Iron Curtain Project

In the 50's, 60's, 70's and 80's hundreds of thousands Eastern Europeans fled for political reasons to the other side of the Iron Curtain. Nowadays many people form Central Europe still leave their country, not as political refugees, but as labor migrants. Much has changed, but their motives are often the same: the prospect of a better life. Almost always migrants and refugees treasure an object from home. 

The articles and stories were previously part of the pop-up exhibition Exit / Entry, witch was on show in Amsterdam in June 2015.

Ewa Chojecka (31) found out she was a refugee when a camera crew came by the house she grew up in, in Utrecht. Ewa was nine years old and Dutch television was making a documentary featuring her mother. She heard her mother tell the television lady her father had spent time in prison back in Poland. “Daddy didn’t do anything wrong, did he?”, her older sister asked mother afterwards. “No, daddy did something good, but other people didn’t understand”, their mother replied. And that was pretty much the end of that.

Ewa is now about the same age her mother was when she came to the Netherlands. She works as an online project coordinator at Disney Benelux, sings in a vocal group she loves to perform with, and claims she’s ‘very Dutch’. She doesn’t remember anything about her life as a small child in Poland, as she was only three years old when they left. “I don’t even know exactly why we left”, she says, sitting on the couch in the house she grew up. “Well, there was communism.” A radiant smile seems to serve as an apology: “I’m really bad at history. I know my dad was in prison. And it was really hard to find food. You needed coupons for those, right?” She casts a quick glance at her mother, who’s smoking in the doorway that leads to the garden. Her mother nods absently. “We went on a sort of vacation and never returned”, Ewa says.

Ewa’s mother had told her side of the story during a previous meeting, alone.

WHAT EWA DOESN’T KNOW

Warsaw, 1979. I’m studying Polish language and literature, and cultural anthropology. I have a sofabed with a hidden compartment that’s stuffed with books, leaflets, brochures, each and every one of them illegal. Books on civil rights, brochures on what to do if you’re arrested. They are all printed by NOWA, the underground publishing house of Miroslaw Chojecki. Miroslaw is one of the most well-known dissidents in Poland, arrested dozens of times, and co-founder of KOR, the Workers’ Defence Committee.

I’m not an activist myself, let alone a hero. The people at KOR and NOWA are. They do important things to change Poland. I merely move in the same circles. I fell in love with Slawomir Chojecki, Miroslaw’s brother, at a student party. Slawomir helps his brother by smuggling paper and ink and distribute illegal brochures, among other things.

We marry in 1980 so we can get a house. The rules determine your life’s path: without a marriage certificate people cannot apply for an apartment. Slawomir now works at the new trade union Solidarność, which emerged from the workers’ strike committees and KOR. Millions of people join Solidarność. And, more importantly: they are heard. The government even meets their demands. Everyone is optimistic, euphoric even. There is a future. It’s in that period we have our first daughter, Ola.

Ola is just four months old when there’s a loud banging on the door. It’s December 14, 1981. My father-in-law stumbles inside. ‘We’re at war!’, he yells. Thousands of people have been arrested that night – or ‘internalized’ as they prefer to call it – and my father-in-law is afraid Slawomir is next. The government has imposed martial law. Trade union Solidarność is banned, and reforms are revoked. Luckily and by sheer coincidence my brother-in-law is in France, so he’s safe. But my husband is right here, at home. We panic – what to do? After all, my husband works for Solidarność and he’s Miroslaw’s brother. Miroslaw is a famous symbol of the resistance.

He doesn’t come home that night. I know what happened, even though the police won’t tell me anything.

Tanks patrol the streets. Slawomir decides to see how the union office is doing. He doesn’t come home that night. I know what happened, even though the police won’t tell me anything. I worry about my husband – please don’t let them take him to Russia! – but the strange thing is, it was a rather wonderful period as well. Being related to a political prisoner means help is never far away. Every day, our tiny two-room apartment is chock full of friends, family, and even people I’ve never seen before. When Ola is struck by pneumonia, a pediatrician shows up at our doorstep instantly. Selflessly, she comes by every day to see how the child is doing. Factory workers even stop by to donate money.

After two weeks I can finally visit Slawomir in prison. There they tell me the authorities and other members of the resistance have advised him to leave the country. I’m furious. Nobody has passports at home. You might be able to get one for individual journeys, but that usually doesn’t apply to black-listed people like dissidents or suspects. But now all of a sudden we’re free to leave. It’s pure blackmailing! ‘Absolutely not’, I say to my husband. ‘Of course not, that’s what I’ve told them’, he replies. Poland is our country. They cannot make us leave.

Then after four months, there he is again, set free without notice. He tries to get back to work, but Solidarność has gone underground. Although Miroslaw still sends us books and leaflets to distribute, any form of organized resistance has disappeared. Many people have fled or are in prison.

I become pregnant again. Twins Ewa and Piotr are born, god help us. Raising one child under martial law was a hard, but with two extra babies we have nothing. We live on the ninth floor. There are two elevators, both of which are often out of service. Every morning I go down all those flights of stairs with our stroller and three children to stand in line for food at eight a.m. My neighbor takes my place at noon. I’m exhausted. Organizing groceries – that’s what we call it – is so utterly time and energy-comsuming. Our parents are a great help, they are. But it’s not enough. I believe I died a little when the twins were born.

There’s more than a shortage of food. It’s like there’s a net closing in on us. A neighboring policeman starts paying us unannounced ‘visits’, and we’re given a phone out of the blue. Why us? Nobody has a phone. They probably hope to be able to listen in on conversations with Miroslaw from Paris. And my husband can’t get a job anywhere. Not with that last name.

My husband tentatively touches on leaving the country, but I refuse. It’s out of the question. The ties with my country, family, and friends are simply too strong. I can’t imagine a life anywhere but in Poland.

But then in 1984, priest Jerzy Popieluszko murdered by the secret service. Popieluszko was a man of importance; he had done a lot for Solidarność. I loved him, and I’m not even a catholic. His death is followed by the Chernobyl disaster in Ukraine two years later. Polish state television tells us everything’s fine, but on Western European radio – illegal, but available – we hear the radiation is extremely dangerous.

What is happening in my country is evil, and these two events make me realize that. I worry about my children. I don’t want them to grow up in a country that thrived on lies, fear, and distrust. I want them to grow up to become honest, fair people, but it’s exactly these people that won’t manage in Poland.

For seven months I cry, all the while postponing our departure.

We decide Slawomir will travel to Western Europe to make a living, and I will ‘visit’ him with the children at a later date. Deep down I know it won’t be a mere visit, but I lie to myself to avoid thinking about the awful truth. For seven months I cry, all the while postponing our departure. My parents will see me for the very last time and I will take their grandchildren from them. Who am I to make that decision? My sweet, sweet parents.

My father is a firm communist. The dividing line of Poland cuts right through our family: my parents-in-law are famous anti-communists, my own family is communist. But they respect one another. Both families want what’s best for Poland on both sides of the barricades. You don’t betray your own country, says my father. And now I am about to do exactly that. His own daughter, on the run. Still, there are no reproaches: my parents do whatever they can to help me. But it’s horrible.

I secretly hope Ola, Piotr, Ewa and I will not get the required travel documents, but it’s conspicuously easy. They’d love to see us go in Poland. We leave from the airport at six a.m., and many friends and family members have come to say goodbye. Tensed up from stress, fear, and sadness I say goodbye knowing I will never see any of them again.

There’s a group of people at Schiphol Airport waiting for us, too. They are Dutch friends who helped my husband, some of whom I still know from our trips back in the seventies. They carry balloons, cake, and stuffed animals for the children. It’s unbelievably sweet, but I don’t notice anything. We go to the house of one of the Dutch people – I don’t even know who they are – and put Ewa, Piotr, and Ola with the other kids. Within an hour after our arrival I hear Ewa utter a Dutch word! I myself barely know where I am, who I am, I want to die. But they have started their new lives.

Ewa doesn’t know any of that. Mirka never told her this story. Ewa’s parents felt children had to be protected from the past. In turn, Ewa doesn’t ask about it for fear of emotionally burdening her mother. Hesitantly, without looking at her mother, Ewa says: “Actually, maybe I’m fine the way it is. I have a great life here, and I am thankful they have come to the Netherlands. I wouldn’t mind hearing the facts, but inevitably that would also bring back all the emotions. Then I’d rather not hear the story at all. Not yet, anyway. It’s still to difficult.” She laughs, because it softens her words.

WHAT EWA KNOWS

There was fear in the Netherlands as well. Poverty, unemployment and red tape paralyze Mirka. She describes her feelings stressing every word: “What. To. Do. Now.” It starts upon arrival, when Mirka finds out Slawomir’s request for asylum was denied. After two years and many complicated procedures, they are granted permanent residence after all. Mirka start working at a daycare center, her husband at Douwe Egberts. But after three months they receive bad news yet again: they’re not allowed to work. They have to pay back their salaries and must apply for welfare. Mirka is desperate. “These rules made no sense! Where on earth did I end up?” They file a lawsuit that goes up to the Supreme Court. They win, and the rules are changed. But it’s a long time before Mirka finds a new job. There’s the language barrier, and since Polish immigrants are not considered a ‘recognized minority’ the employment office didn’t help her to find work ‘like they did for other foreigners’.

“My mother is who she is because of what she’s been through. At times, it’s hard for me to understand her”

Ewa’s parents get a divorce when she is twelve. Ewa’s father returns to Poland to look for work to support his children, but to no avail. Without child support, her mother tries to make ends meet in the Netherlands by working as an interpreter and translator. The children grow up as their mother tries not to collapse. Ewa: “Believe me, you notice when your mother is not feeling well. It took quite a while. I think until I turned twenty, and after that it was on and off. It was only five years ago that she started doing much better.” She smiles at her mother, apologetically. Mirka nods.

“My mother is who she is because of what she’s been through. At times, it’s hard for me to understand her”, Ewa says. “Like my urge to stock up on gorceries?”, her mother inquires. Ewa snickers. “For example. But I also think you’re quite negative. It’s something we have fought over often. I like to stress the positive, but you only see the negative.” Mirka exhales smoke into the garden. “Unfortunately, I have to agree. That’s how the Polish are. We have gotten used to that double life: we did what we had to do but deep down we rejected everything – no, no, no.” She stops to think. “Maybe I’m even more negative because of my personal experiences. What can I say? I’ve had a tough life.” Ewa: “And that’s okay! But you might want to try and look on the bright side of things a bit more, because you’re doing really well. You live in a beautiful country, you have a boyfriend, and a job. I find it hard to deal with that negativity, so sometimes I take a step back.”

Her mother puts out her cigarette. “You see,” she says almost triumphantly, “I’ve been too lenient on them.” Smiling: “They’ve had too much freedom to make their own choices.”

Misha FurmanMisha Furman (67) was five years old when the KGB came to his door. The secret agents ransacked his home, found a number of books in Hebrew, and took his father. He was sentenced to ten years in prison. Because he used to be a member of a Jewish association when he was younger.

From that moment, he and his mother had to fend for themselves. “I saw my father once or twice, from a distance and through bars. That's it”, says the short, quiet Lithuanian in his Rotterdam home. “He was transferred to Russia, to a prison near the Volga River. I couldn't visit him there.”

Still, Neringa fears Russia. And she's not the only one. “Fear of Russia is widespread in our country, so much so that it becomes a part of you. Everyone talks about it”, Neringa says – straight blonde hair, intense look – via Skype. And she's not only referring to uneducated elderly people, but to her own generation just as well. “That includes my friends who have seen the world and whom I respect. Especially when Russia 'makes a move', like execute military drills near the Lithuanian border or fly through Lithuanian airspace, it's the talk of the town and mass hysteria takes over.”

To be fair, Lithuanian history is riddled with foreign oppressors. “Long ago, in the 14^th or 15^th century, our country was rich and wealthy. But we've been oppressed by someone or other ever since. Be it the Swedes, the Germans, the Russians, whoever. Everyone just barged right in. It's no wonder fear of occupation and oppression is in our genes.”

BUGGING DEVICES

Misha FurmanThey barely talked about the Soviet system at Misha's. “You had to be careful at all times”, he remembers. If he and his family visited friends, everything was unplugged, including the phone. In case they were bugged. Sometimes they received a letter from his father in prison, but most of it was crossed out with black marker. Only positive news remained, we had no idea how he was really doing”, Misha says.

Times were tough for his mother. She had to work in a yarn factory to take care of herself and her son. Misha remembers the long lines to buy a kilogram of flour. “We had next to nothing. There were even little kids who were willing to stand in line with you for a dime. It gave you the right to an extra bag of flour.”

Looking back, Misha doesn't think he fully grasped what was going on. It turned out his neighbor and playmate was the son of a KGB officer. “I later realized my mother handled that exceptionally well.” But when Misha accidentally hit his neighbor in the head with a pebble, resulting in a bloody trip to the hospital, his mother panicked. “Thankfully, nothing happened. My mother apologized politely, and that was that.”

CRYING SOLDIERS

Neringa Rekašiūtė The confrontation with the Russians suddenly became very real when last spring Neringa's partner received a letter. He will join the army in September. He has to. Days after the letter, more and more friends called: they, too, had received the letter. By the end of summer they'd be soldiers, while now they were having careers. Some just had their first child.

NATO military executes fighter jet drills to support Baltic states.New York Times news article of June 13, 2015: US poised to send heavy weaponry to Baltic States.
Early this year, for fear of the Russians, Lithuanian government reinstated the draft for all men aged 19 to 27. After annexation of the Crimea and the streak of violence in Ukraine, the government decided they had to prepare themselves for a possible attack. NATO was asked to dispatch three thousand men. Although an air or land war with the Russians seems unlikely, NATO has regular drills with fighter jets, because Russia is just too unpredictable.

And it was recently announced the United States are considering sending heavy weaponry to the Baltic States, which would be the first time since the Cold War ended.

Neringa is an advocate of the military reinforcement of Lithuania, but strongly opposes the annual 'lottery' that randomly drafts 3,500 men. As a reaction, she made a portrait series titled 'They Won the Lottery' of young men in military outfits, crying. “All of a sudden these boys have to spend nine months of their lives in the army. And if they don't want to, they're considered wimps.” The portraits are meant to convey there's nothing wrong with men showing their feelings, and spark the debate on 'manliness'.

“I was labeled ‘the enemy’ and ‘traitor’ in the country”

And boy, did she know it. Lithuanian media was all over the young photographer: she made it to many a front page and the phone was ringing off the hook because TV stations were dying to interview her. “It was hell”, she says. “I was attacked by anyone and everyone. How dare I criticize the state?” She was labeled ‘the enemy’ and ‘traitor’ more than once.

Neringa believes that this narrow-minded mentality, as she saw it, has lingered from Soviet times. “Lithuanians are still not used to criticism.” But the fear of Russian threat played a part as well, she feels. “We are extremely scared of Russia; we’re afraid criticism on something like the draft won’t be tolerated. For fear that that criticism might be used as Russian propaganda.”

THE VIOLIN

Misha Furman“My father’s whole life was dedicated to giving me a free and good life, away from occupation”, says Misha. During WWII, his parents lost their two sons, aged two and four. They never spoke about it, not when Misha was older, either. He only knows he once had two brothers from some of his parents' acquaintances who were in the same concentration camp. His mother sometimes sang a song from the camp at home, but she never managed to finish it. Misha was a post-war child that was to grow up in freedom. The problem: after the Germans left, the Russians came and a new occupation started.

In Soviet times, Misha's father was a barber. The state required him to cut approximately 200 people a month at 80 rubles a head. Just enough for his family to live on for a week. So Misha's dad did what everyone around him did, too: make money on the side and cut extra people. “I think he had some 500 customers a month”, says Misha.

“The quality of music lessons is the only advantage of the Soviet system”

Misha's father would do everything for his son, which also showed when five-year-old Misha – six months after his father was sent to prison – decided he wanted to play the violin. 'Your son has gone mad', his mother wrote in a letter to his father in prison. A few months later, an envelope with money arrived. His father had been cutting prison wardens, which had earned him some extra cash. 'For your violin' the note said.

Misha's mother bought a violin and Misha started his lessons. They were extremely strict. “It's the only advantage of the Soviet system”, Misha says. “If you wanted to learn how to play the violin, you learned how to play the violin. Not soccer, not judo, only the violin. That's why the best musicians are from Eastern Europe.”

Then, after a year and nine months, something entirely unexpected happened: Misha's father came home. “It was a moment I will never forget. We celebrated like there was no tomorrow”, says Misha. “They said he was set free 'because of Stalin's error'.” Khrushchev had come to power and pardoned over one million prisoners.

NO POINTS

Neringa Rekašiūtė The renewed Russian threat requires a firm stand against the large neighboring country, Nerigna feels. “I'm happy our president is not afraid to express his sentiments explicitly. And it's a good thing we're reinforcing our military, as it is a clear sign to NATO we're ready to help out if need be.”
But seemingly insignificant signals and protests matter just as well, she believes. She felt proud when Lithuania gave the Russians no points at the Eurovision Song Contest. “That was an historical moment. No points! That had never happened before”, she chuckles.

No matter how rebellious Neringa may seem today, her grandparents were conformists during the Soviet system. “They didn't question anything and behaved as they should”, says Neringa. Her parents are slightly more liberal than her grandfathers and grandmothers, but still did as they were told. With a look of pride in her eyes she talks about one of her mother's rebellious friends, who used to go out in miniskirts and jeans regularly. For that she was arrested more than once.

Her father often tells Neringa he's jealous of her, the way she can travel the world. When he was younger, he got to visit Amsterdam for an exchange program once. That's where he saw the free world for the first time ever. “It made a deep impression on him”, she says.

COCA-COLA AND TOILET PAPER

Misha Furman Since they wanted Misha to grow up in a free world, they had no choice but to leave Lithuania. For thirteen years straight, year after year, their requests for exit visa were rejected. In 1969 their luck turned: they were allowed to leave the country.

On the day of their departure Misha carried a bag of clothes in one hand, and his beloved violin in the other. But upon arrival at the border he was told he couldn't bring his violin. He had to leave it behind. He was devastated.

They boarded a train to Budapest, where they stayed the night. It was the first time in his life Misha saw and used toilet paper. By the time they arrived in Israel Misha felt he was in paradise. “But Coca-Cola didn't do it for me. It tasted like soap, really”, he says.

“But Coca-Cola didn't do it for me. It tasted like soap, really”

After that, things started moving fast for Misha the violinist. He was admitted to the music academy in Israel and played in a string quartet. And then, six months after arriving in Israel, his violin arrived after all. A friend who also came to Israel had smuggled it in his luggage.

Seven years later, in 1976, Misha came to the Netherlands. He was young and wanted to see more of the world. Misha has been living in the Netherlands for almost forty years now, and continued playing until his retirement – for the Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra, among others. He still teaches at the Rotterdam Conservatory.

His parents remained in Israel. Misha's father felt at peace there almost instantly. And his mission to have his son grow up in freedom had succeeded.

Lithuania is now a holiday destination for Misha only. He would never want to live there anymore. His stays are spent visiting locations he wasn't allowed to go when he was young, including a stretch of nature that used to belong to the Russians. And he visits old friends and his violin teacher. “They worry”, says Misha. “Who doesn't fear Putin?”

Neringa Rekašiūtė For Neringa, it is vital Lithuania will remain part of Europe, as freedom means the world to her. “Ultimately, I want to live in a country where people trust each other, feel free, and are not afraid to express themselves. Where we no longer live in fear.” But considering the unpredictability of their big bully neighbor, that won't be easy, she thinks.

Would she have been as rebellious as she is now in Soviet times? “Definitely”, she says resolutely. “It's in my veins.” Then, laughing: “But then I would have been thrown in jail a long time ago. Far, far away in Russia.”

In Thuringia the GDR is never far away. A few months ago, the eastern German federal state elected a Minister-President of Die Linke, a party that has its origins in the SED directly. Some party members have even been Stasi members. On the day he took office, new president Bodo Ramelow apologized to GDR victims on behalf of his party.

“Being the brand new president, Ramelow apologized to me. I wish I could have got up and walked away, it was that awkward,” says Andreas Möller (71). Möller is the former editor-in-chief of newspaper Bild Thüringen. But ever since the inaugural speech of his friend Bodo Ramelow, Möller has become a symbol –both in Germany and abroad – of the injustice many GDR people suffered.

Bodo Romelow was appointed the new Minister-President in December of 2014, the year of the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Wall. The controversial choice became world news. Die Linke is rooted in communism: the party has its origins in the SED, the GDR communist party. At least two members of Die Linke in Thuringia once worked for the Stasi. And of the 28 members of the Thuringia branch, two-thirds have an SED history. Several media judged the victory ‘a nightmare for Stasi victims’. By addressing Möller, Ramelow wanted to show the world his party is willing to face GDR history, and accept responsibility for the process of coming to terms with that past.

APOLOGIES FROM THE MINISTER-PRESIDENT

Möller and Ramelow have known each other for years, says Möller. He’s seated in his living room in Arnstadt, a Thuringia village. His wife is sitting next to him. When Ramelow suddenly turned to him last December, in front of the entire Landtag and in the presence of some 350 journalists, he had been unpleasantly surprised. To avoid the barrage of questions from journalists he had even hidden in the bathrooms afterwards. Today, he can see what Ramelow tried to do, even though he’s still a little upset that googling his name results in dozens of news items popping up. Yet he admits: “By apologizing, Ramelow has shown he’s a good politician most of all. And he’s brave: many of his followers don’t agree with him at all. I commend him for trying to reconcile with the past. All Germans should do the same thing, to be honest.”

In the East German federal state of Thuringia, the past looms between the hills like smog. History is never far away: Buchenwald, one of the largest concentration camps of Nazi Germany is a mere thirty minutes’ drive from Möller’s house. The nearby town of Gera still has a former Stasi prison. Years ago, there was talk of a department store taking its place, but upon hearing the plans, ex-prisoners occupied the prison and demanded it become a monument. They have reached a compromise since: the front is a monument, the back is for shopping. Events that help work through the GDR past – die Aufarbeitung – are organized monthly in Thuringia. Möller attends them whenever he can: “The theme must be discussed. Younger generations must face our history, too. They should know what their parents and grandparents have done. And then, in thirty or maybe forty years, ‘the GDR’ might be processed once and for all.”

THE YOUNG GENERATION

On the fifth Floor of the Landtag in Thuringia’s capital Erfurt, we find the workplace of Die Linke delegates. Posters with slogans against far-right extremism are everywhere: ‘Stop Nazis’ and ‘No place for neo-Nazis’. The average member is sixty years old, but 23-year old Christian Schaft is the exception to the rule. He joined Die Linke when he was only sixteen. Why does a young boy join a party with a history like Die Linke? There are more people who wonder the same thing, says Schaft. During their campaign in the fall of 2014, he was called ‘wall protector’ and ‘Stasi spy’ more than once. When he joined in 2007, he shamefully admits he had no clue about the history of his party. “I just wanted be involved with left-wing politics.” His gymnasium had to close its doors due to a lack of pupils. Schaft opposed the closure, and set out to find a way to make a change. Enter politics.

Prior to the latest elections, he decided to read up on the history of his party. He asked his parents about their lives in GDR times: He asked them what it was like to live in a state that suddenly ceases to exist. His parents did relatively well in the GDR, Schaft says. They had conformed to the system and were both members of the SED. His father was in the National People’s Army (NVA); his mother worked with the Free German Youth (FDJ). “They never resisted the system. But after the fall of the Wall, they did study the theme thoroughly.”

His parents, like hundreds of thousands of other Germans, wanted to know whether they had been spied on or not. Both turned out to have a file. His father didn’t ask to see his file, but his mother did. Schaft had a quick look at her documents, which showed blacked out lines mostly: “Much has been obscured, so many questions remain. For example, my mother doesn’t know who spied on her.” Yes, it may well have been a friend or family member, Schaft realizes. Schaft is getting uncomfortable with the conversation. He has not brought up the topic with his parents anymore: “They’re still struggling with what happened, obviously. They knew what the Stasi was in GDR days, and they knew people were employed at the service. But the notion they have been spied on still has to dawn on them, I believe.”

THE ROTTEN GDR SYSTEM

Andreas Möller has much more to process. Tears are rolling down his cheeks as he recounts the time he helped a pregnant woman flee to the west in 1963 –he was only nineteen. The plan failed and they were caught. Möller ended up in the Potsdam Stasi prison. Every two weeks they took him to the infamous Stasi prison Hohenschönhausen in Berlin. “That’s where they would interrogate me and confront me with other people.” His prison cell had no daylight. “Stasi officers wanted to drive you insane. They were known to manipulate the light: sometimes they left the lights on for twenty hours on end, followed by a long period of utter darkness. Without a clock or wristwatch the night seemed never-ending.” One remark a Stasi offer made has stuck with him all this time. In a deep voice, Möller says: “’If I want to, you’ll get out of here. But aggravate me, and this will be the end of the road for you. You will evaporate like water in the sun.’ Such words are terrifying to any nineteen-year-old.”

After Potsdam and Hohenschönhausen, Möller was transferred to a prison in Thuringia, where he was picked up by a group of officials one day. Without the slightest explanation, Möller was ordered into a minivan, only to get out at Hohenschönhausen once again. He turned out to be part of a secret operation: the West had ransomed him and a group of other prisoners. The operation was top secret. Möller: “We were located at a special location. Our food wasn’t brought to us by guards, but by high-ranked officers. I also saw the man who wanted to see me evaporate like water. When he brought me my meal, it was like justice being served.”

He became a journalist, and after the fall of the Wall he interviewed many people about their experiences. He remembers a woman whose husband had spied on her for years. She even had his baby. “Spied on by her own husband!” His voice cracks. Years after the fall, he talked to a Therapist who specializes in the trauma processing of Stasi victims. He told him: ‘Mr. Möller, you were barely twenty years old when you were thrown in jail. You have to accept that you may never really get out.’ “And he was right. It never ends. Ever.”

A REMARKABLE FRIENDSHIP

The doorbell rings. “It could be Bodo, Möller says mindlessly. Möllers wife rushes to the door. Moments later, Bodo Ramelow (58, dark grey suit) walks in: “My excellent secret service informed me you’d have journalists visiting today.” Möller guffaws. He and Ramelow have known each other for years. After the fall of the iron curtain they both moved to Thuringia. Möller lived in the West for quite some time after he had been ransomed, but he returned to his home state Thuringia. He founded the newspaper Bild Thüringen and moved into the house that was once his grandfather’s. Ramelow is from West Germany originally, but he came to Thuringia to reform the union. Until then, unions were dominated by the state entirely. Ramelow became involved in politics rather fast: in 1999, he joined the legal successor to the SED: PDS (Party of Democratic Socialism), which would later merge to become Die Linke. That’s how he ended up in the federal-state department of Thuringia. Between 2005 and 2009, he was a member of the German Bundestag. After that, he returned to Thuringia politics once again.

“We met when he was a journalist at Bild – there was nothing worse.” Möller: “Yes, there was: being a Bolshevik like you.”

The two men proceed to talk about their friendship. Ramelow: “We met when he was a journalist at Bild – there was nothing worse.” Möller: “Yes, there was: being a Bolshevik like you.” Ramelow retorts: “In the nineties, there wasn’t a week that went by without his newspaper publishing two articles saying I was a bastard. Möller: “A left-wing communist, yes. Because of your party, I’ve had several very unpleasant experiences.” But eventually they clicked and a real friendship was the result, they boast. Ramelow: “Our friendship started when Möller took me to see the Stasi prison in Potsdam. He showed me where he was abused, where he had lain on the floor in his own blood.”

Now, what was the deal apologizing to Andreas? Why hadn’t he informed him beforehand? Ramelow: “The night before I was appointed Minister-President I had a dream about Andreas. I startled awake at 2 a.m. That’s when I knew I had to address Andreas. Otherwise it would all be too abstract,” Ramelow concludes. “So you dream about me, huh? Who would have thought?” Möller winks.

A CONFLICTED PARTY

Can Möller even accept Ramelow’s apologies? Möller: “I accept his apologies, but not those of Herr Kuschel (member of Die Link in Thuringia, former SED member, and Stasi informant, ed.), for example.” It’s why he would never vote Die Linke: “There are too many party members I don’t want to be friendly with, including former Stasi members, informants, and SED supporters.”

So why does Ramelow want to be part of a party like that? Ramelow: “I understand where Andreas is coming from. Having said that, I’m from West Germany and it’s not my history. I’ve never spent time in Stasi prisons. I moved here 25 years ago. When I joined this party, I knew who I’d be dealing with.” Asked about Frank Kuschel, he says: “I may come the same conclusion as Andreas, but I judge things differently. Right now, Kuschel is among the party members that are most actively involved in the DDR theme. He’s pondering his responsibility – it’s tough.”

It’s extremely important to Ramelow that the outside world realizes he’s working very hard for Thuringia to reconcile with the past. And it’s not easy with a party that’s divided, the Minister-President acknowledges. During coalition negotiations, SPD and Die Grünen demanded the coalition treaty to include the GDR was an ‘Unrechtsstaat’ (state of injustice). Their demand led to months of heated debate within Die Linke. Ramelow: “One half agreed for practical reasons, but the other half resisted and felt judged by the term ‘Unrechtsstaat’. Many members felt the expression would insult and alienate a significant part of their followers, including many former DDR officials.” The eventual coalition states the DDR was a state of injustice ‘in consequence’: Die Linke managed to nuance the verdict after all.

“Many people still don’t want to talk about their GDR history, because they would have to admit they were part of the system, too.”

It makes sense, then, that his party wasn’t exactly thrilled when Ramelow suddenly diverted from his official inaugural speech to apologize to Möller. Ramelow: “Many people still don’t want to talk about their GDR history, because they would have to admit they were part of the system, too.”

‘WELL, IT’S NOT EASY IN THURINGIA’

By now, Die Linke member Christian Schaft knows the history of his party will not be forgotten lightly. “That’s why I intend to come to terms with said history.” He admits it’s challenging for someone born in 1991: “As a politician, you want to improve things and look to the future, yet you can’t lose sight of history.” He noticed the impact the ‘Unrechtsstaat’ discussion had on his party. “In the end, we’ve established that the term only marks the beginning of our reconciliation. The fact it was an unjust system shouldn’t and doesn’t affect the biographies of people from the GDR. The latter proved very important to many members.”

Schaft understands why Stasi victims would object to the new government. Still, as far as he’s concerned Die Linke stands for something different altogether: “I’ve joined the party because I’m left-wing. To me, Die Linke is everything the SED wasn’t. The two parties may be linked historically, but I don’t believe the SED ideology has lingered.” He pauses, then smiles: “Obviously, I can say this because I have the advantage of being born after the fall of the Wall.”

In GDR times, East Berlin football club 1. FC Union Berlin was known for being anti-Stasi. In the stadium, supporters chanted ‘Die Mauer muß weg’. 25 years after the fall the club has not let go of its image of necessary irritant yet, although now its supporters fight Red Bull rather than the secret service. Union always comes first.

In the Köpenick disctrict on the very outskirts of East Berlin, players of FC Schluckauf ’82 are preparing for their match against Hobelbank. They’re going over their tactics in the pouring rain. A handful of friends and family have gathered in the dugout to watch the game.

Schluckauf ’82 is a supporters’ club: all members are really fan of professional football club 1. FC Union Berlin. There must be at least eighty of this type of clubs, says Schluckauf ’82 coach and founder Frank Völker (54). He’s standing next to the goal. His boys won this year’s competition by beating every supporters’ club, for which they were honored in Alten Försterei, the stadium of 1. FC Union Berlin. A tremendous honor: “They were welcomed like true professionals.”

The stadium is a special place for supporters. In 2008, it was renovated entirely by fans, because the club was in dire straits financially. All together, fans have worked on the renovations for approximately 140 thousand hours. Völker: “Everyone has contributed to the stadium. I even know people who temporarily quit their jobs.” Then, the supporters bought the stadium: every club member put in 500 euros.

It’s a real working class club, according to Völker. Just like Köpenick is a real working class neighborhood. You won’t find a place that sells soy burgers and lattes here, unlike in other, more hipster parts of East Berlin. The club is like family. If Union wins, every bar near the stadium will give out free rounds of beer, says Völker. They even celebrate Christmas together. Over twenty thousand fans get together in the stadium every year to sing Silent Night and O Tannenbaum. The club’s anthem Die Hymne, performed by East German singer Nina Hagen, also blares through the speakers at Christmas time – and at every match: Wir aus dem Osten/ geh’n immer nach vorn/ Schulter an Schulter/ für Eisern Union/ Hart sind die Zeiten/ und hart ist das Team/ Darum siegen wir/ mit Eisern Union (translation: We from the east/ will always go forward/ side by side/ for the Iron Union/ Times are tough/ and tough is our team/ That’s why we win/ with the Iron Union).

In GDR times, the supporters felt connected through their fight against the communist system. Together, they chanted anti-Stasi slogans. “Beating BFC Dynamo Berlin – the secret service home team – felt like we’d single-handedly taken down the Wall,” says Völker. It’s a feeling that still unites long-time fans to this day. For younger fans today, the club is mostly an ordinary football club, Volker says. His never takes his eyes off the brightly-lit field. “Younger supporters who grew up after the fall of the Wall don’t know the real Union fan culture. Mostly, they want to light fireworks in the stadium and party in a bar afterwards.”

“Younger supporters mostly, they want to light fireworks in the stadium and party in a bar afterwards.”

Whenever he attends a match in Alten Försterei, he’s still among the same people he watched the game with back in 1975. “I wouldn’t say they want the Wall to be resurrected, but from the moment the borders opened, East Germans have been going through a lot.” He sums up: issues concerning drugs, prostitution, and foreigners. “We never had to deal with any of that before. The younger generation has no idea. Last summer several Union fans were at the World Cup in Brazil. That would have been unimaginable 25 years ago. But even after all these years, the relations between East and West Germany are still crooked. There’s still a divide: the east is still poor, and the west is still rich.”

UNION VERSUS THE SECRET SERVICE

Völker has been an 1. FC Union Berlin supporter since 1973. A friend took him to a match after school one time, and from that moment he could be found at Alten Försterei every single week. Völker: “I’m lucky he didn’t take me to BFC Dynamo, or I might have become a Dynamo supporter.” He laughs at his own joke. In the GDR era BFC Dynamo Berlin and 1. FC Union Berlin were fierce rivals. BFC Dynamo president was Erich Mielke, who was also head of the Stasi. He used tricks that made sure BFC Dynamo won the GDR Oberliga year after year: bribing and threatening referees, and taking players from other clubs and ‘delegating’ them to Dynamo, as it was called. And whenever 1. FC Union was ahead, they’d just add another ten minutes to the match, says the coach.

The greatest game Völker ever saw dates back to 1976, when 1. FC Union miraculously beat BFC Dynamo. “They tried everything: extra time, penalties, but nothing worked.” As a result, Dynamo had no chance of winning the competition anymore, as opposed to every other year. Völker: “That in itself was considered a crime against the state.” He remembers him and 20 thousand other Union fans parading through Friedrichstrasse, right alongside the Wall. Völker: “It was a major victory. We had beaten the system.”

“We had beaten the system.”

Soon, Völker started noticing men wearing suits and ties in Alten Försterei more and more often. It was obvious they weren’t fans. “They took pictures and were always there.” Their presence didn’t stop him from singing along, though. If his team was granted a free kick and the opponent formed wall, the fans would sing: ‘Die Mauer muß weg, Die Mauer muß weg!’ Völker: “We’d also chant ‘Scheisse Stasi!’” Völker beams with pride talking about it. “We mainly wanted to rattle the police.” His assistant coach is nodding next to him: “Union was a club for rebels. Like The Rolling Stones.” Suddenly, Völker explodes. His boys are screwing up against Hobelbank. “Defense! Look left!” He’s pacing up and down the line, gesturing wildly. All his boys can do is sprint across the wet grass.

POST-WALL FANS

At halftime, all six members of the audience gather in the strip-lit container behind the football pitch, which serves as a cafeteria. Packets of shag tobacco are prodced, and half-liter beer cans are opened. The five men and a single woman are eager to talk about their love for Union – a love that was kindled only after the Wall had fallen.

“You can tell it comes straight from the heart.”

What was the deal exactly with the club in GDR times? Nobody really talks to each other about that. Older supporters who’ve grown up in the GDR have explained Union was an anti-Stasi club, of course. “It’s still tangible whenever we play against Dynamo,” one of the boys tells us. “During those matches, the long-time fans are louder than the young supporters. They’ll roar non-stop for ninety minutes. You can tell it comes straight from the heart.” The post-Wall fans love it, and always join in, but forget all about Dynamo Berlin the next day: "That club has been insignificant for years now. They play Oberliga, while we play 2. Bundesliga.”

Tobias Ott (26) is in the cafeteria as well. He’s been a fan ever since he could walk, he says. Ten years ago, his father – a hardcore Union Berlin supporter from Köpenick – took him to the blood bank for the Blüten für Union campaign. Ott visisted the blood bank as often as he could, because every cent he made from it went directly to Union. The campaign was set up by fans to help their team into the Regional Liga. The club was only allowed to play regional if it had a 1.46 million-euro reserve. And Union could leave that to the fans.

To Ott, the club comes first: he spends at least a couple thousand euros a year on Union. His employers – he works in home care and food and beverage – won’t put him on the work schedule when Union plays. And he travels the country to see his club play in every corner of Germany. He, too, helped build the stadium, although he claims that’s nothing special: “We’ve all contributed.” The others nod in agreement.

The club’s GDR history doesn’t really interest him. He’s not very political, he says. He does, however, strongly oppose the trend of sports sponsorship becoming more important than football itself. Last September he and thousands of other Union fans joined the campaign against club RB Leipzig. The campaign was a protest against Red Bull, the owner and main sponsor of the East German club. Alten Försterei was decorated with banners reading ‘In Leipzig stirbt die Fussballkultur’ (Leipzig’s football culture is dying) and texts the like. At the entrance, Union supporters gave out thousands of black ponchos to fellow fans. The first ten minutes of the match, all black-clad Union fans were completely silent. RB Leipzig supporters didn’t know what hit them. Then after ten minutes Union fans started a countdown after which they burst out chanting Eisern Union! Eisern Union! The stadium exploded, says Ott.

The club is proud of the fact it’s not dependent on a single sponsor like RB Leipzig. Besides, Union has a reputation to uphold: in 2009, the club let go of their main sponsor ISP because the manager had a Stasi past. Völker: “A club can’t do business with someone who has worked with the Stasi for ten years. Money is less important to Union than our history and our image.” Striking detail: when in 2011 it came to light their own chairman president Dirk Zingler had been affiliated with Stasi, he could stay. “Zingler spent three years with the Stasi , but only because he wanted to go to college. You were only allowed to apply for college after having spent at least 18 months in the military. Since Zingler has done so many great things for our club over the past years, firing him didn’t cross anyone’s mind.”

The rainy night ends in a 1-3 loss for FC Schluckauf ’82 against Hobelbank. A shame, we should have done much better considering our status of champions, Völker says a few days later. He’s sitting at a table outside Die kleinste Brauerei Deutschlands (Germany’s smallest brewery) in Köpenick. It’s twelve in the afternoon, and Völker orders a half liter cherry beer with chilis.

Völker also participated in the campaign against RB Leipzig: “Of course,” he says. Anything for Union. The club wants to show the public it doesn’t depend on sponsors. Nina Hagen even touched on it in her club anthem: Wer lässt sich nicht vom Westen kaufen?/ Eisern Union, Eisern Union! (Who won’t be bought by the West?/ The Iron Union, the Iron Union!) Still, Völker believes the younger generation’s aversion to sports sponsorship must be taken with a pinch of salt. “Yes, Union is against commercial sponsorship to an extent. The Alten Försterei can never be sold, and the stadium belongs to the fans.” But the older generation knows better than that, says Völker: “Union can’t survive without sponsors. And if it weren’t for Red Bull, Leipzig would no longer have a football time. That’s just the way it is.”

Without money, we’re done, he states matter-of-factly. “Those kids have tunnel vision. All they can think of is being against it all, but at the same time they show up at trainings sipping from a can of Red Bull. I have to say there are fanatics who won’t touch Red Bull ever again – they’ve switched to other energy drinks.”

WORKING AT THE UNION GAS STATION

At the brightly-lit Zapfstelle 1. FC Union Berlin gas station close to Schöneweide Station – also in Köpenick – we find Daniel Zwick (29) behind the counter. He stopped drinking Red Bull after the campaign against RB Leipzig in September of this year. He does still sell it. He just started his shift. It’s nine thirty, and he only gets off work at five in the morning. This is what he does five nights a week. It is what it is, he says, and shrugs. Zwick: “I want to work here. What other employee would allow me to wear a Union T-shirt for eight hours?” It’s his dream job, even if he’s had to give up a lot for it. “I hardly see daylight, and my friends say I make little money, but it’s all for the club.”

A football club with its own gas station. Union slogans are everywhere. Over the beverage cooler it says Eisern Union!. Apart from magazines and snacks, the store also offers Union T-shirts and pennants. The wall’s adorned with black-and-white pictures of well-known players from days past, and a TV screen shows the club’s highlights. Tickets for Union matches can be bought at the register. You’d think the money of people coming here all ends up with the football club.

Zwick: “The fans think the same thing. They’ll make a detour just to pump gas here so they can support their club. Then again, there are people who drive to another gas station for the exact opposite reason, too. Thing is, this gas station doesn’t belong to Union. It’s a Total station, and they happen to sponsor Union.

Zwick was four when the Wall fell. He doesn’t remember it at all, but sometimes his mother talks to him about that time. She used to work at a butcher’s in Köpenick. “She’ll say it wasn’t all bad, because everyone received education, had a job, and a home.”

What are his dreams for the future? He hopes to win the lottery, he laughs. Then, sincerely: he wants to keep his job at the Union gas station for as long as possible. It’s his dream job. If only he’d have fewer night shifts: “I can do this for another four years at the most; these night shifts have been really tough for a year now.” He pauses. His actual dream would be to travel to the US and do Route 66. “But if I can’t save for that, 1. FC Union making it into the 1. Bundesliga would be great, too.”