Chapter 372 - 17: The Other Side of the Wall

Chapter 372: Chapter 17: The Other Side of the Wall

11:00 PM.

Werner passed through the checkpoint and set foot on West Berlin soil.

The streets were lined with West Berliners, waving flags, offering champagne, and embracing every East German who crossed the border.

"Welcome! Welcome!"

"You’re free!"

"Here, have a drink!"

A white-haired old man stopped Werner and handed him a bottle of champagne. The old man’s face was streaked with tears, his voice choked with emotion. "Welcome... welcome to West Berlin... I’ve waited for this day for twenty-eight years..."

Werner took the champagne, looked at the old man’s wrinkled face, and nodded. "Thank you."

The old man clapped him on the shoulder, then turned to embrace the next person to cross.

Werner continued onward, moving through the cheering crowd until he reached a relatively quiet street corner.

He opened the champagne, took a large gulp, then lit a cigarette and leaned against a wall, taking in the scene before him.

Countless East Germans were pouring through the checkpoint, and countless West Berliners were there to greet them. People were cheering, crying, hugging, and kissing. Some were singing, some were dancing, and some were kneeling on the ground in prayer.

In the distance, hundreds had already gathered at the Berlin Wall. They brandished hammers, chisels, and mallets, furiously smashing at the structure.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

Each strike sounded like a death knell, a farewell dirge for this wall, for this regime.

Chunks of concrete fell one after another, hitting the ground and crumbling into dust.

Werner finished his cigarette and walked toward the Berlin Wall.

At the wall, a young man in his twenties was hammering away. He was drenched in sweat, his clothes soaked through, but he kept striking with all his might.

"Need a hand?" Werner asked.

The young man turned, glanced at him, and then handed him the mallet. "Go for it."

Werner took the mallet, walked up to the wall, raised it high, and brought it down with force.

THUD!

A piece of concrete broke off.

He picked up the piece of concrete, turning it over and over in his hands. It was grayish-white, coarse, with sharp edges.

Werner put the chunk of concrete in his pocket and continued hammering the wall.

One swing, two swings, three swings.

With every strike, he felt the old world drifting further and further away.

1:00 AM.

Werner stopped, handed the mallet back to the young man, and turned to leave.

He walked back to the checkpoint and saw that the crowds were still pouring through. But now, no one was stopping them. The barrier was raised high, and the guards stood to the side—some smoking, some staring into space, some having taken off their uniforms.

Werner pushed through the crowd and walked back to the East Berlin side.

The streets were still buzzing with activity.

People were returning from West Berlin, clutching West German Marks, chocolate, and bananas, excitedly showing them off to friends and family. ℯℯ𝘭.

"Look! I got some West German Marks!"

"This chocolate is delicious!"

"They even gave me a bottle of champagne!"

Werner walked to his car, slid inside, and started the engine.

Outside the car window, fireworks bloomed in the night sky, illuminating all of East Berlin. The cheers, songs, and laughter merged into a symphony of revelry.

Werner watched it all, then took the piece of the wall from his pocket and placed it on the dashboard.

Then he started the engine and drove toward his apartment in East Berlin.

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

「Friday, November 10, 1989. 9:00 AM.」

Werner stood at the window on the seventh floor of Koko Headquarters, gazing down at the empty street below.

Or rather, not empty, but eerily quiet.

Normally at this hour, the street would be filled with commuters, the rumble of buses, and the sounds of shops opening. But now, there was nothing.

Only a few cars, packed with people, sped past, all heading toward West Berlin.

"They’ve all gone to collect their ’welcome money.’"

Werner turned and saw Moritz standing in the doorway.

No, it was the man who used to be Moritz—the deputy director of Koko’s finance department. Now, he looked like a defeated soldier just returned from the front. His suit was wrinkled, his tie was crooked, his face was unshaven, and his eyes were bloodshot.

"You haven’t left yet?" Werner asked, surprised.

"I left and came back." Moritz walked into the office with a wry smile and plopped down on the sofa. "Last night, I drove to Checkpoint Charlie and waited in line for two hours to finally get into West Berlin. On the West Berlin side, it was just people everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. I went to a bank to get that hundred-Mark ’welcome money.’"

"Did you get it?"

"I did." Moritz pulled a few crisp West German Mark banknotes from his pocket, fanned them out, and stared. "Do you know what this ’welcome money’ is, Werner? The West German Government gives every East German citizen one hundred West German Marks a year, just so us ’poor relations’ can afford a cup of coffee or a movie ticket when we visit West Berlin."

"One hundred Marks." Moritz gave another wry smile. "It might not be much to them, but for us... do you know this is more than half a month’s salary for an East German worker? And the way they hand it out—you just show your ID, they stamp it to prevent you from collecting it again, and that’s it. Simple as that. There were thousands of people lined up outside the bank yesterday, and the West Germans were just there, smiling and handing out cash, like... like it was charity."

Werner walked over to his desk and sat down without a word.

"Two months ago, going to West Berlin was a crime. And now? The train stations and highways are packed. Entire families are making a ’pilgrimage’ to the West with their hundred Marks. I went yesterday, too." Moritz paused. "I took the money, stood on a street in West Berlin, and walked into a supermarket. Werner, do you know what they have in there? Coffee. Oranges. All kinds of fruit I couldn’t even name. And the packaging—so colorful it was dazzling. The place was full of East Germans. Some were queueing at a fruit stand to buy bananas—can you imagine that? Queueing for bananas! It’s because we haven’t seen decent tropical fruit on our side for thirty years. Cuba only supplies the Soviet Union, and we get nothing from them. Even something as simple as a banana has become a luxury. There was an old woman at the fruit stand crying, clutching two bananas, saying it was the first time in all these years she’d had a fresh one."

"Others were buying jeans, chocolate, West German shampoo," Moritz’s voice grew hoarse. "We East Germans were everywhere, holding our hundred Marks, looking like... like country bumpkins in the big city in front of the West Germans. And you know what? What can you even buy over there for a hundred Marks? A bottle of Coke costs two Marks. Over here, that’s enough for several pounds of bread. Once that hundred Marks is spent, what are we supposed to buy things with? East German Marks? They won’t even look at them."

He pulled a few bananas from his pocket and placed them on the table. "Now, if you see someone on the street carrying these, you know they’ve just come back from the West. Bananas. They’ve become proof of our prosperous lives."