The Hitchhiker's Dilemma

Thursday, January 12, 1984: Navigating life and freedom in 1980s East Germany amid Cold War tensions.

Nothing happens. Many hours of brutal silence. Doubts arise. Why have I done this to myself? Flashback to the past - spring 1983 ...

"You know you're not allowed to get in? The driver calls me with a formal greeting, which is rare.

"You know you’re not allowed to stop?" I grumble and get in.

Somewhere near Berlin, on the way from Halle to Greifswald. The Western car looks like a spaceship. The huge dashboard is covered in displays, lights and controls. When I close the door, I feel a slight pressure in my ears. Virtually no noise when starting. Then a gentle glide to the softest music. No head between the knees. But plenty of space in front of me.

"What would you do if I were from the Stasi?" the driver asks.

"Then I wouldn't have got in," I answered.

"What gave me away?"

Everything. Besides, there's a difference between chatting up Western cars at a rest stop and holding my thumb up to the wind in the twilight on the motorway. Even the Stasi would understand if I got out of the car again.

"Do you want to get out?"

"Not yet. I've been on the road too long for that. Besides, it's getting dark. And I'm cold."

"Where are you going?"

"To Greifswald."

"On foot?"

Hitchhiking from Halle to the Michendorf service area is usually pretty quick. Then I have to decide where to spend the night if I can't find anyone to drive around Berlin. The colder the evening, the more I prefer to walk to the next station and take the S-Bahn to Oranienburg. From there I take the F96 in two or three stages and usually walk through Neubrandenburg or Neustrelitz.

Why not take the train all the way? Only if it's really cold. Otherwise I prefer to hitchhike. It's cheaper. And it gives me a sense of freedom.

What are you doing in Greifswald? An apprenticeship. Not in the army? If so, then as a construction soldier. Or in prison as a conscientious objector. I'd rather sit for two years than stand on the wrong side for 18 months. Tense silence.

Have you ever thought about running away to the West? All the time, since I was twelve.

How would you do it? It takes forever to apply to leave the country. The green border is too vague. The Baltic Sea is too cold. And crossing the wall usually ends in death. All that remains is to hope for a favourable opportunity, I summarise my abandoned plans.

If I end up in prison for political reasons and the right people in the West find out about it, I have a good chance of being ransomed sooner or later, he says. I've heard that before. But nobody knows for sure.

I get off at Potsdam station. Now I'm sitting in a prison cell. Waiting for something to happen.