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Wednesday:
Crackly call from
rapidly vanishing
Deutsche Demokratische
Republik or DDR as
they say in Germany.
My pal Werner has
finally got his visa
from the British Embassy
for the trip neither
of us had ever thought
possible - a weekend
visit to London. We
first became friends
in the early eighties
while I was briefly
living and working
in East Berlin. Playing
with local musicians
meant an unrestricted
visa and allowed me
to visit Werner in
his small home town
of Prenzlau. Returning
his hospitality, however,
had always seemed
out of the question.
Only nonstop flight
available is with
World's Most Modest
Airline, whose West
German reputation
("bei BA kriegt
man immer Scheiße")
is well deserved.
Reluctantly book his
ticket, consoling
myself that it can't
be much worse than
Interflug.
Friday: Waiting
with Partner at Heathrow
Terminal One. BA989
from Berlin twenty
minutes late - no
surprises there. Further
hour before a shaken
but beaming Werner
eventually emerges,
the last from his
flight. No-one, especially
from today's DDR,
expects the British
Inquisition: how long
are you here, what
is the purpose of
your visit, who are
you staying with,
when, where and how
did you meet him,
what does he do, where
does he live, why
did he invite you.
Just like the old
days back at home,
chuckles Werner. Crossing
The Wall this afternoon,
the guard simply wished
him a pleasant stay,
and hoped he wouldn't
forget to come back.
Back to Hammersmith
in high spirits with
hugs, introductions
and presents - East
German kirsch, flowers
from Prenzlau and
two small pieces of
concrete personally
chiselled from Wall.
Sit down to an Indian
takeaway. What on
earth is that stuff
? Rice, Werner. This
weekend, he wants
to try EVERYTHING.
Saturday: We
lay on a typical German
breakfast of ham,
cheese, boiled eggs,
filter coffee, butter
& pumpernickel
for our guest, who
is baffled. He's never
seen Tilsiter cheese
or tasted fresh ham,
while coffee and butter
are unaffordable luxuries.
Breakfast is black
bread, a glass of
milk and an egg from
his parents' chicken
in the yard. As a
bricklayer he works
an eleven hour day,
earning 700 marks
a month. Even at the
DDR's ludicrous official
exchange rate this
is under £60
a week. Though his
rent is six pounds
a month, the unspectacular
trainers he's wearing
cost a week and a
half's wages.
Outside, the sun is
shining. Werner marvels
at how clean, well-kept
and tidy everything
is. Can he really
mean the Shepherds
Bush Road ? Goods
in the shops, beautifully
displayed, friendly
and polite service
- above all, no queues
outside. And where
are all our friendly
unarmed Bobbies with
their famous helmets
? By some fluke we
don't see one the
whole weekend, though
white transits packed
with shadowy figures
scream past a couple
of times.
The city looks so
different through
a visitor's eyes:
full of immaculate
old buildings and
staggering new ones.
This belongs to an
American corporation,
and that's a Japanese
bank. For some reason
Buckingham Palace
reminds him of Ceaucescu.
We pass brutal sixties
concrete office block:
at last, quips Werner,
something you've copied
from us. Plenty of
queues there too,
we tell him. It's
the DHSS.
Improbably, he's accosted
by a street vendor
brandishing a special
DDR issue of Living
Marxism and he responds
in a torrent of German.
Great theory, he agrees,
but hopeless in practice:
he's been there, done
that and definitely
had enough. Uncomprehending
but encouraged, the
woman asks if he feels
positive about re-unification.
"Stasi !"
hisses Werner, displaying
an imaginary lapel
badge and producing
from nowhere an ancient
plastic camera. He
snaps his first British
marxist at point blank
range, and stalks
off grinning.
Much disbelieving
laughter over the
various machines cluttering
our household - not
just the tumble drier
and video, but my
shaver, the hair dryer
- even the kettle.
("You mean you
just fill it with
water and it boils
? That's amazing !")
By the time I nuke
our dinner in the
microwave he thinks
I'm taking the piss.
Guiltily hide the
electric toothbrush
my brother gave us
for Christmas.
Tonight Werner wants
to sample London nightlife.
Partner nobly suggests
capital's most enduring
and spectacular gay
discotheque and, since
Saturdays are Men
Only, opts for an
early night. Driving
into West End, further
mirth at removable
car radio - yet another
machine ! Outside
club help gay man
being hassled by aggressive
drunk and pass begging
teenagers huddled
on pavement - Werner
gives them all the
hard currency in his
pocket. Gay man buys
us a drink. Heaven
packed and heaving
with party animals
bopping till the tiny
hours, mostly Werner's
age or younger. His
eyes widen: it's a
far cry from anything
in East Berlin, though
the insistent electrobeat
seems alien and oppressive.
He spots still more
machines in the washroom.
This one's a hand
dryer, that one sells
condoms.
Worst job my stepbrother
ever had was opening
Richard Branson's
personal mail shortly
after the launch of
Mates. Though all
condoms are subject
to occasional failure,
the furious victims
seemed to hold Branson
personally responsible
- often posting him
the sticky and gruesome
evidence.
Sunday: Breakfast
at Macdonalds for
a taste of capitalism:
appalling packaging
waste and delicious
cheap food. Anyone
who calls it junk
has clearly never
eaten in the DDR,
but there even the
yoghurt comes in returnable
jars. Driving out
beyond the M25 in
search of open countryside,
Werner marvels at
smoothness of our
roads and undisciplined
way we drive. Why,
people change lanes
without even indicating!
In Prenzlau that'd
mean a spot fine and
endorsement from the
ever-watchful Volkspolizei.
And British drivers
are so courteous -
all this flashing
of headlamps to let
people in or give
way to pedestrians.
Back in the DDR you
waits your bloody
turn, mate.
Service station at
South Mimms makes
a great impression
- huge automated forecourt
run by two cashiers,
where the DDR would
employ a staff of
twenty. But surely
it must also be worth
having personal service
and full employment
? All you get, snorts
Werner, is pissed-off
people stuck in useless
jobs and totally unproductive
use of labour. He'll
vote SPD in next week's
elections - that is,
if he's still there.
At least eight friends
from Prenzlau have
already fled and settled
in the West; as soon
as they've found him
a flat he plans to
join them. If housing's
anything like here,
don't hold your breath,
we warn him.
Quiet vegetarian dinner
at Pizza Express.
Those black things
? Olives. Werner reckons
a vegetarian literally
couldn't survive in
the DDR - nuts, pulses
and fresh vegetables
just aren't to be
had. East Berlin,
well maybe, but Prenzlau,
no way. Staple diet
is wurst and salt
potatoes. Rest of
evening spent writing
copious postcards
home.
His overwhelming impression
has been shock at
homeless British people
sleeping rough on
the streets. Don't
we have hostels or
charities ? Yes, and
they're swamped. Doesn't
Frau Thatcher care
? Probably not. In
the DDR you'd first
be jailed - and then
given accomodation
and a job like any
other ex-convict.
It's the law. Petty
crime was one way
to jump the housing
queues; the other
used to be joining
the Party.
Monday: Heathrow
Terminal One, 6.30am.
Hugs and farewells,
jostled by impatient
eurocommuters. Werner
delighted by massive
queue for departure
gates: finally feels
like home. And yes,
the place is teeming
with police - in flat
caps and flack jackets,
armed to the teeth
with machine pistols
and automatics.
Wednesday:
Crackly call from
the DDR. Werner's
mates have found him
a room and a job near
Mönchen Gladbach:
experienced bricklayers,
it seems, are in massive
demand. He's leaving
tonight in great excitement
for the promised land.
We wish him luck -
he may need it.
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