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In 1965, I was 19 and living in East Berlin. West Berlin was glamorous. They had everything: shoes, cars, food. But we had almost nothing. When bananas were imported once or twice a year, the queues stretched further than I had ever seen.
My brother and I were desperate to get out. We’d hang around the checkpoints, hoping to befriend a West Berliner. Occasionally, they took pity and sent us packages. But escaping was rare – and expensive. Most who managed it had paid thousands of marks.
That year, after I finished school, my father found me a job in a bookshop. Tourists often came: they were required to spend a minimum of 15 marks each time they visited the east. With little else to buy, many opted for books or records.
One day in March, two French military officers came in. As I chatted with them, I could tell they liked me. I thought they seemed like decent men so I said, “Can you help me?” Just that. They looked at me and said, “No problem”, and left.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d never see them again. But the next day, they came back. They walked over and whispered, “Tonight or never. Meet us in the alley near the shop. Eight-thirty.”
Once the shop emptied, I locked up and went home. My heart was thudding. I ran upstairs to the attic, and grabbed my passport and a few sentimental pieces of jewellery. I told my parents I was going to the cinema with a friend. As I left, I took one more look at them sitting down to dinner, knowing it might be the last time I saw them in person. I felt torn apart by grief, guilt, fear – but also strangely numb. I had to block it all out.
I went to the alley. When the officers saw me, they gestured to the boot of the car. I told them that after we crossed the border they should take me to my uncle’s home – he had escaped before the wall went up. Then I climbed in, curling my legs into my chest. I wondered if my brother could have fitted in there with me.
I felt every bump in the road, each one a shock. My eyes never adjusted to the pitch black; the smell of rubber and exhaust fumes filled my nose. I could just about make out some muffled speech from the front seat.
Then the car stopped. More muffled voices. I made out a few words: “First checkpoint, hold your breath.” I imagined soldiers waving them through as the car moved again. “Second checkpoint, hold your breath.” Then again: “Third checkpoint, hold your breath.” Then the car was back in motion.
And that was it. My life changed in 15 minutes. When we arrived at my uncle’s home, his wife opened the door and froze. She hugged me tightly. “Do you know what could have happened?” she said. “You could’ve ended up in a security prison.” She was right. People who were caught often faced brutal punishments. Some were tortured. Many were shot dead.
The next day, I sent my family a one-word telegram: “Sorry.” I wanted to explain everything. Tell them how much I missed them, how hard it was to leave. But I couldn’t say more – the police might have interrogated them.
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Although I had some phone contact, I didn’t see them again for 24 years. Holidays were the hardest. I’d imagine them all gathered together – birthdays, Christmases – while I was alone in a new world. There was always a deep homesickness that never fully left.
When the Berlin Wall came down, I was living in London – I’d moved there just months after my escape. I started out as an au pair and over time, built a life. I got married, raised two children, and eventually bought a house in Hammersmith, where I live today. I’m retired now and spend time with my grandchildren. I enjoy the simple things – things I once could have only dreamed of.
My brother never managed to escape. He later became a GP in East Berlin and lived there for the rest of his life. He died this August. My sisters were among some of the first people to legally fly to London with an East Berlin passport. It was November 1989, just weeks after the wall came down, when they arrived – I burst into tears. It felt like a piece of me had been restored.
As told to Hanna McNeila
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