Puzzle People (9781613280126) by Doug Peterson Page B

communist bureaucrat, had announced out of the blue to a room packed with international journalists that travel restrictions for East Germans would be lifted.

    For a moment, the journalists were stunned. Then an Italian journalist started firing questions, not even waiting to be recognized. “Would travel from East to West require a passport?”
    “Well . . . yes,” Schabowski said, a little confused.
    The questions kept coming.
    “Would the Berlin crossings be included?”
    A pause. “Yes.”
    “When does it come into effect?”
    Schabowski shuffled through his stack of papers, the perfect picture of bureaucratic bafflement. He was a large, fleshy man with heavy circles under his eyes and the beginnings of a double chin, and he wore a rumpled suit coat, with his tie askew.
    “Well, as far as I can see . . .” More shuffling of papers. Then he spoke two words, which detonated in the room like a bomb: “Sofort. Unverzüglich.” Immediately. Without delay.

    The border between East and West Berlin would open after being closed for twenty-eight years? It would open immediately?
    People kept coming, moving toward the border crossing, mostly on foot. Stefan was on foot because, like most East Germans, he didn’t own a car. He had been on the waiting list for a Trabant 601 for seven years now, but most people had to wait more than ten years for one of these machines. He still had a long way to go.
    Stefan passed a boxy white car, where a middle-aged East Berlin officer—a member of the Volkspolizei—sat in the passenger seat with the door open and his leg sticking out, as if he was afraid to completely emerge and face the People. A crowd stood by, staring, impassive. His car’s microphone crackled and popped.
    “This is an announcement about the possibility of travel to West Berlin and West Germany,” the Vopo in a pea green coat announced in a voice depersonalized by the cheap electronics. He adjusted his large square-rimmed glasses. “Dear citizens, I ask you in the name of order and safety to leave the checkpoint.”
    Stefan looked at the faces surrounding him. Not one of the “dear citizens” budged in response to the policeman’s plea. But the officer continued to operate under the assumption that he would be able to send the People home with a few choice words. He paused for a blast of feedback. Even the electronics were not obeying his authority on this night. “It is not possible to grant you permission to travel here and now!” he shouted.
    Still, no one budged. The People just stared back at the People’s Policeman as if he was speaking another language. Stefan moved through the crowd, which was hemmed in by a shoulder-height fence that funneled everyone toward the narrow opening; however, border guards were not letting anyone through. He fought his way closer to the front, where tensions were higher and the crowd was louder. It was a hornet’s nest of angry young men.
    “The border guards say it’s not true,” a bearded middle-aged man said. “They’re not letting anyone across the border.”
    “But the government announced it on TV!” Stefan insisted.
    “The border guards claim they know nothing about that.”
    Was the announcement of the opening of the border all a mistake? If it was, it seemed oddly fitting that bureaucratic bumbling would trigger what was happening this night.
    “They’re jerking us around! Same as always!” shouted a man in a blue denim coat. “I could have stayed home and slept! This is total bull!”
    Other young men chimed in, a chorus of pent-up frustration.
    “This is a joke!”
    “All we want is to have a walk for two hours and then come back!” declared another, taking a long drag on his cigarette.
    All they wanted was a walk in West Berlin for two hours? This was no small wish, Stefan thought. For almost three decades, East Germans had been dreaming about the freedom to do just that. But they had been prevented from doing so by a wall that weaved its