CHAPTER EIGHT
It was early evening when I first crossed the border into East Germany at Wolfsburg/Oebisfelde, and the light was starting to fade. Perhaps that’s why, when I think of it now, I see it in black and white – a monochrome blur of concrete, metal tracks and glaring searchlights. Or perhaps the many black and white photographs I’ve seen since have distorted my recollection of that first crossing.
The train was quiet when I went over, but a few miles from the crossing at Braunschweig an elderly couple boarded and took the seats opposite me. They moved close together when the West German border guards got on at Wolfsburg, and the old man patted his wife’s knee reassuringly.
“Couldn’t you find anywhere better to go?” the guard joked when he saw my entry visa with ‘permission to re
