‘Tonight or never,’ the men helping me said. ‘Meet us in the alley. Eight-thirty’
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.
