A story by Bhakta
One bright morning, a turtle meets a scorpion on a riverbank.
“Please, I need your help,” says the scorpion. “I need to get to the other side of the river, and I can’t swim. Would you mind letting me hop on your back?”
The turtle thinks for a while before shaking his head. “No, I don’t trust you. You will certainly sting me while you’re on my back.”
“That’s stupid,” the scorpion replies. “Why the hell would I do that? If I sting you, you drown and so will I. We both would die.”
The turtle reluctantly agrees. “You’re right. It would indeed be stupid. Okay, hop on then. I’ll take you.”
The scorpion jumps on the turtle’s back and they start swimming. When they reach the middle of the river, the scorpion stings the turtle. Shocked, the turtle screams out, “Why would you do that? Now we will both drown!”
The scorpion replies calmly, “I can’t help myself. I’m a scorpion.”
“Show me your day ticket,” the East German customs officer, stationed at the border crossing Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin, screamed at me. No ‘please’, no ‘thank you’, just a command snapped in a threatening tone.
“What do you have to declare?” he continued after I showed him my ticket. He looked me up and down… and I wondered if he knew.
Stay cool! I thought, but I was a hothead, and diplomacy wasn’t my strong suit.
I was wearing two pairs of everything: jeans, T-shirts, socks, even underwear, and I sweated like a pig in a sauna. I was smuggling extra clothing for my friends living in East Berlin and craving Western goods. I just hoped the officer wouldn’t notice my shaking hands. About to enter into a world where every step was tracked, I knew what was at stake.
“Nothing, sir. I’m visiting the Staatsoper in ‘Unter den Linden’,” I replied, trying to suck up to him. The Opera House in the center of East Berlin was the official pride and joy of this forsaken country, known for high-quality performances with classical ballet dancers imported from Russia.
“I’m going to see Swan Lake for the first time. Have you ever seen it?” I watched him sharply, hoping I hadn’t laid it on too thick. He royally ignored my attempt at conversation and growlingly let me pass.
I was triumphant at having cheated him, once again. I felt like Anna Pavlova risking my life for just one dance. But to be honest, I only managed to breathe again once I was safely out of his sight.
Autumn 1976, West Berlin: a city firmly surrounded by a wall, the infamous Berlin Wall. Strictly separated from West Germany, the town felt like an island. It was a peculiar place in this strange time of the Cold War, blessed with contradictions, and a weird sensation of freedom, secured by imprisonment. We had a saying then: it’s impossible to get lost in the city, you’ll always end up at the Wall!
I loved living in this city, but it was a challenge to get out. Crossing the inner borders from West to East Germany felt like walking into a gloomy nightmare full of zealots of totalitarianism.
Checkpoint Charlie, the border we had to cross to visit our friends locked away in the dilapidated, ugly part of the city, wasn’t the only border we had to deal with. To get to our families living in the “free” Germany, we had to travel several hours through East Germany. The shortest way by car was the border crossing towards Helmstedt, the closest town in West Germany, on the so-called Highway 2, a heavily-damaged 2-lane road. It was an arduous trip through thick fog and heavy traffic into a dark gray world of barely-concealed resentment.
We were always apprehensive that the border crossing would be a nightmarish experience, starting with the spectacle of the customs control point at Marienborn in the middle of the night. The whole area was lit up like a Christmas tree, with hundreds of strong neon lights illuminating the one-square-mile of no-man’s land. Guards with vicious-looking dogs patrolled a piece of land as barren as the moon. Barbed wire, trenches and tunnels marked the Death Zone, a flat stretch of land surrounded by walls and littered with landmines.
The guards never took a break, not for a smoke or even a piss, making us wonder if they were human. Their dogs looked ferocious, snarling and barking at the slightest movement. No matter how many times we faced this depressing evidence of a socialist government, it always scared the crap out of us.
On this particular trip, my three friends and I shared our rather beat-up VW beetle, the West German excuse for a car for poor people. It was an upgrade from the ridiculous East German Trabant, nicknamed “Trabbie”, but not by much. Sharing the car with four adults presented a challenge for personal space, but we lived on state subsidies for education which didn’t give us much of a choice.
Having passed the West German border control at Marienborn without any problems, we were suddenly stopped by an East German customs officer. He held up his hands, palms first, without uttering a word. Apparently, we were expected to read his mind. I urgently wanted to flip him off, but one look was enough to make me shake in my boots. As the driver, I handed over the documents needed to drive through a country suffering not only under a socialist regime, but also from the German zeal for deadly perfection.
“One after the other!” The customs officer shouted, throwing our neatly stacked passports at our faces. He was as friendly as his colleagues at Checkpoint Charlie.
If looks could kill, we would be dead already, I thought, but complied, handing over our papers one by one.
He painstakingly scrutinized each of our passport photos, repeatedly comparing them with our faces. It took forever. We knew better than to cut our hair or grow a beard in case the passport picture would no longer match our faces to a tee. We knew that a stray hair or a missing tooth would jeopardize our freedom, branding us as criminals, or worse, capitalist spies.
Every single page of our documents underwent a thorough inspection. He rubbed the pages to feel their thickness, held them up against the light to check the watermarks; he scrutinized every stamp, making us regret ever having traveled out of the country. During the process, no smile or human expression crossed his face – a robot he was, with brainwashed determination. And although I was certain that our papers were in order, I couldn’t ignore the nagging worry of what he might find. After the endless time this drama had taken, he seemed satisfied, in the broadest sense of the word. He put each passport in a separate plastic bag, sealed the envelopes and placed them one by one on a rolling carpet that was moving into a narrow glass tunnel.
The tension in our little car was palpable, and sweat was rushing from my armpits like a geyser. Theoretically, we knew that the process was designed to scare us – and, thanks to the impeccable execution, it had worked. As I watched my sealed passport slowly slide down the glass tunnel towards an uncertain future, I felt myself being sucked into doom like a fly into a spider’s mouth.
The border guards with their menacingly growling dogs stepped aside to let us pass. At snail’s pace, we drove to the next checkpoint, not losing sight of our passports traveling alongside us in the glass tunnel. We stopped at the lowered striped border gate, where we waited for the police to check the paperwork and write our names into their thick journals for the umpteenth time.
During the whole process, we stayed quiet like mice hunted by a master cat. We sat in the dark, in the car. There was no sound in here of words or music, only the stench of existential dread… fed by the apprehension that anything could be done to us without anyone ever knowing. What if a page in one of our passports was damaged, indicating forgery? What if they confused us with real criminals? Or what if they just felt the need to harass someone? We had heard so many horror stories about the Stasi, the East German secret police, that it was easy to imagine our trip ending behind locked doors, or worse.
Finally, our papers were cleared by the police and handed to another customs officer. He was standing so close to the car that I had to crane my head to see his face.
“What is your destination and purpose of visit?” he bellowed at someone seemingly floating above the roof of our little beetle.
“We are going to visit our parents in Hamburg,” I answered quickly before adding, “I mean Hamburg, West Germany.”
Fuck, did I offend him by suggesting he didn’t know geography? I had to admit that I sounded like a typical “Besserwessie”, the nickname given to us West Berliners, indicating our arrogant and know-it-all attitude.
He stared at me coldly, not batting an eyebrow. I could see my friend in the passenger seat beside me mouthing, “Stop it!” which reminded me of the numerous warnings my friends had given to me before the trip: “Keep your big mouth shut! Don’t make any of your usual stupid comments or jokes!” my friends had warned me sternly, because they knew I was a notorious prankster who often put her foot in her mouth. They usually enjoyed that side of me, but on this trip my behavior could prove dangerous!
“Anything you say can be interpreted by them as a threat. And they are not playing around; they take this stuff very seriously. So, keep your mouth shut until we’re through the checkpoints, otherwise you’ll drag us into a mess.”
“No need to tell me, I’m not stupid!” I had become annoyed. “I know that the Stasi guys don’t have any sense of humor. Me too, I want to get through the controls as quickly as possible.” I shook my head, feeling falsely accused… a judgment I later came to revise.
“Do you have anything to declare?” The ominous voice of the customs officer brought me back to the present.
This was a loaded question because it was never really clear what was considered declarable, and new items were constantly added to the list without warning. A variety of prohibited objects were predictable, such as Western magazines and newspapers, audio recordings, films, radios and medicines. But the things that could be added to the list arbitrarily, such as eel and asparagus, made us nervous.
I looked at the customs officer for clues, in vain. He was older than the first one, I guessed around 45. He wore the standard military haircut, the poorly-tailored uniform and the compulsory broom stuck up his butt. His right hand, every other second, twitched dangerously close to his gun belt – I hoped it was just a nervous tic.
“No, nothing to declare.” I stared straight ahead, not letting my nervousness interfere. I started to feel like an MI6 agent: It’s Bond, James Bond.
“How much money do you carry with you?” he continued. I exhaled with relief, knowing what to answer.
“Not more than 200 Deutschmarks. It’s only a short t…”
“How long is your visit and when will you be traveling back?” He interrupted me without consideration, like a dog barking at an unwanted intruder.
“We’re only going for the weekend; we’ll be back by Monday,” I answered, staring straight ahead, my voice metallic, resembling his. I was getting annoyed with his obnoxious behavior and didn’t care if it showed.
“If you are allowed to enter the transfer zone, you must stay on the highway during the whole trip. You may not exit at any time for any reason.”
His voice sounded like a frog croaking in a metal can. I imagined him squalling endearments during lovemaking in that same voice, and a small giggle escaped my clenched lips. Anxiously trying to disguise my laughter with a cough, I looked up at him. He was not amused. I felt a sharp pain in my leg from my friend pinching.
“You want to say something?” the officer demanded, his face clouding over like a winter-night storm.
I just shook my head, trying to appear humble. I felt my friends’ gazes stabbing me in the back. If the customs officer wasn’t going to kill me, they might! I felt like laughing again, until I realized it was pure nervousness. When the man finally resumed his speech, I could hear my friends exhale.
“You are strictly forbidden to stop along the road for any reason unless there is an emergency, which you have to announce to the highway patrol immediately. You must not stop the car to get out or talk to anybody for any reason. It is strictly forbidden and punishable by law to give a ride to anyone during the transfer. If you see something suspicious on the road, you must report it immediately.”
He rattled out the instructions without taking a breath, an ice-cold fish breathing through gills.
“You must keep the doors locked during the whole time you’re in the transfer zone. You must not open the windows more than 2 centimeters. Should you see the highway patrol waving you down, you must stop immediately on the side of the road. You must give the highway patrol access to your car if so required. Not abiding by any of these rules will lead to immediate arrest.
“Do you understand?” Completing the litany of instructions, he pointed his flashlight straight into our faces, blinding us.
“Yes,” we answered unanimously. “We do understand.”
Insult after insult raced through my brain and I wanted to shout: You dumb fuckface, we’re not as brain-dead as you. What an absolute bastard!
It was demeaning to be treated like a child, but I had promised to behave. I clenched my teeth and bit my tongue until it hurt. Sweat was running down my forehead, and I hoped the officer wouldn’t take it as an admission of guilt (since obviously there had to be something I was guilty of).
But my efforts at self-control didn’t fool him… he probably could smell the stink of desperation.
“All of you, step out of the car. We will search the vehicle for undeclared items.” It sounded as if this was routine procedure.
My armor started to crack.
Who does he think he is? We do have rights here. We’re Germans for fuck’s sake, actually WE are the real Germans!
After the long wait to be processed, the lengthy interrogation and the ridiculous instructions added hours to our already long drive. I was seriously fed up. Dying to answer back to his provocation, I bit my tongue so hard I drew blood.
Reluctantly we stepped out of the car to wait in the indicated area. It was a chilly November night and a cold winter rain started to drizzle down.
“Sure, why should they put a shelter in the waiting area? For Pete’s sake, what a ghastly, insufferable country…” I muttered under my breath. I felt the rain run down my neck, my clothes getting wet. I started to shiver, hanging on to my anger for warmth.
Our oh-so-friendly officer opened the trunk, which in the Beetle is in front, and took out our personal items. He searched our small backpacks and then opened the doors and looked under the seats. Well-equipped for the dreary weather, he took his sweet time. Meanwhile, we were slowly being drenched to the skin like rats in a bath.
Finally, with a nasty smirk on his face, he ordered us to get back into the car.
He then turned around to look at me with his index finger raised. “Missy, you better watch out and show respect to German authority. But I’m not surprised that in your capitalist state they won’t teach good manners.”
Was he serious? Show respect? Good manners? He is flaunting his power under the most ridiculous pretext while we’re catching our death! I thought. The provocation was now too delicious to resist.
Tongue-in-cheek I replied, “Maybe you should check under the car to find the two fugitives trying to escape from this inane excuse for a country.”
I waited for the harsh reply I knew my joke would trigger. But to my big surprise, he looked at me and smiled. For a moment I wondered if I had stumbled across the only customs officer with a sense of humor, until he answered in his sharpest tone yet.
“Arrest these people immediately!” With a malicious grin smeared over his face, he ordered the guards while pointing at us. He winked at me and I realized I had just made his day.
In a rush, several patrol guards came at us with guns drawn and dogs barking. They cuffed our hands behind our backs and pulled us roughly by the arms towards a building on the other side of the border control area.
“You can’t do this! This is bulls…” My mouth dropped; I was speechless.
Before being shoved into the building, I could make out the bars on the windows; it was a prison hold. The four of us were pushed into a small cell, about 10×10 feet, with rough concrete walls, a dirty floor and nothing but a small bucket in one corner. The awful stench of panic, loose bowels and dark threats, lodged itself firmly into my nostrils.
With a loud bang the cell door closed behind us, shutting out any hope for light and life. I fell on my knees, trembling. We are too young to die! I wanted to scream, but my throat was locked as tight as our prison cell.
“Who do they think they are? What are they going to do to us …” I started to stammer when my friend put his hand over my mouth.
“Shut up, you idiot,” he whispered in my ear. “The cells are certainly bugged. They listen to everything we say.” He checked that I understood before letting me go. He pointed his head to the cell door, whispering, “Keep it cool, okay?” I nodded in agreement.
Through the barred window, which was directly facing the border control area, we watched the customs officer empty our rucksacks and throw our clothes unceremoniously onto the wet, dirty ground. A guard in heavy boots stepped onto our stuff and his dog took a sniff before lifting a leg to pee on the heap. I had to grip the bars to keep from slipping down to the ground.
The border guards began to systematically dismantle our poor car, now abandoned to the enemy, into literally a thousand pieces. They took out the floor carpets and unhooked the doors. One officer ripped off the door panels without caring whether he damaged them or not. They took out the head- and arm-rests, unscrewed the mirrors and unhooked the hood and bonnet. They jacked up the vehicle, took off the tires and left it standing on its metal rods, forlorn.
Watching the massacre from our small prison cell, we were stunned into silence by such senseless destruction. The ferocity in the faces of the officers and the great satisfaction they took in destroying Western goods made the bitter bile of fear rise within me.
If they can do such damage to our car, what might they do to us? If only I had kept my mouth shut, we would probably already be home with our parents.
My face burned from fear and shame. I started to whimper like a wounded animal, my false bravado swallowed up by the prison cell. Not caring about my jeans, I sank to the dirty floor; I could no longer watch the scene. I searched the faces of my friends – there was just fear staring back at me. I wanted to apologize, but I knew I could never make it up to them. I had brought such havoc on us by being selfish, carelessly giving in to the provocation and not considering the consequences.
“I’m so sorry. It’s my fault, I’ve let you all down,” I said miserably between sobs.
Then I felt a hand touch my arm. “Ah, it’s true, you’re an asshole sometimes.”
My friend lifted my chin so that I could see the grin on his face. “We already guessed that you couldn’t hold your tongue. And it was a good joke after all!” Squeezing my shoulder, he spoke so quietly I hardly could hear him say, “We’re in this together, and we’ll be getting out of this.”
Relief rushed through my body at his gentleness. I knew I hadn’t earned such good friends, but it felt good to be met with love and humor in this awful situation. It restored my belief in humanity.
I don’t remember how long it took them to search the car, but they were thorough, demonstrating once again flawless German efficiency. We spent a sleepless night in the prison cell, sitting on the hard, cold floor.
When they released us the next morning, we found that they had neatly piled up the disassembled pieces of the car, door by door, tire by tire, screw by screw. If we hadn’t been so dejected, we would have marveled at such perfectly organized destruction.
Needless to say, we didn’t get to visit our parents this time. It took the rest of the day for the mechanic (whom we had to pay, of course) to put the car back together. We hadn’t had any water nor eaten anything for nearly 24 hours. Never in my life had I felt more relieved than the moment we finally turned our backs on the border.
The taste of that filthy prison cell stayed with me for a long time. Although my friends never blamed it on me, I knew that I had ruined more than just the weekend. I had put us all in danger by giving in to my inner scorpion’s urge to sting, killing more than just a turtle.
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