In 1965, at the age of 19, I lived in East Berlin while West Berlin represented a world of abundance. Food, shoes, and cars were plentiful there, but in the East, even bananas were a rarity, with queues stretching endlessly when they arrived. My brother and I longed to escape, but it was both rare and costly, often requiring thousands of marks.
After finishing school, I worked in a bookshop where tourists were required to spend a minimum of 15 marks per visit. One day in March, two French military officers came in. Sensing they were kind, I asked, 'Can you help me?' They replied, 'No problem,' and left. The next day, they returned and whispered, 'Tonight or never. Meet us in the alley near the shop. Eight-thirty.'
I locked up, went home, and grabbed my passport and some jewellery. Telling my parents I was going to the cinema, I left, knowing I might never see them again. In the alley, the officers gestured to the car boot. I climbed in, curling up tightly. The journey was terrifying: every bump jolted me, and the darkness was absolute. At checkpoints, I held my breath as muffled voices exchanged words. After three checkpoints, the car moved on.
Within 15 minutes, my life changed. At my uncle's home, his wife opened the door and froze, hugging me tightly. She warned me of the dangers: capture could mean prison, torture, or death. The next day, I sent my family a one-word telegram: 'Sorry.' I couldn't say more for fear of police interrogation.
I didn't see my family for 24 years. Holidays were especially hard, filled with homesickness. After the Berlin Wall fell, my sisters were among the first to legally fly to London with East Berlin passports in November 1989. When they arrived, I burst into tears—it felt like a piece of me was restored. My brother never escaped; he became a GP in East Berlin and lived there until his death in August.
Today, I live in London, where I moved shortly after my escape. I worked as an au pair, married, raised two children, and bought a house in Hammersmith. Now retired, I enjoy simple pleasures with my grandchildren—things I once could only dream of.
