With all the fuss about “Kathi,” I completely forgot to reply to my stepfather’s unique letter (see Tuesday, March 27):

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Dear Dad! I was pleasantly surprised to receive your letter... I don’t know if my lawyer is in contact with you... You could ask him yourself: Dr. jur. h.c. Wolfgang Vogel (also licensed to practice in West Berlin)... After consulting my lawyer, I submitted a new application to leave the country. There were a few things to correct... I gave the record player to a friend for safety reasons... And as Mom so beautifully wrote, I will patiently eat the soup I’ve cooked for myself.

No matter what I write, the main thing is that the message—this one lawyer (see Tuesday, February 2), renewed exit application, and that I will see this through—gets across.

“Blaschi” interrupts my thoughts by asking if I’ve ever heard of the “crossword puzzle murder.” Yes, there was something like that.

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A “five-letter baking mix” is annoying ‘Blaschi’ again. I usually have an answer. But this time, I really can’t think of anything. “You. Must. Know!”, he presses.

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“Kathi,” he grumbles disappointedly. Why should I know that when the last thing I baked was sand cake in the sandbox, I grumble indignantly. Because the stuff comes from Halle! So what?

So what! “Kathi” was a family business founded in the 1950s by Kaethe and Kurt Thiele. The company was so successful with its soups, sauces, and flours that the state gradually took it over.

In 1972, the owners were brutally expropriated. The founder is said to have suffered sudden hearing loss. Allegedly, he or his son works as a gatekeeper in his own company and hopes for the end of the GDR.

Blaschi considers this to be a rumor. But the expropriated owners will probably do some kind of meaningless job—most likely at the “Volkseigener Betrieb” (state-owned enterprise) VEB Backmehlwerk Halle, which now owns Kathi.

Thiele was smart enough to patent the trademark rights, which is why the baking mix is still called “Kathi” today and the logo can still be seen on the packaging, which is found in every grocery store, department store, and kitchen.

That’s what I really like about “Assi Blaschi” (see Sunday, March 18). He knows about things I’ve never heard of. The story touches him so deeply because he lost his own craft in a similar way.

As a traveling scissors grinder, he traveled around a lot, talked to countless people in small towns and large villages, and was served coffee by lonely widows while he sharpened their kitchen knives, scissors, and who knows what ever.

One year, the damn bigwigs came and sent him to “production,” where he had to do menial work that was undignified. I wouldn’t understand that until I learned what self-employment really means.

Whether I know what the hammer, compass, and wheat sheaf on the GDR flag mean he ends his sour lecture. Yes, I do:

Our past was black until the Reds came and promised us golden times. Now we have to circulate so we don’t get hammered and lose our honor.

“Blaschi” is speechless and retreats defeated to his crossword puzzle, while I retaliate with a song by Wenke Myhre for his really interesting smart-aleck remarks

“Er hat ein’ KNALL-rotes Gummiboot (He has a CRAZY red rubber raft) / Mit diesem Gummiboot fahr’n wir hinaus (With this rubber raft we sail away) / Er hat ein knallrotes Gummiboot (He has a bright red rubber raft) / Und erst im Abendrot (And only in the evening glow)...”

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In my thoughts, I congratulate Marion on her birthday, who turns 18 today. No one needs to know that I like her (see Tuesday, February 28).

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Just like Manfred Krug, with whom it all began. And Armin Müller-Stahl. And Nina Hagen. And all the other artists who have taken a stand.

Manfred Krug could have been a good father, like my biological father (see Friday, March 2). Then maybe everything would have turned out differently.

Instead, he chose Wolf Biermann and turned his back on “Unserer Heimat (Our Homeland)” with the utmost credibility.

Of all people, it was the rebellious communist Wolf Biermann—our “Robert Zimmerman” under Christa Wolf’s “Geteiltem Himmel (divided sky)“—who, with his cinematic expatriation, triggered something that the bigwigs will longer regret.

After they refused to let him return home in November 1976, there was a barrage of public protests with significant consequences.

That was followed by the summer when Kathrin and I crossed paths (see Friday, January 13).

Even though we had no idea in 1977 what was really going on, one thing was clear: when popular artists, credible actors, and decent ordinary people leave the country in droves, then “something is rotten in the state of Denmark“.

There are said to be people who would have liked to hear what Biermann actually sings, so forbidden were his songs.

His expatriation gave rise to an underground movement that heralded the beginning of the end of the GDR. But waiting for that takes too long for me.

Suddenly, the door opens. The little sergeant Schäfer looks into the cell. A letter for me. This time, it’s not my mother’s handwriting. But from “Dad.” I didn’t expect that.

“Dear Thomas!” he writes, no, he wrote on March 13. That was the day after my trial – 14 days ago! That’s how long it took the censors to scrutinize his text. It could be a trap.

Reading it brings tears to my eyes. If only this man (see Tuesday, February 14) had spoken to me like this just once in my life, as he writes to me for the first time in my life.

As if what I’m in prison for is the most normal thing in the world. He visited “Mama (Grandma)” – and “the relatives” – who “all send their regards.”

This is no proof that he actually informed Wuppertal (see Monday, February 20). For me, however, it is a clear indication of–how clear harmless words in prison only can be.

This has increased my chances to 60 percent (see Wednesday, March 7). Now it’s up to Karin (see Thursday, March 8).

In my mind’s eye, I hear Nina Hagen’s “African Reggae”:

“Es riecht so gut (It smells so good) / Pass auf, dass Du nicht geschnappt wirst (Take care not to get caught / (Die sind nämlich hinter Dir her (They’re after you) / Du alter Kiffer (You old pothead).”

Then I try to remember Biermann’s “Ballad of the Prussian Icarus.”

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My twelfth weekend in jail. Another 27 ahead of me if I have to serve the full sentence. In eight weeks, I’ll be halfway there. It will be at least another 14 before I can expect deportation or ransom.

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My new “subtenant” is much smarter than I imagined a real “anti-social” person to be. The few I know loiter around supermarkets stores on weekdays and are dead drunk by late morning.

“Assi Blaschi” acts paternal. But just like my stepfather, he comes across like a schoolmaster. Unlike “Dad,” at least he doesn’t try to take me for a fool. Still, his old-fashioned wisdom gets on my nerves.

Because I don’t like what he knows. For example, that the “Asozialenparagraf (anti-social clause)” 249 is one of the most malicious rubber clauses the republic has ever seen.

Anything that doesn’t quite fit into political pigeonhole such as “Ungesetzliche Sammlung von Nachrichten (illegal collection of information)” (§ 98), “Staatsfeindliche Hetze (subversive agitation)” (§ 106), “Ungesetzlicher Grenzübertritt (illegal border crossing)” (§ 213), “Ungesetzliche Verbindungsaufnahme (Illegal establishment of connections)” (§ 219) or “Öffentliche Herabwürdigung (Public denigration)” (§ 220) can, in case of doubt, be punished as “Gefährdung der öffentlichen Ordnung durch asoziales Verhalten (endangering public order through antisocial behavior)” (§ 249).

The really perverse thing about this is that the label “Assi (lowbrow)” sticks with you for life. Whether you’re a homeless vagrant, a drunken slacker, or an abnormal deviant, “anti-social” sounds ugly in any case.

From that point of view, I have been very lucky to have been politically ennobled – just as I had planned (see Wednesday, March 7). I will hardly have to justify myself in the West for “attempted illegal border crossing,” aka “escape from the republic.”

However, the wind can change at any time. For example, if they let me out in October as normal and force me to do some dirty work that will destroy me. It mustn’t come to that.

That’s why I wrote to my parents yesterday to tell them that I had been sentenced to nine months’ imprisonment on March 12. I took the opportunity to renew my third or fourth “application for permanent departure from the GDR.”

This time without political prose as in my earlier letters to the Stasi, but with reference to the Helsinki Final Act on my freedom of travel. Just as my lawyer whispered to me before the trial.

In a week, it will be Sunday again. Then there will only be 26 weeks until the bitter end and seven until halftime. And with a little luck, only 13 until great freedom.

In any case, there will still be many opportunities to quietly hum “Sonntag (Sunday)” by Manfred Krug:

“Sonntag – häng deinen Mantel in den Spind (hang your coat in the locker) / Sonntag – der Wind ist heute wärmer (the wind is warmer today) / Alle Blumen blühen (All the flowers are blooming) und der Frühling ist da (and spring is here)...”

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Woke up tonight with my heart racing. “Blaschi,” my new cellmate in the bunk beneath me, is still sleaping soundly. Dreamed about skiing in the Giant Mountains.

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For a while, my parents took me to Benecko in the Krkonoše Mountains during the winter holidays. I can still remember the first time I saw a lot of snow in my life.

The roadsides were white walls that reached above the car roof. Some curves were so steep that we slid backwards in the Lada and ended up in meter-high snowdrifts in front of the precipice. Without snow chains, we had to take long detours to reach our destination.

It was fantastic there. Several slopes with T-bar lifts. Everything from beginner slopes to mogul slopes. After just one week on wooden boards with antique rope bindings, I had mastered it until the wood broke.

“Dad” bought new equipment for himself and I inherited his boots, including skis with safety bindings, steel edges, and stabilizers on the tips. Wearing tinted “Uvex” goggles, I hurtled down all the slopes and jumped many meters without restraint.

The three of us stayed in a small room with a sink in a private guesthouse that was completely snowed in. The toilet was in the hallway.

We ate in the restaurant in the evening, where they served delicious “Knedlík” dishes. In the morning, plenty of Czech croissants dipped in hot milk had to last the whole day.

When my little brother was born and things got uncomfortable, I even got my own little room the size of a cot.

There was just enough room for a bedside table and a stool. It also had a window overlooking the slopes. For me, it was paradise on earth.

Then it was over. At 13 or 14, I was no longer allowed to go because I had done something wrong. The bitter truth is that I was too big and it was too cramped in the Lada.

That really hurt. I missed that annual week in February so much that I seriously practiced my ski turns in the elevator at home.

As soon as the cabin descended from the 12th floor, I straddled my feet on the baseboards. This caused the floor to give way and I was able to slide open the inner elevator door during the ride.

I used my fingers to ski down the gray concrete wall in the elevator shaft and jumped over the doors on the ninth, sixth, and third floors, which were ski jumps in my imagination.

Shortly before reaching the ground floor, I closed the elevator door and stepped off the edges. Then reality had me firmly in its grip again. I haven’t had that much fun in years.

As soon as I make it to the West, I’ll take the next best opportunity to go to the Alps. There are supposed to be ski resorts there with guaranteed snow even in summer (see Monday, February 27).

If only I could get some indication that my parents have informed Wuppertal. Then I could sleep more peacefully and dream of winter sports with less anxiety.

Once Upon a Time in Germany, A Prequel to 1984, The 18-Year-Old Who Wrote a Note and Disappeared is now available in bookshops: 📖 https://j4b.me/doom

PS: What I didn’t know at the time was that my biological father (see Friday, March 2) was interviewed by West German television in Oberwiesenthal in February 1982. According to his recollection, he gave an interview lasting several minutes. In fact, only a few seconds can be heard and seen. He wrote about the trouble his friendly words got him into in his book “Erinnerungen an das 20. Jahrhundert (Memories of the 20th Century)” starting on page 290.

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Unlike his “previous tenant” Andi, “Blaschi” reacted with complete indifference to my quiet singing last night. A loud fart from his exhaust pipe pleased him more.

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Udo Lindenberg, Neue Deutsche Welle, or even punk are out of the question for the time being. But he is a living encyclopedia. He brought a bundle of crossword puzzles with him, which he meticulously works through.

He seems to be no stranger to the guards. They speak to him less harshly than they do to me. And they even let him keep the “Troll,” the “Wochenpost,” and a pen.

The Wochenpost is one of the few newspapers in the Zone that my stepfather subscribes to, who rejects anything that spews indigestible “Red Front” drivel like the Neue Deutschland.

Unlike the disgusting agitprop pamphlets “Freiheit” or “Junge Welt,” the “Wochenpost” writes about art, culture, and science in a much more relaxed manner.

While ‘Blaschi’ throws himself into the crossword puzzles in the “Troll,” I devour the “Post.” I realize with shame that I have read virtually no newspapers or magazines since my last year of school in 1982.

In the apprentice dormitory, we could have watched “Aktuelle Kamera” (the East German news show) on GDR television, but virtually no one did. At night, I could secretly listen to “SR1 Europawelle Saar” on my little tube radio (see Sunday, March 4).

This was possible when the station made it to the coast with fluctuating interference due to “overrange,” which depended on the weather. During the day, only atmospheric noise could be heard.

This had a huge advantage. When I turned off the radio, I never had to change the station to avoid trouble.

There was always trouble because our dorm supervisor was constantly snooping around our rooms to see who was listening to or reading forbidden material.

A colleague had to justify a poster in his room that featured Western art. He was told to remove it. Only when he was able to prove beyond doubt that the print was of Eastern origin did our “dorm supervisor” relent.

If Andi were still sitting in my cell, I would now sing “Tri tra trullala” by Joachim Witt:

“Hey, lasst das sein, Kinder (Hey, leave it alone, kids) / Ihr seid wohl ganz versessen (You’re probably quite obsessed)... Ich bin Euer Herbergsvater (I’m your hostel warden) / Und ich sage hey, hey (And I say hey, hey)...”

But that’s as certain as death and taxes that it’s not for “Blaschi”.

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Eleventh Sunday in pretrial detention. A convicted offender since Monday. Sentenced “in the name of the people” to nine months in jail. That’s 274 days and nights. I’ve got 72 behind me. Still 202 to go.

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Waiting to be transferred to a real prison. They can take their time with that. Better to be a prisoner in “comfortable” pretrial detention than one of the “dirty dozen” in an overcrowded large cell.

That’s how “Blaschi,” my new buddy, whom they shoved into the dungeon with me yesterday, sees it. A friendly old gentleman from Stralsund who, like me, is here “voluntarily.” His crime: “endangering public order through antisocial behavior.”

How does that work? It’s quite simple. If you’re over 60, have worked your whole life, and don’t feel like it anymore in the final stretch.

He used to travel around the villages as a traveling scissors grinder. At some point, he was no longer allowed to be a self-employed craftsman and had to go into “production.”

Due to a lack of suitable qualifications, he had to do everything except sharpen knives or scissors. One day, he had had enough and simply stayed at home.

This is prohibited under Section 249 of the Criminal Code of the GDR. Anyone who “persistently shirks regular work, even though they are capable of working, shall be punished with imprisonment of up to two years.”

You don’t have to be an alcoholic, a bum, or a vagrant. It’s enough if the money you’ve saved is enough to live on and you simply don’t want to work anymore.

The first time, he “only” got six months. The second time, a year. This time, it’s two years.

Fortunately, “work education” has been abolished since 1977. These are work camps where people are treated harshly.

Prison doesn’t bother him anymore. If he ends up in a “quiet” prison like last time, everything will be fine. As soon as he’s out again, he’ll finally be a pensioner. He has enough money to move to the West.

This is one of the most shocking stories I have ever heard. Yet “Blaschi” does not seem old at all. He seems to know his way around and talks like a smart aleck.

Suddenly, I have a horror scenario in mind: What if they release me to the East after nine months and I can’t find a decent job until my next escape attempt?

Don’t panic! Plan A can still work (see Tuesday, January 17). I can activate Plan B in six weeks at the earliest. I’ll think about Plan C when the time comes.

I quietly start singing “We have all the time in the world ...” by Louis Armstrong. Let’s see how ‘Blaschi’ reacts to my “Sing a Song” tic (see Wednesday, February 1).

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Alone again. After they brought me back to my prison cell on Monday, my buddy Andi was gone. I didn’t get any more work either. Lots of time for daydreaming and number games.

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The court proceedings were short and painless, which I would normally have liked very much. But I’m furious because those stubborn fools actually fell for my trick.

It can’t be true how predictable this gang is. Without batting an eyelid, the bigwigs dismissed me in a summary trial. For a piece of paper with three words on it and an intended train journey into the blue.

They call it attempted illegal border crossing – regardless of whether I would have actually driven to the next border crossing or whether I might have changed my mind along the way. That’s how serious my confession is.

I am to atone for it for nine months. That is half as much as the NVA would cost me. That means I have to go back to the Zone on October 6. That’s 206 days from now. I have 68 behind me.

Nine months is 276 days. Divided by two, that’s 138 until halftime. That will be May 22, a Tuesday.

Until then, I have to endure another 69 days and nights. From then on, it will be another as many as I have been through since January until today – plus another 68.

According to this, today or tomorrow would be the “quarter-finals” – depending on whether I count Friday, January 6, the day of my arrest, or Saturday, October 6, the day of my release.

Because my lawyer recommended a correction to my “application for permanent departure from the GDR” and requested six months’ probation rather than an acquittal, I suspect that I will have to wait at least half a year until Dr. Vogel achieves my deportation or a ransom (see Thursday, February 2).

If it happens at all. But I don’t want to doubt that. With a little luck, my parents will send me a sign that Wuppertal has been informed. I can wait until mid-April. Otherwise, I’ll have to activate Plan B (see Tuesday, January 17).

For now, there is nothing left for me to do but not withdraw my “departure application,” as my guards would like me to do, but to renew it, as my lawyer whispered to me (see Monday, March 12).

Once Upon a Time in Germany, A Prequel to 1984, The 18-Year-Old Who Wrote a Note and Disappeared is now available in hardcover, paperback, and e-book formats in bookstores around the world. Read more and order now: 📖 https://j4b.me/doom

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The Bright Side of the Doom is now called Once Upon a Time in Germany, a prequel to 1984, The 18-Year-Old Who Wrote a Note and Disappeared. It is about the boy’s father, whose approach to life is completely different from his son’s.

Born at the beginning of the Third Reich and educated during the Second World War, he completes his studies in the first workers’ and farmers’ state by learning, working and performing hard. 👉 https://j4b.me/doom

Having been married three times and divorced twice, and being the father of four children, he dedicates himself to pursuing a career and earning a decent living–refusing to allow himself to be corrupted by adverse circumstances. 👉 https://j4b.me/doom

In this book, he recounts with clarity and precise language how an apparently ordinary life works beyond the Wall. Until the day his son returns from the future. 👉 https://j4b.me/doom

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1984: The 18-year-old who wrote a note and disappeared. A thriller for teenagers and young adults of Gen Z who do their own thing.

This is the true story of a young man who voluntarily goes to prison for an absurd crime in order to realise his dream. 👉 https://j4b.me/1984

The story is based on events that the author himself experienced. In 2024, he opens a box full of notes, letters and documents from his past. He uses them to reconstruct a diary, which he types into his blog in real time. 👉 https://j4b.me/1984

+++ Born in the wrong place at the wrong time +++ Pursuing a forbidden goal at 18 +++ Endured in court what is unbearable +++ Eating s**t behind bars +++ Everything done right in the end

This diary tells the story of how a young adult surpasses himself and simply does his own thing against all odds. Now available in bookshops. 👉 https://j4b.me/1984

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