Escape From East Germany: A 1989 Journey For Freedom

When Travel Means More Than Adventure

Most people travel for fun, for the thrill of discovering new places, or to reunite with old friends. But when I boarded a train to Poland in late summer of 1989, I wasn’t just another tourist. I was 20 years old, full of restless energy and hope, and I was about to risk everything for a chance at freedom and an Escape.

Back then, East Germany felt like a cage. The walls weren’t just physical—they were in every aspect of daily life, and even in your thoughts. But the world was changing. I could feel it in the air, as could thousands of others my age, all dreaming of a different life.

For many, this desire for an Escape was a whisper in their hearts, but for some, it was a call to action that could not be ignored.

A Girlfriend, a Cover Story, and a Secret Mission

Officially, I was off to visit my Polish girlfriend in the north. That was my cover story, and, for a while, it worked. But my real mission was far more dangerous: I hoped to slip away, head to Warsaw, and join the growing group of East Germans who had taken refuge in the West German embassy. My plan was to force the hands of politicians and maybe, just maybe, cross over into the West.

When I finally arrived in Poland, my heart was pounding. The smell of diesel, the chatter of Polish on the platforms, the faded blue of the train carriages—all of it felt different, charged with possibility and danger.

The night I told my girlfriend about my plan, we sat in her tiny kitchen, the tick of the clock and the low hum of the fridge filling the silence. She looked at me for a long moment and then, without a word, nodded. The next morning, she introduced me to a friend—an activist from Solidarność, the legendary Polish trade union that had shaken the communist regime.

A Note, a Plan, and a Growing Sense of Danger

Her activist friend listened to my story and scribbled a quick letter—a kind of insurance policy. If the worst happened and the police picked me up before I reached the embassy, my girlfriend was to deliver it to the party office in Warsaw. It was a thin shield, but better than nothing. The risks were real: by then, the East German authorities had already asked the Polish government to keep an eye on “suspicious” East Germans, especially those who might be plotting an escape.

To Warsaw—With Company and Fear

We boarded a train to Warsaw, along with my girlfriend and another friend. The countryside whipped past the windows, but my mind was elsewhere, replaying every possible scenario. What if we were stopped? What if someone recognized me? If I succeeded, I might never see my family again. If I failed, I could wind up in a prison cell, labelled a traitor for “Republikflucht”—a word that, for East Germans, carried a special kind of terror.

The Overcrowded Monastery: Hopes, Fears, and Second Thoughts

When we arrived in Warsaw, news was already spreading: the West German embassy was packed to bursting. The West Germans had started renting a monastery to house the overflow of desperate refugees. Without hesitating, we went straight there.

The monastery was nothing like I imagined. Its gardens were filled with clusters of nervous young people, pacing, whispering, glancing anxiously towards the gates. The air was thick with tension and hope. Would we be here for days? Weeks? Months? No one knew.

I remember standing in the garden as dusk settled, the bell of the monastery tolling low and mournful. Panic started to crawl up my spine. I thought of my family back home. If I went through with this, they’d be called in for questioning, possibly lose their jobs, and possibly face worse consequences. Guilt and fear gnawed at me.

In the end, my conscience won out. I turned to my friends and told them I couldn’t do it. Tears pricked my eyes. They hugged me, holding me tight, and promised they understood.

The News from Prague: A Wild Coincidence

A few days later, as I prepared to return to East Germany, the whole region was buzzing with unbelievable news: hundreds of East German refugees had taken over the West German embassy in Prague, and the GDR had finally relented. The refugees would be allowed to travel to West Germany—but only if their train passed through East German territory, a bizarre twist of fate.

Here’s the wild part: I left Poland on the exact same day those historic trains full of embassy refugees were transiting through East Germany. During my journey, there was even a chance I could see one of those trains as it rumbled by, packed with faces pressed against the glass, all longing for freedom. The border guards must have been on high alert, expecting desperate escape attempts at every turn.

With trembling hands, I hid the letter deep in my bag among my clothes. Alongside it, I carried a few Solidarność publications, a poster signed by Lech Wałęsa, and a handful of Gorbachev fan badges—symbols of hope and change that could easily be twisted into evidence against me.

Border Crossing: The Longest Stop of My Life

I decided to take the southern route home, through Wroclaw and then to Görlitz. It was a detour, but I thought it might be safer. Maybe it made me look more suspicious instead.

When the train finally reached the border, soldiers in crisp uniforms and stony faces appeared, barking orders. My heart hammered in my chest as one pointed at me and told me to get off, bringing all my bags.

I was led into a small, cold room. They started unpacking my belongings, one item at a time. The Gorbachev badges and the Solidarity poster immediately caught their eye. They took them away, frowning, but didn’t seem to find anything else. Still, my nerves were shot—I knew the real danger was the letter from the Solidarność office, the one I’d hidden so carefully.

But when they reached the spot in my bag where I’d tucked the letter, it was gone. My heart nearly stopped. Later, I realized my girlfriend must have quietly removed it from my bag when I wasn’t looking, probably saving me from a prison sentence.

The Interrogation: Suspicion on All Sides

Next, they marched me to another room—this one bigger, but just as cold. Giant, humming machines lined the walls, their strange noises filling the silence. I sat on a wooden chair, waiting for what felt like hours. The only light came from an open door several meters away. I couldn’t help but wonder what these machines were and why I had been placed in the dark. Were they secretly going to take an X-ray of me?

Eventually, an officer came in, holding my Warsaw train tickets. His eyes narrowed. “What were you doing in Warsaw?” he asked, suspicion heavy in his voice.

I stuck to my story, insisting it was a tourist trip to see the city with my girlfriend. He kept pressing, trying to trip me up, looking for any sign I was lying. The whole thing felt surreal—a mix of fear, anger, and the bizarre realization that my life was hanging by a thread.

Freedom—For Now

After four endless hours, they finally let me go. I climbed back onto the train, numb and exhausted. As the train rattled back toward my hometown, I stared out the window, trying to process everything.

One thing was clear: I couldn’t stay in East Germany. The dream of freedom was stronger than ever. This time, I’d try the “legal” way—applying to leave, even if it could take years. But after what I’d just been through, I knew I’d never give up.

But that’s another story for another day.