Whup-whup, whup-whup, whup-whup. Ha-Neu. Every minute I stay in this cell, I get weaker. And every minute Erich (Mielke, the head of the Stasi) squats out there, he gets stronger.

Okay, Ha-Neu isn't Saigon. The movie quote is just nonsense I dreamed up.

And the helicopter noise isn't mixed with the whirring of a ceiling fan like in “Apocalypse Now.”

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It comes from a helicopter circling over Greifswald as I'm torn from my daydream.

Ha-Neu is the common abbreviation for Halle-Neustadt. The city where I spent most of the years of my young life and to which I never want to return.

Not because it's a bad city, but because it's an ugly one.

The majority of the more than 90,000 inhabitants it had at times were delighted to have landed a standardized apartment in one of the endless concrete silos.

First and foremost, that meant a warm place to live without smoky coal stoves. Hot water at any time of the day or night. And often a telephone.

Granted, they have to share a line with a neighbor. But that is 100 times better than running to a broken phone booth or visiting the dispossessed owner of a flour mill to make a phone call, as Grandma Frieda in Teutschenthal has to do.

And then there was the geographical location. Situated in the “wind shadow” of the Harz Mountains, we usually had good weather and, above all, clean air.

We rarely smelled the stench from Buna and Leuna when the wind blew from Merseburg.

The polluted Espenhain and the chemical cesspools of Bitterfeld-Wolfen were completely out of reach.

We also had silence. The walls in the concrete blocks were very clairaudient, but we heard virtually nothing from the street or airplanes.

In Merseburg the Russians flew their MiGs low over the city every week to practice combat readiness at the military airfield on the outskirts.

Anyone who wasn't used to it automatically threw themselves to the ground when a squadron of fighter jets suddenly and unexpectedly scraped the rooftops at less than 30 meters.

The flight path was directly over the hospital where Kathrin and I were born.

However, we had to ride to the old town of Halle to buy a bicycle valve, because there were no spare parts for anything in Ha-Neu.

That's why they were constantly being stolen everywhere. If you were in a hurry, you stole back what had been stolen. It was a vicious circle.

There are supposed to be cities like that in Paris too. They are called banlieues, as we learned in French class.

And in certain suburbs of London, it doesn't look any better, as can be seen in “A Clockwork Orange.”

Because I'm not allowed to go there, I'm here. ‘This is the end, beautiful friend / This is the end, my only friend, the end ...’ I hum quietly The Doors.

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One last thing. Then we can put a lid on this chapter, I try to get our conversation from yesterday going again.

We could both get in trouble for what we talked about this week.

All it would take is for me to rat you out and you to rat me out, and we'd have some explaining to do.

Or someone might have overheard us – then they could use it against us.

I don't care because I'm done with this system.

A country that turns every fart into a political stink bomb, criminalizes critics, and punishes wanderlust with prison is not my country.

They know that – from me. It's not a question of if, but how long they'll let me stew. But what about you?

“I don't give a s**t about politics,” Andi sums it up.

He wouldn't snitch on me. He doesn't even know what I said that was wrong.

But they can always find some clause or other.

I agree with him. Let's hope no one was eavesdropping.

In any case, he wouldn't strike again. His punishment would be harsher than mine.

He's looking at two years. That's what he was told if he blew his probation. And he did. Thoroughly.

If only he had listened to Udo:

“Ich bin Rocker (I'm a rocker), Ich bin Rocker (I'm a rocker) /Doch ich steh nicht auf Gewalt (But I'm not into violence /Ich bin nicht so'n primitives Schwein (I'm not some primitive pig) /Und schlag'nem Schwachen die Fresse ein ... (Who beats up weaklings...)”

Andi's eyes are watering again. That's how it was meant. On with the Bakelite program. All Quiet in the Eastern Jail.

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Andi wants to know what I have against our army. The West has one too, he says. And they have compulsory military service over there too.

These are the usual arguments I am constantly confronted with.

Yes, once upon a time when I looked up with wide eyes at big, strong men with steel helmets and Kalashnikovs who protected us children from evil enemies.

The news is full of perverse wars, bloody conflicts, and nuclear dangers.

At first, I wanted to become a sailor in the merchant navy to see the world.

To do that, I would have had to sign up for “only” three years in the People's Navy to be in a good position to get a job.

Then I wanted to be a paratrooper. But to be honest, it was really just so I could escape across the green border somewhere abroad.

The bottom of the barrel was our Russian barracks on the northern edge of Halle-Neustadt.

As schoolchildren, we traded watches, cigarettes, liquor, and anything else we could find with the soldiers.

What really shocked me at the time was their living conditions and how they were treated.

They lived in pigsties right next to the animals.

No sooner had you made friends with one of them than he would disappear and you never heard from him again.

While the officers strolled through the city with their wives, the ordinary soldiers had to eat s**t.

This contradicted the image that had been conveyed to us young guys when NVA recruiters wanted to sign us up for three years or more.

Anyone who signed up for more than 18 months had all doors open to them, no matter how stupid they were.

The main thing was to toe the party line and join the SED as early as possible.

At 16, I realized unequivocally that we had to swear allegiance to one party and the socialism.

Defend the fatherland against attackers? Agreed.

Use weapons to enforce the interests of a left-wing extremist party against the rest of the world? No way.

Andi actually sees it more relaxed, especially since he quite enjoys being able to crack down when necessary.

As long as we can talk about it, I can live with it. But what if he gets orders to take people like me out of circulation?

At least he's thinking about it.

Two songs come to mind today that reflect Andi's casual willingness to resort to violence:

“Der King vom Prenzlauer Berg” (The King of Prenzlauer Berg) by City and “Die Heizer kommen” (The Heaters are Coming) by Udo. Which one would he like? He decides on City.

“Sie nennen ihn Nobi (They call him Nobi) /Er ist nicht groß (He's not big) /Er ist nicht klein (He's not small) /Ziemlich stark (Pretty strong) /Fast schon ein Mann (Almost a man) /Und so ist es im Klub geschehen (And that's how it happened in the club) /Dort bekam er streit (He got into a fight /Wegen einem Zahn (Because of a tooth) /Und er führte sich auf wie Dschingis-Kahn ...(And he acted like Genghis Khan ...)”

I'll teach him "Die Heizer" tomorrow. On to the Bakelit program. All Quiet in the Eastern Jail.

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Andi wants to know what I know about the military prison in Schwedt. “Nothing.” And that's more than enough, I scrape together what I've heard.

No one talks about it. But everyone knows someone who knows someone who was there. And they keep quiet.

What all the rumors have in common are the reasons that landed self-confident young men in Schwedt and caused them to return to their companies intimidated or even broken.

Assault, theft, insubordination, desertion, drunkenness, or disobedience were the usual "crimes", punishable by up to two years in NVA prison.

Since 1982, commanders have been able to send unpopular recruits to Schwedt for a few months without a military court.

Those who end up there are at the mercy of the regime, which has absolute power over you:

Strict solitary confinement. Endlessly long days. Total control.

Drill until you pass out. Perverse blind obedience. Dirty work in the refinery.

Pooping on command. Not when you have to, but when they allow you to.

My problem is my innate rebelliousness, which I was recently able to exploit with impunity in a military training camp on Rügen.

There, for pacifist reasons, I refused to participate in exercises with fake weapons.

“Frech wie Oskar” (Cheeky as Oskar, local expression), I also made a bet that I would kiss the officer on duty in front of the assembled troops for his tolerance during the last roll call.

The bet earned me a whopping 50 marks and a few dozen cheering comrades who laughed themselves silly when I actually did it.

The irritated instructors were completely overwhelmed by the situation and let me get away with it.

So far, so funny. In the army, I would definitely end up in the slammer for something like that, i.e., in Schwedt.

Added to that is my fundamental tendency to disobey orders when they are politically motivated.

I've been completely clear about this for years: the West is not my enemy.

I'm also toying with the idea of refusing military service altogether, which would cost me two years.

That's why I'm here voluntarily.

And Andi has to be careful who he shows his fist to when they draft him. Assault is said to be one of the most common reasons for ending up in Schwedt.

Andi is shocked. Unfortunately, I can't think of a song by Udo that fits the situation. Instead, I start singing a canon:

“In einer kleinen Goldschmiederei(In a small goldsmith's workshop) /Da saßen wir zwei(There we sat, the two of us) /Bei Kupfer und Blei(With copper and lead) /Du sprachst kein Wort(You didn't say a word) /Kein einziges Wort(Not a single word) /Ich wusste Bescheid(I knew what was going on) /Kriminalpolizei ...(Criminal investigation department ...)”

He calms down again. The Bakelite program continues. All Quiet in the Eastern Jail.

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I continue our conversation from yesterday about what he knows about “real prisons.” No one knows anything for sure, Andi evades.

There are remand centers, youth work centers, youth homes, penitentiaries, and at least one military prison in Schwedt on the border with Poland.

The Stasi runs a remand center in Berlin-Hohenschönhausen. He doubts that our remand center here in Greifswald is a Stasi thing.

First-time offenders with relatively short sentences are often sent to Waldheim between Dresden and Gera. It is said to be one of the oldest prisons still in operation.

Long-term prisoners, lifers, and serious criminals are usually sent to Brandenburg, Bautzen, or Cottbus. “Believe me, you don't want to go there.”

He hasn't heard anything good about Torgau on the Elbe either. There is supposed to be a closed youth work camp there where young people are harassed until they bleed.

He could imagine me ending up in the Halle youth center. He hasn't heard anything good about that place either.

But the young people and the repeat offenders are supposed to be kept separate, which might make my stay more bearable. In any case, young people have nothing to laugh about.

The problem everywhere is less the guards than the prisoners themselves. Overcrowding, piecework, and brutal cliques are the bitter reality of everyday life.

I would have to expect fights, harassment, and rape.

Maybe I would be lucky and end up with several political prisoners who would protect each other.

That's why he wouldn't dream of going to prison voluntarily. It will be both my curse and my blessing.

A curse because there will always be some nutcases who want to show me who's boss.

A blessing because there may be people who respect that. Songs by Udo Lindenberg are unlikely to protect me.

That reminds me of “Sister King Kong” and I start singing:

“Sie sah aus wie die Schwester von King Kong(She looked like King Kong's sister) /Sie war zweieinhalb Zentner schwer(She weighed two hundred and fifty pounds) /Sie war die Meisterin im Catchen, im Leute zerquetschen(She was a master at wrestling, at crushing people) /War gefährlich wie ein Grizzlybär ...(She was as dangerous as a grizzly bear...)”

While we fiddle with Bakelite plugs. All Quiet in the Eastern Jail.

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A month ago today, I was arrested and imprisoned.

Because it is a crime according to paragraph 213 of the penal code to want to go to the West. The attempt is punishable by prison.

There is no doubt about my guilt. After all, I confessed to having written “Let's Go West” on a piece of paper.

Besides, I wanted to take public transportation to get over there. This is a capital offense.

In the meantime, 31 days and nights have passed.

“Don't worry, they'll count that as time served,” Andi laughs.

I start to wonder whether this country will still exist in 10 years. The song “Gene Galaxo” by Udo Lindenberg comes to mind:

“1990 gab es einen Sänger(In 1990 there was a singer) /Den man eines Abends beim Auftritt erschoss …(who was shot one evening during a performance)...”

That would be in six years. What about 1994 – in ten years?

That depends on the Russians. As long as our old farts can rely on their tanks, the zone will exist, Andi is sure.

“Until we are finally Russified,“ I interject.

“It won't come to that,” Andi tries to counter.

“How bad can it get?” I ask.

“I haven't thought about that yet,” Andi says, brooding.

“You'd better teach me some of Udo's lyrics,” he says, wriggling out of the affair.

No sooner said than done. We concentrate on our bakelite plugs, which we will certainly have to deal with over the next few days.

Until one of us is sentenced to leave this cell of ours “in the name of the people” and be transported to a real prison.

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It is a mystery to me how such a book can end up in a prison library.

I am not particularly interested in the adventure that is the subject of “Die tötende Welle” (The Killing Wave). It is the habitat in which it takes place.

The book is set in the Hawaiian Islands. And in the modern 1970s, when Hawaii has long since been the 50th state of the United States of America.

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In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, which covers half the globe and is inaccessible to us.

Either the prison librarian is an unread fool who has no idea what this book is about, or he is a sadist who gleefully pricks the remote-yearning of caged readers with his finger.

It is the described attitude to life of an immigrant underwater filmmaker who earns his money in an enviable way with exotic research work, which makes me very envious.

With the ease of a Jim Rockford, he solves a major crime in the middle of weapon-studded Oceania. That's I want to be.

While we are allowed to camp in restricted military areas in the east as long as we don't push a surfboard in the Baltic Sea, “tourists” in the free world fly around in small planes and solve life-threatening criminal cases with scientific backing "Zwischen Frühstück und Gänsebraten” (Between Breakfast and Roast Goose).

I am disgusted when I think of an incident at school. A classmate confused the word “tourist” with “terrorist”.

The class teacher was furious because she saw it as proof that he must have watched Western television, which was simply forbidden at the time.

And now I'm sitting in jail in a country that locks me up for writing a note and wanting to take the train to some city a few hundred kilometers west. What a crazy world.

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“No message is also a message,” Andi surprises me for the second time. “Eureka!” I hiss enthusiastically. “Of course, that's the key,” I slump down in my chair.

Twice I have unmistakably asked to greet Uncle Werner, Aunt Erika and Karin – our relatives in Wuppertal. My mother never mentioned it.

She could have distanced herself with political phrases by reprimanding me to refrain from such greetings to relatives in “capitalist foreign countries”.

Writing that she had passed my regards would have been dangerous. As soon as the Stasi found out who these relatives really were, she would have been just one step away from jail.

That's why she kept quiet “out loud”.

The next opportunity would arise anyway, when my parents go to the Czech Giant Mountains for their annual winter sports vacation in February.

Sending an anonymous postcard from the Czech Republic to Wuppertal in West Germany is less risky than trying to make contact from East Germany.

“I hope you're not a snitch,” I growl at Andi. “Definitely not,” he growls back. I ask him why I should believe him. “Because I've just beaten someone's face in,” he hisses at me.

Then he tells me his story: one of his buddies has let something slip while drunk. Andi kept digging until the snitch whined and admitted that he had “signed”. Then he went crazy.

I'll never know if it's true or not. But there's no reason to make life in the cell unnecessarily difficult for us by being hostile. On the contrary. Whether he's a snitch or not, we still have to get along well either way.

Udo Lindenberg's song “Satellite City Fighter” comes to mind:

“Freddy sitzt jeden Tag am Hafen(Freddy sits at the harbor every day) /Und die Schiffe fahr’n vorbei(And the ships pass by) /Nach Rio de Janeiro und nach Hawaii…(To Rio de Janeiro and to Hawaii...)”.

Then I bury myself in my first prison reading, “Die tötende Welle” (The Killing Wave). An adventure novel by Otto Bonhoff.

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We are happily tinkering with our bakelite plugs. There is another clatter at the door and warden Schäfer is looking in again.

This time he sounds as arrogant as usual when he hands me a letter with an educational saying. From my mother:

Dear Thomas! We have received your two letters. We cannot understand your behavior. Why do you always cause us such grief? Get used to the idea that your current place of residence will not change anytime soon – with or without a lawyer. We advise you to abandon your further plans and repent of your misconduct. We are convinced that the court will take such an attitude into account and reduce the sentence. We will transfer 50 marks for personal use to the account you have provided. Finally, be encouraged to patiently eat the soup you have made for yourself...

Okay, that's not what I wanted to read. This is not about mitigating the punishment, damn it! On the other hand, this is not my mother's language, who knows exactly what I'm up to.

My stepfather probably dictated the letter to her. In that case, the first sentences would be a purely precautionary measure to protect himself.

According to the date, my mother wrote the letter on January 23. It was censored in February, as indicated by the stamp.

In January, no one knew who my lawyer would be. But even if they had, my mother is absolutely right: no lawyer will prevent my conviction.

If she actually transfers 50 marks to me, that would be a clear sign of support. Until I moved out at 16, I hardly ever received any pocket money.

There was always some reason to deny it to me. Until I didn't ask for it anymore because it was too stupid for me.

Instead, I earned it during my last years of school either through vacation work or collecting bottles.

Otherwise, Grandma Frieda and Aunt Vera were the only ones who regularly gave me some money.That's why I'm tempted to actually take the 50 marks as an encouraging message “to patiently eat the soup you have made for yourself”.

I would have preferred a hidden hint in the direction of Wuppertal. Let's see how they do as soon as they feel the effect of Attorney Vogel.

Andi senses my inner conflict after I have read the short letter for the tenth time, turning it over and over in my mind.

Then he wants to know more, so I start with one of my favorite quotes from a complete unknown:

“Ich wurde als Deutscher von Deutschen gefangen(I was captured as German by Germans) /Weil ich von Deutschland nach Deutschland gegangen(Because I went from Germany to Germany)”.

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We are happily tinkering with our bakelite plugs. There is a clatter at the door and warden Schäfer looks patronisingly through the hatch.

He seems a little sheepish as he hands me a letter with some stupid remark:

From Dr. jur. h. c. Wolfgang Vogel, attorney and notary – “also admitted to the courts in West Berlin”.

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He had accepted the mandate and registered with the public prosecutor as my defence lawyer.

Due to the distance, a lawyer from Stralsund will represent him in Greifswald. More information will be provided in due course.

I feel quite dizzy. Tears of joy well up in my eyes. In my mind's eye, I see myself in a spectacular prisoner exchange on the Glienicke Bridge.

Which, of course, is complete nonsense. Until I will be ransomed free, if that ever happens, I will have to assemble a hell of a lot more bakelite plugs or who knows what.

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