Having
concluded the night’s business, I had retired to our humble quarters
in a room somewhere at the top of the establishment and done my best
to ward off the biting cold with a pile of coats and sleeping bags while
my colleagues caroused in the bar below. Outside the snow fell steadily.
Inside, as dawn wore on the party ground to a halt and as the last reveller
collapsed grunting onto a mattress in the opposite corner, silence overtook
the building and we slept.
Not for long! 06.30 glowered from the clockface as I dragged myself
from the semblance of warmth offered by my festering cot and pulled
on my boots, tired but ready for the day’s toils. Wrapping myself
in every last spare item of clothing I made my way downstairs into the
darkened barroom and began to search the wreckage of the previous nights
festivities for some breakfast. Now, I’m an easy going chap when
it comes to victuals, and especially when abroad I have learned not
to be too choosy but I must confess that yesterday’s shrink-wrapped
raw bacon rolls, 95% thick white fat, garnished with caraway seeds and
ice cold, nearly defeated even my calloused digestive tract. Nevertheless,
in the absence of Weetabix or marmite soldiers, I wolfed them down,
stuffing a couple into my bag for later along with a handful of chocolate
bars from behind the counter.
Outside it was freezing cold, dark and completely snowbound except for
a curious patch of black ice underneath our dormitory window that seemed
to suggest the outpouring of some warm liquid at irregular intervals.
I stumbled through the snow to Rosenthaler Platz U-Bahn station and
confronted the ticket machine with an early morning exhibition of xenophobic
impatience, which performance attracted the sympathy of a friendly local
who explained the system: “you buy one ticket for DM3.90. You
travel anywhere for duration of tickets validity (two hours). On expiry
ticket will into a pumpkin turn. If then you catch by Inspektors, then
testicles in vice will crush.”
“Thank you.” I put in my thumb, pulled out this remarkable
plum and climbed aboard the first Southbound train to Alexander Platz
where I was to change for my first destination - Berlin Hbf.
Lacking any kind of data whatsoever on either the local network, or
the whereabouts of the locosheds I was traveling blind. I knew from
my Metro pocketbooks that there was a shed at Berlin Hbf. itself and
anticipated a long morning lapping up ex East German locos in droves.
Past experience of even the more modest German stations had raised my
expectations so I was disconcerted on my arrival at Hbf to find it consisting
of some 14 platforms, 90% of which catered for the swarms of S-Bahn
services, while the others dealt with only 2 or 3 loco hauled trains
per hour. A bit like Manchester Piccadilly really.
As it was still too dark for photography, I elected to take the S-Bahn
on to the next station, on the mainline East of the Hbf - Warschauer
Strasse, a kind of German equivalent of West Hampstead Midland - to
see if I could locate the engine sheds. Tragically the heavy snow and
general murkiness restricted visibility to such an extent that all I
was able to make out were a couple of shunters and a derelict railwayscape
redolent of any one of the most depressing former yards in England.
Not at all typical of the Deutches Bundesbahn which, compared to our
ravaged network is a huge and thriving concern. Still, Berlin had recently
undergone a lot of trauma, so some measure of reorganisation was only
to be expected on the railway map.
By the time I returned to the Hauptbahnhof it was just light enough
for 1/60th. F2.8, which was fortunate as 180.008 presented itself: a
ghastly corrugated iron Skoda-built E-lok. No one would believe in it
without a photo! I picked up a couple of stabled 112s, a 103, 345.029
(station pilot) and a couple of 232s before hitting upon the happy notion
of asking a driver where the Locoshed was:
“Gibt es lokschuppen in der nehe?” I demanded with appalling
schoolboy aplomb of the bemused driver of 232.568. He answered with
an incomprehensible stream of German, accompanied by gesticulations
and broad smiles of encouragement. I was none the wiser.
“Lange weg?” I asked hopefully. His reply seemed to indicate
that it wasn’t a very lang weg away at all, but I’m no student
of language, so I begged a street name which, duly supplied proved indeed
to be so near as to suggest that the locoshed must be “just behind
that large building over there.” Now that the snow had stopped
and visibility was improving steadily, I decided to S-Bahn back to Warschauer
Strasse and see if I could pinpoint the shed - a successful tactic as
it turned out. Berlin Hbf. shed, I can confirm, is South of the main
line about 200 yards East of the station in a depression beside the
river Spree, hence invisible from the station. Access from Hbf. is via
a headshunt.
Access for me proved to be a walk back from Warschauer Strasse, beside
one of the few surviving sections of an old concrete wall that seemed
to have excited some interest in the past, as it was painted all over
with emotive slogans and murals of cryptic design. In places it looked
like it had been beaten down by a million little toffee hammers. “Rum
indeed,” I told myself, and turned left into the depot entrance,
through the remnants, by now almost melted, of the morning’s snowfall.
On shed were around a dozen class 112s a couple of 232s and a shunter.
I sated myself and walked back to the Hbf. The light improved steadily
and the remaining bacon rolls in my handbag had heated up almost to
body temperature. My appetite for a shedbash whetted I surveyed the
departure boards and pondered upon how to pass my remaining two hours.
Only a handful of worthwhile trains were due to depart, along with about
10,000 S-Bahn services but a closer study of the Berlin rail map drew
my attention to Lichtenburg station, four stops East and clearly an
interchange between several regional lines, including more than one
that were definitely not part of the S-Bahn system, whose ancient electric
trains, although worthy (and in the book) were not my quarry that day.
It seemed worth a shot, so replacing my expired ticket, I hopped into
a train and headed East.
The deeper we went into the wilds of East Berlin, the bleaker and less
welcoming the townscape seemed to become, and I became aware of the
presence of a number of gentlemen with alarmingly short hair and boots
laced up to their knees. Several occupied one end of my carriage after
the Ostkreuz, and every station platform seemed to have a couple lurking
somewhere. Instinct told me that now was not a good time to be an Englishman
abroad, so I huddled into my overcoat and tried to look like I had just
finished work in the carriage sidings at Warschauer Strasse, and wasn’t
a foreigner at all.
After passing Noldnerplatz, the tracks opened up on my left and my attention
was diverted away from the bald thugs, to the delights unfolding outside
the carriage window - to my surprise, and delight a fair-sized locoshed,
complete with roundhouse, turntables and rows of orange shunters! Hoorah!
Amazed at this turn of fortune I baled out at Lichtenburg, oblivious
to the surrounding activity, which was certainly more interesting than
the Hbf., and caught the next train straight back. Alighting at Noldnerplatz,
I ran the gauntlet of concrete, swastikas, graffiti and surly youths,
and found the depot entrance just around the corner. By now I had one
and a half hours maximum so I did a blue flash to the foremans office
- the Lok-leitung is the chap you need to ask for - and received his
blessing. So it was that for the second time that day I feasted upon
112s, which seem to predominate in these parts, and picked up as well
several more 232s, a few 143s and lots of shunters, including two really
sexy little black Kofs.
So it was back to base, successful and more than compensated for the
miserable effort that went into getting out of bed. Next time, I decided,
now I have the gen, I shall include Schoneweide or Pankow on the itinerary,
and hope to pick up some 202s out there in the badlands. I shall return.
XI. Channel Passage
My
initial Channel passage to Belgium, was made on a truculent slimy sea
in a wretched vomit-stained ferry boat that resembled nothing more illustrious
than a floating motorway service station. That some of the vomit stinking
out the toilets was mine, was due to the fact that I had immediately
dosed myself with the most expensive plate of egg and chips in the world
while still in the shelter of Dover’s harbour waiting for the
storm to abate. This was my first experience of ships, and I was not
impressed.
Whatever happened to travel? At what point did it ceases to be an adventure
and get turned into a squalid herding of souls from A to B, without
any serious thought being given to their comfort? Who designs these
vessels? Who is responsible for the hideously uncomfortable chairs in
the passenger lounge that never recline quite far enough, but keep you
hanging in a half-sitting half lying position until your limbs ache,
your muscles cramp and you give it up as a bad job and go and lie on
the floor? Whom do we sue?
I realise, of course, that I am poor, and consequently cannot expect
better without paying for it, but it’s the dishonesty that galls
me. I don’t mind being served shit so long as it owns up and admits
it’s shit; but serving me shit and telling me it’s sugar
really isn’t a nice thing to do! Cross-Channel ferries are cheap
and horrible things, precisely because they cater for the poor and meek,
who cannot afford to have a choice: they have us over a barrel and milk
us for everything they can get. We’d be far better off if they
just tore out all the ugly trappings and gave us an empty hold with
a few mattresses, then we could all lie down and sleep until the voyage
was done, and leave the creaking tub refreshed and grateful. ‘Quality’
and ‘luxury’ are words we hear too much of, it’s a
lie, and a waste of everyone’s time. Quality and luxury are things
you get when you pay for them, and not until. It’s all so patronising!
Zounds were herded into a tub called ‘Profit of Free Enterprise’,
which was the usual ugly pile of chipboard and formica, decked out in
the Emperor’s new clothes, with a bar full of travellers from
Swansea who were unable to hold their drink, and a restaurant whose
prices would shame Harrods. I was not, I repeat, impressed.
My fellow travellers on this maiden voyage were, as ever, Steve and
Lawrence, but we had a road crew for this tour in the shape of Mark
the Hat and one Kevin Sheridan, a gentleman of Jewish origin, and one
possessed of both an ironic turn of wit, and hair so curly that it put
even Lawrence’ to shame. These two had come along to drive the
ambulance which we had borrowed from Sarah for the trip, and which even
now was having as bad a time as I, tossed by the restless waves in the
stinking belly of the boat.
“Think how much dope we could have brought with us!” sighed
Steve regretfully, as Ostend fell behind us in the darkness. We had
somehow taken a wrong turning at the port, missed customs clearance
completely and found ourselves on an obscure unmetalled track lined
with orange flashing lights. The ambulance, being built like a brick-privvy,
made short work of the rough and we soon found ourselves in town once
more, and back on the road to ruin.
“I couldn’t half do with a Jimmy Cliff now,” mourned
Kevin. “It’s way past the time that an honest man should
have started smoking his daily quota.”
“That’s true. It’ll be dawn soon.” Sober, we
rattled on towards Brussels. Wary of fascist douaniers we had finished
up the stash on the road to Dover the night before and now there wasn’t
so much as a roach in the van to lighten the burden of reality which
was slowly appearing, grey and drawn as ourselves, in the freezing Belgian
morning.
The first short leg of the tour involved an encounter with an expatriot
Englishman named Peter, under whose roof we passed our first night abroad.
Peter was lead singer in a band called ‘Banker,’ with whom
we were due to play the first show in Rotterdam. I believe he was in
some way connected with the organisation of the tour, but I, as usual,
had proved neither willing nor capable of exerting myself in any kind
of organisational capacity, so his exact involvement remained to me
obscure. Peter was a short stocky man in his thirties, kept a rabbit
in his house which roamed loose, had vaguely rodentish features himself
and “No!” he informed us with virtuous satisfaction, “I
don’t have any dope, but you can get some tomorrow in Rotterdam,
where it’s legal!”
The prospect of Holland, the dope fiend’s Mecca, lulled us to
sleep that night, and not even the nocturnal curiosity of Peter’s
rabbit could dampen our spirits.
We drove to Rotterdam next morning in convoy with Banker, who had some
pretty good songs based around the simple but tuneful basslines played
by Peter’s wife, Anna. We all slept that night in a big squatted
factory complex, and I dimly recall shaking the rabbit droppings out
of my sleeping bag and settling down to smoke ourselves silly in a roomful
of ugly metal sculptures. “Zehr kunstlich!” observed Kevin
thoughtfully. “A primitive symbol of the wedding between God and
technology.”
“Shut up and stop bogarting that spliff.”
“Never hurry a Humphrey.....”
Onwards next day then, to the Leiden home of Helmut, mastermind behind
the Dutch band ‘Troops Out’, in whose company the rest of
the tour was to be made. Helmut, surname unknown, was a character of
such a bizarre and unlikely nature that closer study is warranted: a
man of such singularity that God could have created him for no other
reason than to say “Look! Here is man that I have created both
high and low in all his wild flung diversity; look upon my work and
marvel at the inscrutable will of the Lord thy God.” At least
that’s what Kevin, who claimed to be nearer our God than we, would
have had us believe.
Every English band ever to play in Leiden must surely remember Helmut,
for he was the Godfather, manservant, chronicler and willing host to
the punk movement in that town. Helmut knew the entire history of Punk,
right down to what Sid Vicious had for breakfast on the day of the 100
Club gig with Siouxie and the Banshees. His interest and enthusiasm
was not for the ideology or struggles of youth and music, but for hard
facts and historical accuracy. To Helmut, Punk was not an attitude or
a means towards an end, but an end in itself; a historical progression
to be studied in much the same way that one would study the pharaohs
of Egypt or the Tudor succession. His degree in history from the University
of Leiden no doubt influenced his outlook and approach to this subject.
Helmut’s thirst for punk trivia proved too tempting a target to
resist, and I immediately set about the task of feeding him some red-herrings
to add to his fund of lore:
“Did you know that Charlie Harper used to manage the Rubettes?”
I told him with untruthful aplomb. Helmut gaped and began to twitch
excitedly. “Oh yes,” I continued, “in the mid-seventies
he was involved with a lot of English pop bands - his real name is Bruno
Eberhardt - he gave it all up in 1977 and became a barman at the Roxy.”
“No. I did not know this!” Helmut’s English was fluent,
but accented and nasal. “He did not tell me this when we played
with the UK Subs (pronounced ‘Ooooh-Kay’) in Utrecht. It
was a very good concert, and everyone pogoed.” To ‘pogo’
was a verb dear to Helmut’s heart, redolent as it was of the great
days of 1976-77. That the pogo, on the rare occasions it was performed
outside the imagination of the British press, was one of the most ludicrous
exercises ever given credibility bothered him not a bit. Helmut believed,
as I had once believed, that punks pogoed, just as they wore safety-pins,
spat a lot and were the sworn enemies of the hated Teddy-Boys.
“Well, they do still spit a lot”, Steve reminded us.
To Helmut orthodoxy was all, and to this end his wardrobe was a priceless
collection of mint condition mail-order items from ‘Boy’
and ‘Seditionaries,’ a mass of printed cotton, cheesecloth,
and black denim festooned with D-rings and bondage straps. Tartan strides
hung alongside PVC, and an army of sunglasses of the cheap colourful
plastic variety vied with studded belts and amulets for space on the
shelves.
“Nice shades, Helm’ old boy,” said Kevin, stunned
as we all were by the discrepancy between Helmut and his clothing. He
looked like a history professor - short cropped hair and prominent Roman
nose, thick, heavily framed spectacles and vaguely prominent teeth leading
down to a pointed chin. Helmut wore his extensive collection of punk
clothing with all the elegance and grace of a washing line. They seemed
to hang on his angular frame in a manner so utterly devoid of style
that it quite literally defied comprehension. Here was the man, here
were the clothes; what then was missing that caused such an astonishing
disunity between the Worn and the Wearer?
It was Vivienne Westwood’s worst nightmare. To say that his garb
lacked character was like saying that Hitler was naughty - it just didn’t
even approach the reality of the situation. They weren’t ‘his’
clothes. Legally they may have belonged to him, but he wore them as
new, spotless and pressed, and with no interrelation between the various
items. Each separate garment was present and correct in itself, but
carried no hallmark of individuality and thus it could be said that
Helmut didn’t so much wear his clothes, it was more the case that
he bore them, protruding from their extremities like some awkward puppet,
twitching in the hands of a novice puppeteer.
Helmut was not possessed of an animal grace, but moved in a mysterious
way in which the only common denominator was the very unanimity of disparity
with which each limb, joint and member strove to outdo its neighbour
in non-conformity, and this, when seen in conjunction with his ungainly
apparel combined to offer a uniformity of difference which was not ultimately
at odds with itself.
“Oh Christ!” as we said at the time.
By now 27 years old and unemployable, Helmut lived in a flat on a pleasant
estate in the North of Leiden and received that generous allowance of
social security that led so many young English people to seek a new
life in the Netherlands. His chief raison d’être, in the
wake of his history studies, was his role as lead singer and songwriter
with Troops Out, which group he used as a vehicle for travelling with
and studying English bands, and furthering his collection of Punk legends.
Largely due to this enthusiasm on Helmut’s part for England’s
Dream, and his involvement in arranging tours, Troops Out had played
with almost every band ever to set foot in Holland. Helmut himself had
interviewed The Mob two years previously, when they had toured with
Here & Now, and had impressed them with his striking personality.
Crass, and the Poison Girls too, had crossed his path and were able
to recall many happy instances of his eccentricity - indeed it is arguable
that an even greater fund of Helmut-trivia exists in the hearts and
minds of English touring musicians than ever Helmut gathered about them.
The great task of collating this information must, like the ‘Crassiad’,
remain the work of another.
But if Helmut at large presented a challenge to the perceptions, how
much more weird and wonderful was the sight of Helmut on stage with
Troops Out! Armed with a plastic kazoo in the shape of a saxophone,
upon which he would tootle tunelessly during the instrumental breaks,
Helmut would caper and cavort in slow motion to some strange inner beat
that none of his band could hear. Shaking his arms and bending his body
- although folding would describe the action better, it was so lacking
in fluidity - he would hold the microphone aloft and sing in a voice
so akin to that of his kazoo that unless one looked, one would be hard
pressed to tell the difference. Audiences, especially German ones, and
border guards astounded by his other-worldliness, would taunt and mock,
but to us, Zounds and our companions, Helmut was a priceless discovery;
an artefact of immense value whose every word and deed captivated and
fired our imaginations, and made of him, for the short duration of our
first European tour, an icon, a talisman, and ultimately a living symbol
of the overwhelming and inevitable triumph to come of the forces of
light and laughter over the grey-uniformed nemesis that policed our
waking reality.
But this, of course, was Holland, and we were very, very stoned.
Holland was a land of plenty. We travelled for a week, visiting Utrecht,
Apeldoorn, Njimegan, Rotterdam, Den Haag, Leiden and Amsterdam, and
were feasted and feted wherever we went. This was my first introduction
to the strange discrepancy that existed at the time between touring
England and touring abroad. In England one could count oneself lucky
to avoid paying for the privilege of playing in a rancid club, whose
proprietor regarded you as of slightly less importance than the cleaners,
and who would rather die than offer you a free drink. Here, we are the
lowest of tradesmen, little better than criminals; disreputable nuisances
not really necessary to the occasion but tolerated out of some vague
sense of charity. On the continent, English bands commanded princely
fees, receive hot meals and crates of free drink and were habitually
made to feel both welcome and wanted.
Even the crap ones.
High spot of the first week for me was queuing up at the dope dealer’s
counter at the Melk-Veg in Amsterdam. The novelty of buying ones’
drugs over the counter only outweighed by the smug thrill of sitting
on the bonnet of the ambulance outside, lighting up a monstrous 5-skinner
and puffing great clouds of smoke at the police station opposite. The
Amsterdam police had been much taken with the ambulance, and on our
arrival had given us a friendly escort through the incomprehensible
one-way system that guarded the approaches to the club.
Not so friendly were the West German frontier guards.
Two dates were arranged for Zounds and Troops Out in Berlin, one at
the SO36, and another in a squatted factory venue, also in Kreuzberg.
The SO36 date was billed as a ‘Festival der Aggressiver Musik’,
which sounded a little ominous to Zounds, who were lambs. We were capable
of irony, and could even stretch to sarcasm when aroused, but to have
described us as ‘Aggressiver’ was optimistic to say the
least.
First of all we had to get there. We took one half of Troops Out with
us in the ambulance - including Helmut, without whom we were as nought
- and the others followed in a borrowed car. Disaster struck at the
German border. The clipped and efficient officials told us in no uncertain
terms that there was no way we could enter their country unless we first
replaced all the tyres as they were too badly worn. Leering, the uniformed
fools went on to inform us that we’d be lucky to get back into
Holland now for the same reason, and would have to languish forever
in the 100 yard strip of no man’s land between the two checkpoints.
Fortunately the Dutch couldn’t have cared less, and by a strange
and fortuitous coincidence, a mere kilometre or so back down the road
we found a large garage specialising in tyre replacements. Faintly,
above the aroma of armpits, sleeping bags and stale roaches, I smelled
a rat.
Kevin fired up his credit card - a device I’d had no previous
experience of, and one that impressed me no end - and we got two of
the offending tyres re-cut, and the other two replaced with passable
second hand jobs. Back at the border some anxious hours later the wicked
Germans took no interest whatsoever in the tyres, but contented themselves
with rifling our pockets and dragging Steve and Helmut off to be strip-searched.
Steve because he had a naturally suspicious air, and Helmut because
they were bastards. Helmut was already in an agitated state due to the
upset in our schedule, which had forced the other vehicle to head on
to Berlin without us. Rigorous anal probing by the steely Teutonic fingers
of the customs men did nothing to improve matters. Steve was indignant
but pragmatic.
“If you think you have problems with us” jeered a blond
young god, “wait until you try to cross East Germany!” and
with this cheery thought they waved us on our way.
The East Germans, on the contrary, proved charming by comparison. Having
established that we had no radios, hidden children or explosives on
board, they lined us up by the ambulance, had a good laugh at us, took
a few photographs and then let us proceed unmolested through the Berlin
corridor. I was enchanted with the whole scenario of tanks, dogs, guns
and ‘pinko-commie bastards’ and lapped up the Cold War atmosphere
with relish. Steve tried to order vegetarian food at a service station
and almost caused an uprising, while Kevin was mesmerised by the pistols
on the belts of the Vopos at the next table.
“Imagine those chaps coming through your door at seven in the
morning!” I said to Mark the Hat “Thank the Lord for the
good old British Bobby.”
“I’ll thank the Lord for no such thing”, he answered
darkly.
Our host in Berlin was an enigmatic terrorist named Max. Darkly handsome
in the Bogart vein, Max lived in a vast L-shaped apartment off Waldemerstrasse,
high up on the sixth floor of the block with a magnificent view out
over the wall and the Eastern half of the city. Steve and I spent hours
at the window gazing in stoned fascination at the deserted streets of
communist Berlin.
In 1980, the Cold War was still very much in fashion, and Berlin still
an island in the Evil Empire. One night we saw a flashing light signalling
from a window opposite, invisible from the East, but maybe arranging
some clandestine appointment, or co-ordinating some desperate escape
plan? Like the fools we were, we flashed a light back in response, and
the morse-code stopped abruptly, inspired by who knows what kind of
terror: but we were lucky - we only had to sing about revolutions, we
didn’t have to live in one.....
Max knew all about revolutions. Besides having a pair of bizarrely painted-on
eyebrows, and a large supply of very potent Berlinner homegrown, which
he put at our disposal, he had a set of anarchist credentials hitherto
unmatched by anyone in my experience. Max had come to Berlin originally
intending to link up and work with the Red Army Faction and fight for
the cause. Unable to make contact he decided to go it alone. Did he
form a band? Did he write a fanzine? No. Max went out one night and
tried to blow up a police station with a Molotov cocktail, for which
pains he got two years in Moabitt prison. Now older and calmer, he contented
himself with innocuous and relaxing pastimes, like street-fighting and
mounting barricades on the streets of Kreuzberg, the militant population
of which district have long harboured chips on their shoulders.
Zounds divided their time in Berlin between Max’s flat - and his
homegrown - and the wall, deriving equal pleasure from the dubious fascinations
of the one, to which they owed no allegiance and from which they were
fortunate enough to be at liberty, and to the intoxications of the other
to which they were willing slaves. Max, who owed allegiance to neither,
merely raised a painted eyebrow and let us get on with it, while Troops
Out went seriously sight-seeing about town and got called ‘cheeseheads’
when they tried to buy postcards.
The Festival der Aggressiver Musik exceeded our wildest misgivings.
800 Germans with very short hair and leather jackets got wildly drunk
to the strains of Zounds, Troops Out, and half a dozen extremely aggressive
German bands. To my dismay, it was decided that I had the best drumkit,
and that for ease of stage-management it would be best if everyone were
to use it. I was not about to disagree. In the soundcheck, I was entertained
by the specatacle of an 18 stone ham-fisted German bonehead delicately,
and ostentatiously, tuning my tom-toms to his exact specifications before
beating the shit out of them with even less subtlty than I was accustomed
to using myself. It was, however, a fairly good humoured event, and
as no one either hit me or gobbed at me, I suppose I shouldn’t
complain.
Berlin has changed so much since then, but not the Berliners, who have
always been able to find something to be angry about. Kreuzberg is still
a hotbed of sedition; SO36 is still there, but the flats on Waldemerstrasse,
like the wall itself are long gone, and doubtless Max with them. Max
told us that he had plans to go to the South Pacific, and didn’t
seem the kind of chap to deal in idle chit-chat, so is probably painting
his eyebrows to this day on some South Sea island. Troops Out accompanied
Zounds back to Holland, where we made our tearful farewells and never
saw them again, and I returned with some reluctance to England, to London,
and to Albany Street at the end of the tour - none the wiser for the
experience, but just in time to sign on.
But I became very attached to Berlin. I have been back many times since
that first visit, and it has always been a pleasure. Sometimes it has
almost felt like coming home. Sometimes it has felt like the strangest
and most alien place on earth, but nowhere else, outside of this island,
have I ever felt less like a tourist, but that I truly belonged.
Recently I have made visits to the locomotive sheds at Pankow and Lichtenburg,
to Berlin Hauptbahnhof, and to other exotic locations out beyond the
Ost-Kreuz in search of rare old Deutches Reichsbahn diesel engines.
Out there, in the concrete wastelands of East Berlin, hostile, swastika
daubed and resentful of intrusion, I have found something that strikes
a chord deep within me, something that runs even deeper in my bones
than the railway, and which takes me back there again and again:
Dawn
a secret shy and cold
In shades of grey bereft of gold
Stole across the border
Caressed awake and morning-eyed
She daily through the frontier glides
And her papers are in order
She left me with an empty room
By bottle glass and smoke consumed
When duty came to call her
Now the children on the stairways speak in whispers
In the stalag-light you’re never quite at home
With the watchers and the waiters and the listeners
On the wire-tapped phone
Scarlet poppies blaze in Autumn fields
Where idle soldiers kick their heels
Now no one wants to know them
Murals fade along the wall
Where cold war tourists come no more
Now there’s nothing left to show them
Don’t get sympathy confused with understanding
When bitterness is bred into the bone
It’s indiscriminate obtrusive and demanding
And it’s better left alone
Now
Nightfall leads her labour gangs
Uneasy East of no man’s land
Where dangerous men are working
Step we gaily onward so
The voyeurs and the panders go
To peep behind the curtain
Where Karpov ceding endless games
Caught and forced to mate again
Lays down beneath his burden
They have gallows-hands to clap you on the shoulder
And tarot cards to show you where to go
If you’re worried that your welcome’s getting colder
As the fire burns low
Looking for Cold War comforts.