Back in the days when Germany was still separated firmly into the DDR — Deutsche Demokratische Republik or east Germany — and the BRD — Bundesrepublik Deutschland or west Germany — it was really hard to cross the border into east Germany from any country that wasn’t part of the Soviet Union.

You had to make an official request that had to be granted by the eastern German authorities, which didn’t happen often for western Germans to visit eastern Germany, and rarely ever for eastern Germans for visiting the BRD

At the border, even if you had all the required paperwork, you had to endure tedious searching and questioning. There were very strict rules on what you could bring with you into the DDR and equally strict rules on what you could export. The border was very wide, with only small control points where you could cross. The land in between was a death zone full of mines, and people who tried to cross the borders without a legal pass and travel permit risked being shot; if you tried to pass through the death zone you also risked being shot or blown up, and if you got caught, definite incarceration.

But the eastern Germans weren’t bad people. They were friendly and generous, and it was well known that the border patrol was usually much more friendly and lenient if you brought your whole family, as long as your papers were on order.

I was still very young when my parents started visiting friends in eastern Germany. They would bring them many goods that were hard to get in eastern Germany and sometimes even smuggled medications. They did this rarely since it was very risky — not lose your life risky but definitely being held for quite a while and never allowed to come back risky. It was also required to exchange a certain amount of western money into eastern currency, but you couldn’t change it the other way round and couldn’t take any money with you out of eastern Germany; it was strictly prohibited and would definitely result in prison time if you got caught.

To make things easier, we would all go together as a family, and since I was so young, I didn’t really understand all the stress and the seriousness of the whole situation. The border guards were indeed always very friendly to me and my mom, and the border checks were intense but short. 

As a German girl, I didn’t really understand weapons or what the guns of the guards meant, so I enjoyed those trips. Our friends’ family had a small farm with chickens and sheep, and I loved it there. I was always sad when we went back home, and the guards always thought that was cute.

One time when we went back home, things were different from the other times. At first, everything was normal. An older border guard, [Border Guard #1], checked our papers and told us to drive on the side for a quick check-up. He saw me sniffing because I had to leave before the birthday of my personal friend, the family’s young daughter, and he bowed down to reassure me before he left.

But then, everything went downhill. 

One of the younger guards decided that my father was behaving suspiciously and ordered a full search of the car. That meant we all had to leave the car, during early spring in No Man’s Land. Everything around us was flat and open; you could only see the street, the border posts, the watchtowers, and the empty death zone between the mesh fences topped with barbed wire. It was extremely cold, and I had to watch as several angry-looking soldiers filched through our car. I was terrified.

Meanwhile, another border guard questioned my father next to me while I clung to my mother.

Border Guard #2: “Why did you come to the DDR?”

Border Guard #2: “What did you take there?”

Border Guard #2: “What did you bring back with you?”

Border Guard #2: “Do you have any money still on hand? You know it is forbidden to bring any money with you…”

That was the moment I truly realized that it was forbidden. I knew before that we shouldn’t have any eastern German money on us but I didn’t really understand that it was so serious. I really was very young. And young and stupid as I was, I indeed had some money — just a few coins my friend had given me, also not knowing how bad that was.

I then started crying earnestly. I was deadly afraid they would arrest my dad. They looked so angry. A female officer took away my mom for searching, and then [Border Guard #1] came back and saw me crying. He picked me up and smiled at me.

Border Guard #1: “Hey, why are you crying, Kirsche? Come on, smile for me!”

“Kirsche” means “cherry”, a common nickname in eastern Germany for small girls.

He turned to the other guard and my dad and told them he’d bring me into the warmer office. They agreed. I don’t think my father had much choice in this and thought it would be better to be quiet.

I liked that guy. He had something nice and grandfatherly about him. I couldn’t stop crying, though. And after a bit of gentle poking, I told him what my friend and I had done. 

He looked at me with worry.

Border Guard #1: “Hoo, Kirsche! That’s bad! You shouldn’t have done that.”

He then hugged me.

Border Guard #1: “Do you promise to never do it again?”

I nodded.

Border Guard #1: *Whispering* “Then give it to me. I won’t tell anybody.”

I gave him the money. It was only two or three small coins — really not much. You couldn’t buy more than a roll for them. He gave me a wink. 

Border Guard #1: “That’ll be our little secret! We will tell no one! You listen? No one can ever know!”

And I promised. And I never told anybody. This is the first time I’ve done so. 

After a little while, my mom was brought in. The whole search lasted almost two hours more, and my father was worried sick, but we didn’t have anything else that wasn’t allowed. The coins were gone, safe in my new friend’s pocket.

I later learned that what that guy did was considered treason and if anyone had found out, he would have gone to prison, even though it was just a few, almost worthless coins.

It was the most frightening situation I ever had in my life, but also one of the best because I learned back then that even in the worst and most unreasonable situations, there are still decent people, and sometimes you find a friend where you expect them the least.

It was the only time we were searched this intensely. It luckily never happened again. But I know for sure that ever after, my parents only brought strictly legal stuff and never risked smuggling again. They suspected that someone had snitched on them bringing medication sometimes. But it could also just have been a random search. I guess we’ll never know.

Customer: “Why don’t you have any yardsticks longer than three feet?”

Me: “Uh… sorry?”

Customer: “Your yardsticks! None of them are longer than three feet!”

Me: “That’s because they’re yardsticks. A yard is three feet.”

Customer: “Well, I need a yardstick longer than three feet!”

Me: “We don’t carry those, sir.”

Customer: “Well, where can I get one?”

Me: “They’re not available, sir.”

Customer: “Is this because of those Democrats? Wanting us to all go metric?”

Me: “Uh… sure?”

Customer: “I knew it! G**d*** liberal Democrats!”

He stormed off, muttering about yards and communists.

Two guys come in and ask for our “best” women’s perfume. I go over to the bestsellers’ display.

Me: “This is [perfume] from one of our French brands, [Brand]—”

Customer #1: *To [Customer #2]* “Do we support the French?”

I’m buying a sandwich at Quizno’s. The name is important because this evening, and for the last few evenings, the neon sign outside has been broken and only the Q in the name is visible at night.

I’m paying for my sandwich when I see a customer approach the manager.

Customer: “Saw the sign. Glad there’s more of us out here now.”

Manager: *Big sigh* “Sir, like I have told everyone else, the sign is simply broken. We are not associated with QAnon or any other conspiracy within the government. We sell sandwiches, soups, occasionally cookies, and that is all.”

Customer: “Ah.” *Winks* “Gotcha. So, what would you… recommend?”

Manager: “There are no hidden messages in the sandwiches!”

Customer: “So… the soup, then. Gotcha. I’ll take a [Soup].”

Manager: *Even bigger sigh* “Fine. That’ll be [total].”

The customer gets his soup and leaves satisfied. I haven’t left as I’ve been transfixed during the whole conversation. I make eye contact with the manager.

Manager: “That’s the third one today!”

Me: “Seriously?”

Manager: “I have half a mind to go outside and break the last letter on the sign to stop these nutjobs coming in here.”

Me: “But they’re buying stuff. Gotta be good for sales?”

Manager: “Not worth it. Especially when they come back upset and demanding a refund because proof that the government is run by lizard people isn’t found wedged between their lettuce and cheese.”

Me: “…fair point.”

I came back later, and the neon sign was still broken but simply said, “no”. Not sure if this was a genuine fault or the manager making a stand.

This remains the only encounter in the bookstore where I worked that I would not have believed happened if it hadn’t actually happened to me.

Customer: “You’re selling an offensive cookbook!”

Me: “What book are you referring to, ma’am?”

The customer brings up a rather standard-looking baking cookbook and shows me a recipe.

Customer: “See, here! It says, ‘apply liberally,’ when it says to add the cream!”

Me: “What is the problem with that, ma’am?”

Customer: “I’m an American and a Republican! This book is encouraging its readers to be liberal!”

Oh… my… God.

Me: “No, ma’am, that’s not what it means. It just means to be… uh… generous with the portions when adding the ingredient. It’s not a political statement.”

Customer: “I’m still offended! They could have used a million other words! I bet the cook is a liberal and a communist!”

My nearby manager swoops in and tells me to man the counter. I see him talk to the customer for a minute more. She nods solemnly and wanders off. My manager comes over to me, and I have to ask:

Me: “What did you say to her?”

Manager: “That I understood her complaint and that I would be writing to the publishing company myself to demand that they change the recipe to say, ‘apply patriotically,’ instead.”

Me: “And she believed that?”

Manager: “Sometimes you can only fight stupid with stupid.”

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Choose Your Battles