Rump-rump, rattle-rattle, lock-lock. The door opens and just stays open. Diffuse to and fro in the corridor. I hesitantly dare to look outside.
The fistula voice is standing there saying “Undress and out!”. But no “Face the wall!”. Instead, a nod of the head in the direction of the neighboring cell, which is a shower.
A few seconds of plenty of water – neither warm nor cold. Water off. Quick soap and hair wash. Water on. Quick rinse. Water off. Dry off the residue with a coarse tea towel where no water had reached. Back into the cell. Rums-rums, rattle-rattle, lock-lock. Door closed. Now that was a change.
After breakfast, a yard walk and lunch, nothing for hours again. Plenty of time for memories. This time I have to think about my elder brother. Autumn 1983 …
Last visit to Andi, who is stranded in Aschersleben. With the intention of perhaps initiating him. First I have to find out which side he’s on. A particularly clever guy who taught me almost everything. Extremely skilled and very well-read. But since he joined the army, we’ve become strangers. After a fraternal night in his wooden shak, where he had made himself at home, I left again. His life would be my future. Rather to prison than the NVA.
Rump-rump, rattle-rattle, lock-lock. The door bangs open. Obligatory salutation. “Packing things and out!”. “Face the wall!”. This time it’s up the stairs under the roof. There I end up in a larger cell, which is obviously occupied but nobody in there.
Two double bunk beds with an arm’s length of space between them. No barred window in the back wall, but a much higher, oppressively small air flap surrounded by glass bricks. More space in the corners next to the cell door. On the left is the toilet, a washbasin and a shelf with utensils. On the right, a table, four chairs and a wall shelf with stuff. Books on the table. Maybe a good sign that the missing inmates are not thugs. Just don’t touch anything! 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭…
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