My first trip to the class enemy (FRG to BRD)
The Seeds of Curiosity First Trip Class Enemy
It all began with stories my parents brought back in 1977. They had just returned from visiting relatives in the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG), their first taste of life beyond the Iron Curtain. The tales were unbelievable, and to be honest, I didn’t care to hear them. I figured, at best, I’d have to wait until 2017 for a passport. That was my reality. But in 1988, things changed when a colleague came back from the West and casually mentioned that the grass there was, quite literally, greener. That small detail stuck with me, igniting a spark I couldn’t ignore. First Trip Class Enemy
The Application Maze
Motivated by that offhand remark, I started my journey toward the West. It wasn’t as simple as applying for a passport, though. A relative sent me an official document certifying his upcoming 50th birthday, and I attached that to my application. In the GDR, nothing was informal. I had to declare that I’d be using part of my annual leave, traveling alone, and—unspoken but clear—leaving my wife as a guarantee that I’d return.
The process dragged on, with my foreman reluctantly vouching for me. The collective signed off, declaring me a good worker, someone who took part in socialist events, and generally stayed out of trouble. The application snaked through layers of bureaucracy, until it finally hit a wall. The SED party organizer, despite my non-party status, discovered I was still under a travel ban. Rejected. First Trip Class Enemy
The Second Attempt
Two years later, I tried again. By now, I had switched jobs, working under a no-nonsense heart surgeon. Asking him for permission to travel to the Federal Republic of Germany was nerve-wracking, but to my surprise, he barely cared. His secretary filed the application without a word, and the process restarted. This time, things moved faster. I even got clearance from the authorities—until the Ministry for State Security caught wind of it. They held me up again, with the old travel ban still looming over me.
Before I could wrap my head around it, I was called up for military reserve duty. For ten days, I served in uniform, preparing for what they called “emergency mobilization.” The whole thing felt surreal. A colleague warned me that this meant my travel ban would reset for another three years. It was a devastating blow.
Suitcases Packed, Clock Ticking First Trip Class Enemy
Three weeks later, with my suitcases packed and little hope, I showed up at the People’s Police District Office again. They asked me to return the next day—the day of my planned departure. Desperation crept in. At work, they didn’t make a big deal out of it, deciding not to hold a political meeting to lecture me on how to behave in the West.
The next morning, with my heart pounding, I returned to the office. To my shock, they handed me a passport. The first I had ever held in my life. I rushed to exchange a meager 15 East German marks for travel money, then sprinted to catch the inter-zone train. In the final seconds before departure, I jumped aboard.
Crossing the Iron Curtain
The train rattled along, the compartment full but eerily quiet as we neared the border. Barbed wire, dogs, armed guards. The checkpoint loomed large with its gray buildings and signs marking the boundary of the “border area.” Passports were scrutinized, and one woman was pulled aside. After what felt like an eternity, we crossed the death strip, and suddenly, the train smoothed out. Western cars appeared, green lawns stretched out, and to my disbelief, the grass was indeed greener. First Trip Class Enemy
A Week in the West
The next seven days were a whirlwind. From Essen to Cologne, Mainz to Hamburg, I bounced between friends and family. The West was all I’d heard and more, but soon enough, it was time to return. The inter-zone train waited at Hamburg Central Station, filled with fellow GDR travelers, heavy with goodbyes and tears. We boarded, and the ride back was somber.
The Return to Reality First Trip Class Enemy
As the train slowed at the border, the same oppressive atmosphere returned. Dogs barked, guards marched, and passports were slammed with stamps that echoed like gunfire.
Another officer swung open the compartment door. “Customs inspection, GDR. Any printed material?” His voice cut through the air like a blade, eyes scanning each face in the cramped space. Every passenger stared at their feet, the silence thick. My suitcase, now bursting at the seams, was crammed with books, magazines, and records—treasures I’d picked up with my welcome money or received from relatives. The tension hung in the air until, finally, the woman next to me mumbled, “I have a *Bravo* for my daughter.”
“Keep it!” he barked, slamming the door behind him.
The train lurched forward, passing through villages. The houses were faded and crumbling, windows peeling bare. I stared out at the grey, thinking: something has to change. And soon. My wife and I were expecting a child.
One by one, we were checked, and then we crossed back into the GDR. The buzz of the West faded, replaced by the familiar rumble of life behind the wall. The journey had ended, but I had seen the other side.
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