Border crossing

The story takes place on a cold morning in September 1951 when the train pulls to a location close to the western border and stops at its last stop in East Germany. I stepped off the train, saw the clouds overhead, and secretly rejoiced. This was a good time to sneak across the border and flee back to West Germany.

I went into a dimly lit café and sat down, sipping a glass of lemonade slowly, waiting for the night to come. The scene of living with my parents and brothers a few days ago came to my eyes one after another, and it was the first time my family had been reunited in seven years.

War-torn life left their parents and eventually settled in a small town in East Germany. It is impossible to return to its hometown of Fechtenstein, which is already part of Poland.

I lived in West Germany for a time after my release from a prisoner-of-war camp in Britain. Later, I finally heard from my parents. My father, a wounded soldier, was now crippled, and I decided to take him to West Germany for treatment, but I was not allowed to enter East Germany.

In May 1951, I tried to cross the border to see my parents, and was arrested and deported to West Germany at the border, so my passport was marked "Attempted Crossing". Now, 4 months later, the same trick is repeated and I succeed. But the next question was how to return to West Germany, where being caught a second time was much worse than stamping an "attempted" stamp, with unimaginable consequences. But I think I have a good chance to go back. My brother drew me a map with the precise location of the border guards and the time when some of the sentries were left unguarded.

The watch hands pointed to 11 o'clock and I got up and left the café.

I walked for two hours on a lonely country lane. When a village appeared in view, I immediately turned and walked into the forest on the right. The forest stretched all the way to the border. I polished a match, glanced at the map one last time, and proceeded. Every few minutes, I would stand still and listen to the rustle around me to hear if it was just the sound of the wind and the leaves. Soon, I approached the path that separated things.

Suddenly—" Stop! "Someone yelled at me in Russian.

I immediately got down, rolled on the ground a few times, and got up again and flew away. A hand-held machine gun "clicked" and two flames exploded above my head. Then the dog roared, something hit me on the back and knocked me into the bushes, and when I looked up, I saw a bloody mouth—a German Shepherd dog was taking a big gulp and gasping for breath.

Two Soviet soldiers twisted me fiercely, one holding my chin with the muzzle of a gun and the other emptying my pocket. They tied my hands and escorted me out of the woods. Suddenly my blood was clotting – I remembered that map!

I walked around the cold cell that night, blaming myself for not destroying the map. For the Soviets it will be the ultimate proof that I am a spy.

Early the next morning, the guards took me into a small office. Behind the desk sat an officer in the uniform of a major. The red collar badge indicates he is a Soviet security policeman.

"Good morning, little spy!" He spoke in German and made a cold joke.

It was surprising to me that a Russian officer could speak such fluent standard German. The Colonel assumed that I had confessed and wanted me to turn myself in immediately.

"I'm not a spy!" I protest.

"I didn't ask about your profession, little spy, but how did you sleep?" Hmmm – you tried to cross the border 4 months ago and told me, what do you want to scout this time? ”

"Nothing, I just want to see my parents."

"So where do they live?"

"No comment."

"We'll figure it out." The colonel said.

He looked at my passport again. "So you were born in Fischton Herstro?"

He stared at me sharply for a moment, closed his passport, and picked up my map again.

"Well painted and nice! Roads, villages, our outposts, and even big factories, such a good picture, how much do Americans pay you? ”

I was silent, and I knew how feeble my explanation was.

"Well, little spy," he cried, "probably in Siberia you will talk!" Guards, take it down! ”

A cold sensation gripped me, Siberia, but in my cell, hunger and exhaustion struck me and I began to doze off. I fell into a deep sleep until the guards woke me up and brought me before the colonel again. He lit a cigarette and examined me from behind the smoke that was spewing out.

"We checked your passports, all of which were forged. Now that we know that you are indeed a spy, you'd better tell the truth. ”

"I have no reason to lie to you." I protested.

"We'll see. How long have you been in FischtenHurst, Little Spy? ”

"Before the age of 13."

"Great, tell us about FechtonHurst, just as we know about that village." He leaned back and closed his eyes.

I began to tell the story of our village, the old church in the lime trees; how our energetic boys brushed their horses by the river in the evening. I mentioned the village priest, the school teacher, and my maternal grandmother. Everyone loved her because she was of high moral character.

In the course of my story, the Colonel remained indifferent. When I stopped, he opened his eyes and asked, "So you should know about Magda Furst and Valtel Kaub, for example?" ”

I didn't understand what trick he was playing, there were no such two people in the village.

"Or the lord of the manor, Stoppel—Ignale Stoppel?" He went on.

"Yes, yes, I know this. Do you know him, Colonel? ”

"Shut up!" He roared, "I'm asking you questions, telling me about Ignale Stopel!" ”

"Well, the land in his estate is the most barren in FechtonHurst. He worked so hard that all the people sympathized with him. Mrs. Stapler worked in the fields every day, as did their son Joseph. The father drives his son as much day and night as he drives himself. Joseph ran away from home when he was 16. Legend has it that he went to Czechoslovakia, but no one is sure. I paused, remembering all our sympathy for Stoppel.

"Go ahead." Colonel Command.

"After his son disappeared, Ignale seemed to change as a person. He was hostile to the village and did not go to church or even to his wife. ”

"Why don't you let her go?" The Colonel asked.

"They said she was protecting the child, he was miserable about it, he didn't want her to talk to anyone else. Two years after her son's departure, Mrs. Stapler died, and her husband became more silent and miserable than before. ”

I paused again, "Do you want me to go on, Colonel?" ”

"Yes."

"One day, Staple was injured and admitted to the hospital, and his farm was sold to pay for medical expenses."

"In the spring he came back," I went on, "and my grandmother saw him wandering around his old estate and brought him to our house, and my grandmother gave him a room and we ate together. He rarely spoke, not even 'thank you'. But he did as much as he could, earning his food.

"To me he seemed very old, all white-haired and faltering. At first I was a little afraid of him. One day, I wanted to make a fishing rod and clumsily tinker with it for half a day. He took the fishing rod and handed it to me very skillfully, without a word from beginning to end, but the kindness drove away my fear. Since then, we have been filled with wordless friendships.

"After his death, my grandmother found his wife's prayer book under his mattress, which contained a note: Father, I am gone and will never come back, because you do not love me. Say hello to your mother and sign it below: Joseph. ”

"Now, do you believe I'm from Fechtenstein Herst?!" Finally I said. Small talk about an old man and his misfortune made me a little embarrassed and angry.

The colonel did not answer. "Bring it down!" He commanded dryly. When I turned to leave, he picked up the map again. I knew he wouldn't give me a chance to explain. Someone was sentenced to 10 years of hard labor for having little evidence of a crime. In fact, he didn't mention this picture to me at all, everything had been planned earlier, and I was disappointed and numb.

In the morning, the guards woke me up: "Pack up! ”

Yes, Siberia, cold Siberia!

But the guards said, "We'll take you to the west."

On the way to the border line, two soldiers sandwiched me in the middle and walked for about an hour. Along the way I was always ready to be taken back, it was a sinister ruse, I was sure. It wasn't until they gave me some paper and reminded me of the lines I was going to cross to go to West Germany, I believed half of it.

"You're so lucky." One of them said not without kindness.

When I looked at my passport I understood how right he was. A new stamp stands out: "Attempted second absconding." Signature: "Colonel Joseph Stapler." ”