Saturday, January 7, 1984

This is our last chance. If we tell a fairy tale now, we might get out of this place again. But I wrote the note to prevent that.

If we overdo it, we could end up in a psychiatric ward. If our plan works, they’ll lock us up. If we back out, they’ll harass us until we’re old.

We went to the police station in the patrol car. My interrogation began at around three in the morning. An officer from the criminal investigation department types into his typewriter. Routine questions. Honest answers.

Then comes the all-important question of whether and why I wrote the words “Let’s go West” on the note. Yes, I did. So that it’s clear where the hammer hangs.

He wants to know how we were going to get to the West. We were going to get on the next transit train over at the weekend, I confess. At the border, we wanted to show our IDs as normal. Then the train would have continued either with or without us. End of story.

Early in the morning, I sign my confession. Let’s see what the concrete heads make of it. My prediction: at worst, two years in jail. Release to the East and eat shit until deportation. In the best case scenario, ransom. With regular applications to leave the country, maybe something in the middle. 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭

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