03102019 | Of Eggs & Escape

1980. A longed-for child.
Between 2 nations.
Born in Hungary.
Grew up in the GDR.
And a refugee.

Who would have thought it ?

The Berlin Wall has been formally closed for 30 years today, 03102019.
Strictly speaking, it had already begun to crumble before then, and it took a while until the last pieces of the wall were displayed for the heroic display.

I was right in the middle of it.
I still remember the burned-in fragments like it was yesterday.
Don't worry, there won't be a story like 'Oh, how hard we had it'.

No. My story has guts.
They have such big balls that I'm glad I experienced it all this way.

I was 9 years old, had a really cute little brother, a best friend & a wonderful home.
We lived in Potsdam and I was not raised to be a regime loyalist .
As a result, I had no Pioneer friends , didn't put my hand on my head at the morning roll call, only collected chestnuts for crafting, and wasn't allowed to participate in trips to visit socialist friends.

It was very good. Because I learned from a young age that free will is true freedom. Unfortunately, in East Germany, the will was not free.

And so I was immune to sugarcoating, probing, and persuasion.
Not because I was so strong at age 9.

No. Because they were my parents.
There was no questioning it. It was simply the way it was. We were against the regime. Free thinkers.
And there were many moments when I suspected that we as a family were not 100% safe because of it.

We had neighbors who spied on us, a teacher who tried to eavesdrop on me, and situations characterized by 'respect'.

But we also always had friends with whom my parents felt safe, with whom they weren't afraid. Spaces where problems were discussed, and certainly in plain language.

As a child, I had toys from the West, clothes from the Netherlands, and an open home.
We always had a full house. And that was wonderful.

And, if I ask my gut about my most beautiful childhood memories, they are:

❥ Sitting in front of Papa Jörg's record player with his huge headphones and listening to 'The Dream Tree'.

❥ Watching Mom prepare things in the kitchen and sitting on the bench.
❥ Sleeping in Mom's bedroom.
❥ Sitting on the disheveled back of the leather armchair in the study, combing Mom's hair for hours while watching West German television.
❥ Chopping with Grandma in the kitchen or stirring the roux with a whisk.
❥ Watching grandpa warm my bread rolls over the gas flame on the stove.
❥ Simply stand next to the sewing machine and watch Mom work her magic.
❥ Help in the garden and put on grandpa's apron.
❥ Enjoy a picnic with all your friends on Egg Mountain.
❥ Swimming and even learning to swim at Lake Krampnitz.

This would continue.
_

One day, Papa Jörg went to the West. To visit his aunt.
And for me, that was nothing special.

But he never came back.
First 1 day. Then 2. Then 3 weeks.
Now it was special.

He had fled.
But I didn't know that at the time, being only 9 years old.
He had gone ahead, and only as an adult woman did I realize that it was a plan of both of them.

In the beginning, I waited every day. I would sit on the sofa at the white Panthen-era table, with a shag rug underneath, and wait.
My mom said that I probably even made coffee at the beginning.

Sounds difficult, doesn't it?
It feels very sad right now, because he was my dad, who raised me like his own child.

At some point I was told that he wouldn't be coming back, and unfortunately I don't remember my reaction.

What I do know, however, is that my mom, grandma & grandpa, and friends ensured that we continued to have a carefree family life.

Why am I going into so much detail?
Because now it's clear that my parents really showed some guts.
So they had a plan to go to the West. They accepted a separation with an uncertain outcome.

Reunification was advocated, and of course, permission to leave the country was denied. Meanwhile, my parents' Stasi file grew thicker and thicker.
One could write a book.

And then came a September day.
My Refugee Day.
The day I had to leave my childhood in Potsdam behind.

Apparently, I was dawdling. On my way home from school, and Mom was apparently very agitated. Of course, an escape was planned for today.
And the child doesn't come.

Once home, my mom calmly and very briefly explained to me that we were leaving our home today.
In a language I understood when I was nine years old. For the last night before their escape, we had borrowed a Trabant from her best friend Mario, and I was now allowed to take something with me that I was attached to.

Kati . My doll. Very clear!
She opened and closed her eyes so beautifully. Such fluttery eyes.
My mom packed all of my brother's Playmobil from the Golden West so that he almost fell over backwards when he tried to run later.
That looked very funny.

Once I reached the bottom where the Trabant was, I paused briefly before getting in.

Dürer Street 1, Potsdam
240 square meters of living space.
100% childhood.
Opposite Russian barracks .
Everywhere you looked, there were neighbors who had worked for the Stasi and had neither shame nor scruples. All for their own benefit.

'And we're never coming back ?? ?'

Ouch. That was loud. Or maybe not.
In any case, it echoed very loudly in my mom's ears, and I still remember how scared she was when she briefly looked around.
Further.
Because she has balls.

I packed up my brother and we went to my grandparents' house.
The evening prayer, which I used to always have to say at my Granny 's house, had something strange about it that night.
Grandma took care of us, and I remember that my grandpa and mom talked a lot.
Long and a lot. Quietly, above all.
Perhaps I perceived things that way because everything was so tense.

It could have been the last time ever. The talking and the seeing.
Hugging. Everything.

I need to throw something in right now.
My brother was a brother I had wanted.
Two children, planned and desired.
Just like me today. Now I'm laughing. Isn't that wonderful ?!
_

But how does one escape?
Hidden in a small van or across the Spree River?
With two children, a doll named Kati , a backpack full of Playmobil & fear hanging over you?

I'm telling you.
With eggs in their luggage & willpower.
With an almost frightening display of self-confidence that it MUST work.
You go on holiday with enough summer clothes.
To Hungary. To my country of birth.
They officially plan a vacation so that their daughter doesn't lose touch with her roots and don't return.
Dangers? I can't list them all. There were too many.

Others fled across the so-called 'Green Border'.
An unofficial corridor through nature that made it possible for citizens of the GDR to leave the country, albeit not without danger, and to reach the West via circuitous routes.

I told you, she's got balls.

At the airport, my mom blew the last of our foreign currency, and I remember that I got a pin with Mikhail Gorbachev's face on it.

Significant and bizarre.
I still have my clothes in front of me. Overalls made of heathered denim. The flight, on the other hand, is completely erased from my mind.

My memories begin again at the German Embassy of the Federal Republic of Germany in Budapest. Hundreds of people.

Everyone is sitting on the grass. Some children are crying, but overall the atmosphere is hopeful.
My mother seemed lucid to me.
She had almost reached her goal.
Even though it was not yet foreseeable for me when the journey would give way to arrival.

Because it was clear.
There was no going back.
The consequence would have been a children's home for us children and prison for the traitor.
Not a pleasant thought and a harsh price to pay for free will.

It felt like an eternity at the embassy, ​​but suddenly buses were provided.
People were distributed among them, and we got in as well.
My mom was sitting in the aisle. There was no more room, and she wanted us children to sit on the bus seats. To be safe.

Cut. Pause.

The first one. In the West. On western soil.
It's pouring rain. I was excited.
Everyone got off and the bus driver opened the luggage doors so everyone could stand underneath.
There we all stood.
Mom, my little brother, lots of strangers and me.
With a loaf of bread in his hand.

A type of pumpernickel bread.
And there was liverwurst on it.
It's not a walk in the park for my mom, because to this day she gets goosebumps at the mere thought of liverwurst.
It's a childhood thing. I have that with blood sausage.
I think that's absolutely terrible.

But we ate.
No, actually I stuffed everything into myself because I thought it was great.
My mom cried when she looked up at the sky.
Surely out of sorrow, fear, relief, and because she was thinking of a sentence her best friend had said as a farewell.

Inge, when you arrive in the West, the sky will cry.

And that's exactly how it was.
We had fled.
Under a weeping sky, they ate pumpernickel bread with thickly spread liverwurst.

And happiness came slowly.
__

What makes my escape from a dictatorship so special?

At no time was my fear greater than my trust.
At no time did I feel that my mother was abandoning us.
People have always taken very loving care of us.
At all times I had the certainty that I was protected.

I was a small 9-year-old refugee child.
It was only 800 kilometers away from my old home.
And it was necessary to overcome other countries, dangers, and obstacles that I hadn't even suspected existed in order to get there.

My mom always had the biggest balls in the world.
And from then on I was back with my dad Jörg.
__

2019.
I have a Pantheon-era table.
No flokati rug .

And I'm not on the run either.

Rather, I have arrived.
I found my childhood here.
I love her very much.

My parents separated in the 90s.
My mom deserved to get her happiness back.
My brother is still my longed-for brother and I am very proud of him.

When I read about the fall of the Berlin Wall today, it's either about terrible, painful events or about trivializing that time.
Selfish but true.
My story is my favorite.
Sure, because it has a happy ending.

Because my grandparents' hug was not the last.
The sun shone again after the rain.
And standing up for his convictions was rewarded.

Not that the path became easier for my family afterwards, but it was clear.

I no longer had to be careful about who I said what to.
He was no longer reprimanded. From then on, he could simply grow up to be a teenager.

My parents were able to freely express all their thoughts anywhere.
And that's what it was about.

Today I'm writing about eggs, freedom & family.

And I ask everyone to show some balls.
Whenever necessary.

For children.
For families.
For friends.
For strangers.

For people.

Because then, at some point, a woman can write a blog post about her childhood or a significant experience, but
: felt safe at all times.

Thank you ALL who showed some guts.
❥