Dortmunder Kronen Bier – a barrel of it.
Merci … merci … merci … für die stunden Cherie … cherie … cherie …
Udo Jurgens voice caressed us as we swayed, clinging to each other in Lizabeth’s bed sitting room, in the house on the Unter den Linden. Our third meeting in as many weeks confirmed our love for each other, but not how to nurture it when we were divided by a wall. Not even telephone contact permitted. Parting was agony, though she presented me with the record, the sleeve showing her written pledge.
Passing through Checkpoint Charlie two hours later, it was confiscated and my passport stamped No Return to the DDR.
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