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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