enter the world of lattes and pastries, flower gardens and abundance.  A place where food was plentiful and one could find newspaper stands and flower markets, restaurants, bars, bookstores, beautiful parks, clothing stores.  A place where the smell of food and spring flowers and the sounds of music drifted all over the streets.  

For the moment however, I walked down a narrow dimly lit concrete hall and had to pass by two more stations with armed guards, showing my papers to each.  Again the flashlight in the face, the checking of papers and no smiles. I continued walking through the dark cinder block tunnel, carrying my heavy back pack.  How many more guards, I wondered?

Finally, I saw another guard up ahead, but the lights were brighter here.  He smiled as he waited for me to approach.  When he cheerfully called out, “Guten morgen!” I knew I was in West Berlin.

What happened next isn’t of much importance. I was terribly sad to be separated from my friends and very alert to my most insecure situation for it was the middle of the night and I was in a strange city I did not know. At the other end of this cinderblock tunnel, a subway train waited with its doors open.  I hesitated at the platform, looking for a subway map to get my bearings, but a guard there gently pushed me into the subway car saying something in German, just before the doors closed and it sped away.  I sensed I had just made the last train of the night.  I was hurtled into the depths of the city not knowing where I was or which direction I was traveling.  I was alone on the train and at each subway stop, I quickly and frantically searched the complex subway map on the wall of the subway car trying to find my location.  Eventually this was revealed and I was relieved to see that I was headed to a main station, where all subway lines converged.  I decided to get off there and spend the rest of the night at the station.

But mine was the last train and when I got to the station the subway workers were closing up and locking the doors of the station.  I was not allowed to remain inside.  Amazingly, I met a kind German man who spoke fluent English and told me the station would reopen at 6am and I would have a half hour to ride the trains for free until the ticket takers started duty.  This was good news as I had no Deutschemarks but only East German Marks. 

 Out on the street, I put on my warm Mexican poncho for the night air was chilly. I sat on the sidewalk on top of my rolled sleeping bag, alert to every sound, to every approaching figure.  Down the street was an all-night diner, but because I had no currency, I didn't go in but knew I could run there if I needed to.

 When the station reopened, I took a train to a charming neighborhood where there was a youth hostel. First I needed to cash a travelers check so I dozed on a park bench in front of a bank until it opened.  I must have been a sight for I received many stares when I entered the bank, disheveled, unkempt, with back pack and poncho.  I secured a room in the local hostel and spent the morning in a large, cheerful coffee shop with a tantalizing display of pastries, and drank hot coffee. I sat by the window and looked out at the quaint, bustling street below and thought of my friends just a few miles away yet an entire world apart.  Sleepless, I felt numb and distraught and carried an ache in my heart that the warm coffee did little to soothe.  I missed them terribly and would have tried to return, but I had no way of finding them. 

I stayed in West Berlin for three days and as happens when one is a traveler, I met new people. One night I ran into a German guy I had befriended on the trans-Siberian railroad and later visited him in Munich and from there traveled to Venice with him and his friends.  I told no one of my experience in East Berlin, but carried it in my heart along with the faces and memories of my Russian friends. 

 Two and a half years later when the wall was dismantled and Germany was reunified, I was back in the United States, working and living in Boston.  I followed the story of the wall in the papers, quietly rejoicing.  I imagined Andreas dancing and drinking champagne with others on top of the wall. And I thought of those East German teenagers whose lives would now be changed.

 One of my co-workers was a young man my age named Yuri, a recent immigrant from Moscow.  I told Yuri of my experience with the band.  His younger brother had a collection of magazines of Russian rock bands and Yuri brought some in to the office.  It didn't take long to find a studio photo of the Stas Namin Group.  Yuri's jaw hung open with amazement as I named each band member.  Everyone was there, except sadly, Sergei.  I had hoped to see his face one more time.  There were a few new faces I didn't know.  And there was Stas, at the end, looking happy and content.

 And then one day soon after, I was flipping through a copy of Life Magazine and I saw him again: a photo of Stas and his wife Ludmilla in their Moscow apartment.  The caption mentioned something about the rock star and his peace concerts.  There he was in his leather pants and vest, a jaguar skin on his couch.  He looked just the same. He would go on to have a very distinguished career as a musician and an artist traveling and collaborating with artists and musicians from around the world, writing music and organizing peace concerts and would become a national icon. Sergei would become a well-known blues guitarist and by 2012, the year he turned 50, he would be voted the sexiest man in Moscow by Russia’s Maxim Magazine. In 1991, Gorbachev resigned and the Soviet Union was dissolved and a whole new set of problems would arise for the Russian people no longer under communist control.

 Shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall, one of my friends showed me a piece of the Wall brought back by a friend who had recently visited Germany.  I held it in my hand and noted it was just concrete, and could smash easily.  I thought of all the hands that built the wall, and of all the hands that took it down again.  In between the building and the destroying many songs were sung, many hands were clasped in hope, and many harsh and loving words were spoken. The will of the people could be stronger than borders I thought.  Handing the piece back to my friend, I wiped the residue from my hands.  It was after all, just dust.