It smells of sweat and sour air. A bitter mixture of paper sacks, Bakelite and oily metal. Yard walk in the fresh air always makes me a little dizzy.

After three days of fitting plugs, fiddling with pins and turning screws, I’ve finally got the hang of it. Today I’ll get my sack full without the guys.

"Still no mail," I grumble. "It takes time," they say. Because of the censorship. First our super warden reads what I've written.

Then an investigator or a prosecutor. And then, because of the application to leave the country, probably the Stasi.

It can easily take a few days or weeks before a letter finally arrives in the post. It's the same the other way round.

I want to know what they can do to me for applying to leave the country. Basically nothing bad.

They'll tell me it's pointless and that no one cares. Or they'll tempt me with empty promises to withdraw.

If things get complicated, they'll leave it to an informer to turn me in.

They probably won't beat me. In the worst case, they'll leave it to some thug to put me in a cell with. I'll recognise him when the time comes. Then the only thing that helps is to compare dicks and see what happens.

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