Chapter 370 - 15: The Roar of Alexanderplatz

Chapter 370: Chapter 15: The Roar of Alexanderplatz

October 28th, Saturday, 10:00 AM.

Alexanderplatz, East Berlin. In front of a state-run store.

The line stretched from the store’s entrance all the way to the street corner, with at least two hundred people.

"Did you hear? There was another protest in Leipzig yesterday."

"I heard. Tens of thousands of people."

"The government didn’t dare to make a move this time."

"They wouldn’t dare! Whoever makes a move now will become a public enemy."

"I don’t think that coward Krenz will last much longer."

"Shh, quiet down. Someone might hear you."

"Mom, do we really have to wait in line this long?" a little boy asked, tugging on his mother’s hand.

"We wait! We have to!" his mother said. "If we don’t buy now, we won’t be able to buy anything later."

"Why?"

"Because..." The mother glanced around and lowered her voice. "Because the East German Mark is about to be worthless."

Werner walked to the street corner, lit a cigarette, and watched the dense crowd in front of the state-run store.

It was the apocalyptic feeling of an economic collapse.

When people frantically exchanged their currency for physical goods, when store shelves grew emptier by the day, when the Black Market exchange rate plummeted from 1:5 to 1:20—it meant the country’s economy had entered its final countdown to death.

***************

November 1st, Wednesday, 2:00 PM.

Werner pushed open the doors on the seventh floor of Koko Headquarters. The hallway was as silent as a graveyard.

Usually at this time, people would be walking through the halls, phones would be ringing in offices, and arguments would be echoing from conference rooms. But now, there was nothing.

He walked to his office and found the door ajar. Pushing it open, he saw an unfamiliar middle-aged man rummaging through his filing cabinet.

"Who are you?" Werner asked.

The middle-aged man jumped, whirling around with a pale face. "I... I’m from the finance department..."

"What’s someone from finance doing in my office?"

"I..." The man stammered. "I was just... just checking to see if there were any missing reports..."

Werner stepped into the office, closed the door, and leaned against it, watching him. "The truth."

The middle-aged man gritted his teeth and pulled a stack of documents from his coat. "These are my business records. I want to take them with me."

"Take them? Where to?"

"West Berlin," the man whispered. "I’m leaving tonight."

Werner looked at him, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smile. "You think the West Germans will let you off the hook just because you bring them these documents?"

"I... I heard that if you confess voluntarily, you can get a reduced sentence..."

"A reduced sentence?" Werner laughed. "What do you think this is? Stealing a loaf of bread? This is smuggling, embezzlement. Taking these documents to West Berlin is like putting a noose around your own neck."

The man’s face grew even paler. "Then... then what should I do?"

"Burn them," Werner said. "Burn them to ashes, leave nothing behind. Then stay put in East Berlin and wait to see how things play out."

"But what if they investigate me—"

"Without evidence, they can’t touch you. Those who stay behind can survive, as long as they can wash themselves clean."

The middle-aged man stared at Werner for a long moment before speaking. "You... you’re really not planning to run?"

"No," Werner said. "I’m staying here to watch this country die."

The middle-aged man took a deep breath and hurried out of the office.

*************

November 4th, Saturday, 1:00 PM.

Werner stood on the second floor of a cafe at the edge of Alexanderplatz, holding a cup of espresso and gazing at the sea of people below.

One million people.

It was the largest demonstration in the history of East Germany. The entire Alexanderplatz was packed shoulder to shoulder, stretching from the TV Tower to the City Hall, a dense, endless mass of humanity.

Banners, flags, and signs fluttered above the crowd.

"We are the people!"

"We want freedom!"

"Freedom of speech! Freedom of the press!"

The chanting roared like thunder, making the windowpanes tremble.

A temporary stage had been set up in the center of the square, where several actors and writers were giving speeches. Werner couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see the crowd’s reaction—some were clapping, some cheering, some weeping.

"Unprecedented."

Werner turned his head and saw a middle-aged man sitting in the chair next to him.

"Indeed," Werner said.

"Aren’t you afraid?" the middle-aged man asked in a low voice. "I mean, at an event like this... if something were to happen..."

"What’s going to happen?" Werner retorted. "Do you see any police?"

The man looked out the window. There were indeed police at the edge of the square, but they were just standing there, taking no action. Some had even taken off their uniform jackets, revealing the white shirts underneath.

"They don’t dare make a move," Werner said. "You can’t fight a million people."

"Then... what about the Stasi?"

"The Stasi don’t dare either." Werner took a sip of his coffee. "If they dared to open fire here, all of East Berlin would explode."

The middle-aged man fell silent, continuing to stare at the crowd outside.

On stage, a young playwright walked up to the microphone. He wore a worn-out denim jacket and his hair was a mess, but his eyes shone with a fiery light.

"Comrades!" His voice boomed across the entire square through the loudspeakers. "We are here not to overthrow the government, not to create chaos, but to make this country better!"

The crowd below erupted in fervent applause.

"For thirty years! Thirty years! We were told that East Germany is paradise and the West is hell! But now, our own countrymen are climbing the wall to escape to hell! Why? Because paradise is a lie!"

The applause grew louder, mixed with whistles and cheers.

"We want freedom of speech! We want freedom of the press! We want free elections! We want—"

Before he could finish, a middle-aged man in a suit rushed onto the stage and snatched the microphone.

"You’re dreaming!" the man shouted. "You think the West is some kind of paradise? It’s capitalism! It’s exploitation! It’s oppression!"

A chorus of boos rose from the crowd below.

"Get off the stage!"

"You liar!"

"We’ve had enough!"

The boos washed over him like a tidal wave. The man’s face turned ashen as several organizers pulled him off the stage.

The young playwright took back the microphone. "Comrades, this is what we have to change! These clichés, this self-deception, this insult to the intelligence of the people!"

The crowd below erupted in a deafening cheer.

Werner watched this scene, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"What are you smiling at?" the middle-aged man asked.

"I’m smiling because this regime has completely lost the hearts of the people," Werner said. "Look at them. They’re no longer afraid of the government."

The middle-aged man said nothing, just kept staring at the crowd outside the window.

Werner stood up, walked to the window, and looked closely at the sea of people below.

He saw an old woman holding a sign that read: "Let my grandson come home."

He saw a middle-aged man with a little girl on his shoulders; the girl was waving a black, red, and gold flag.

He saw a group of young people, arms linked, chanting in unison: "We are one people!"

No longer "We are the people," but "We are one people."

This meant the flames of unification for the Two Germanys had been lit, and they could no longer be suppressed.

Werner turned away from the cafe, walked down the stairs, and pushed his way into the crowd.

The tide of people carried him forward, surrounded by countless excited faces. Some were singing, some dancing, some embracing, some weeping.

"Sir, would you like a flyer?" a young girl asked, handing him a piece of paper.

Werner took it and glanced at it. It read: "Freedom is not a gift, but a right."

He folded the flyer, put it in his pocket, and continued walking.

At the edge of the square, a Stasi informant was covertly taking pictures with a camera. But his hands were trembling so much the camera nearly fell to the ground.

Werner walked up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder. "Stop taking pictures. It’s useless."

The informant jumped, turning around with a pale face. "Who... who are you?"

"An observer," Werner said. "Here’s a piece of advice. Go back and tell your superior that it doesn’t matter whether you take pictures of this demonstration or not. Because this country is beyond saving."

The informant stared at Werner for a long moment before putting away his camera and hurrying off.

Werner stood in place, watching him disappear into the crowd, then turned and left the square.

The roar of a million people heralded the end of an era.