Ein Berliner Pils
When I arrived at Checkpoint Brava, chaos prevailed. I did as directed, parking in a lane for foreigners. I remained in the driving seat. Each time after receiving the signal, I edged forward, until it was my turn. A police officer appeared on each side.
I offered my passport, GDR Entry Visa and the documents relating to the Opel. After what seemed an age, they were passed back, and as the officer gave the signal for the barrier to be raised, his colleague opened the passenger door and jumped in. She squeezed my hand as I accelerated.
About the Author
Roger is a regular contributor to the CaféLit site and a couple of his stories have been selected for theBest of CaféLit 2012.
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