What Hell Looks Like

“Zoey? Zoey Whitman?”

I recognized that voice . . . husky with a distinct French accent. It had to be Julien Laurent. I remember when we first met some 10 years earlier in the same airport, standing in line at the gate for our flight to Venice. Now, it was a Thursday in May 1979.

I turned. There he was, looking as debonair as ever in a dark blue suit with structured shoulders, clean lapels, and trousers with a sharp crease falling smoothly over polished black shoes. “My gosh, what are you doing here?” I blurted, “here” being the main concourse of Milan’s Linate Airport. I was on my way to the gate for the first leg of my flight to Berlin.”

“I’m headed to Berlin, as usual,” he replied. “You know, business. It’s always the zame. Zis time it’s a big convention and show for international earth-moving equipment manufacturers.” Julien spoke perfect English, but here and there, bits and pieces of his French accent crept into his speech.

I should have guessed his purpose for heading to the capital. Julien’s family-owned business, Force Industrielle S.A., was one of the largest manufacturers of excavators, cranes, and industrial tractors in Europe. As the senior vice president for marketing—his father, the founder, was president and CEO—Julien was on the road most of the year, touting the company’s products.

“Zo, I guess we’ll be flying togezer,” he quipped.

“Well, you’ll probably be flying first class,” I laughed, “while I’ll be in steerage. But yes, we’ll be flying together.”

He chuckled as we trudged toward the gate.

Once seated in the waiting area, he asked what brought me to Europe this time.

“Well,” I began, “we’re doing a photo shoot for the spring 1980 issue of Vogue Deutsch. I’ve been hired by the editor to do their models’ hair and makeup.”

“Wow, that’s quite ze undertaking!”

“All in a day’s work,” I said, smiling.

“And where will you be staying in Berlin?”

“I found a hostel near the location of the shoot . . . nothing fancy, mind you. But it will allow me to save some of the per diem I’ll receive for a vacation I have planned.”

“A hostel?” he replied, wrinkling his nose. “They smell. And they don’t provide clean sheets. Besides, the breakfasts are horrible. I absolutely forbid you to stay there! You must stay wis me!”

“Are you serious, Julian?”

“Yes, of course I am. I have a two-bedroom apartment in Grunewald. You will have the spare bedroom. My driver will take you to and from your worksite every day.”

The streetscapes of Grunewald were dominated by grand, multi-story Wilhelminian-era, Art Nouveau, and Tudor-revival villas surrounded by expansive-high-walled private gardens. The neighborhood sat directly alongside the massive Grunewald forest and was interwoven with a chain of glacial lakes. Julian’s apartment was on one of the lakes—Koenigssee. Zoey knew the area from her readings; she never imagined staying there as a guest.

Flying from Milan to Berlin’s Tegel Airport was complicated. Because West Germany was not an Allied power, its national flag carrier, Lufthansa, was strictly banned from operating flights into West Berlin. So, to fly from Milan to West Germany entailed flying first, say, to Frankfort, and then taking one of Pan American World Airways Internal German Services shuttles into Tegel Airport. This was the way both Julian and Zoey had chosen for their journey.

Once in Tegel and through immigration and customs, they headed for the airport’s main entrance, where Julian’s car and driver were waiting. The drive to Grunewald took only 20 minutes. While the driver took their suitcases into the apartment, Julian and Zoey finally enjoyed a cold glass of white wine.

“Well, what do you think about the apartment,” asked Julian.

Zoey was stunned. The ceilings easily stretched to 15 feet and were draped in intricate plaster work featuring rosette motifs and hand-carved molding. The grand double-doors opened sequentially from one formal room to the next—a grand salon, a library wrapped in floor-to-ceiling dark walnut built-ins, and a formal dining room capable of seating a dozen guests. Heavy silk or velvet drapes formed the views outside while the walls were finished in smooth Venetian plaster, subtle linen wall coverings, or deep muted tones like slate blue, olive green, and warm taupe. Framed impressionist paintings, bronzes on marble pedestals, and a vintage grand piano rested in the music room while a grand fireplace framed in imported Italian Carrara marble served as the focal point of the main drawing room. Sure beats a hostel, she thought, chuckling to herself.

Julian left to check on industrial show preparations early in the next morning and returned late in the evening, leaving his car and driver at Zoey’s disposal for the entire day.

On Friday, upon going down for breakfast, she was surprised to find a note from Julian. It read:

Zoey, I am going into East Germany tomorrow morning. I will be leaving early—8 a.m,—and will be staying overnight. If you would like to go with me, be ready at that time. If you have any clothes you don’t want and are willing to give away, please put them in the old suitcase I have left for you in the corner. Bring it to the car with you. Julian.

Of course she wanted to join him. This would be the opportunity of a lifetime! How many Westerners have an opportunity to enter East Germany these days and stay the night, given the Wall and all, she thought.

Zoey stepped from the front door exactly at 8 a.m., there to find Julian standing alongside a beat-up Audi 80. Light, understated, and completely unassuming, it was the perfect car for a sales rep without drawing attention to the driver. In her right hand was the old suitcase Julian had provided, which she had filled with some extra skirts and blouses she had dragged across Europe for months. What Julian wanted the clothes for was anyone’s guess.

Julian had already packed a number of items in the trunk, including his suitcase as well as a stack of newspapers and fashion magazines. He covered those items with a crumpled newspaper. The suitcase Julian provided for Zoey was placed on top of everything.

With the trunk lid barely able to close, they set off to Checkpoint Charlie. The Western Allied Post was minimalist in form to avoid signaling the sector boundary was an official international border. But the East German Crossing was a whole other story. The apparatus was vast, heavily fortified, and deeply intimidating. The street was funneled through concrete slaloms, anti-tank obstacles, and steel drop-barriers. The area was brightly lit, had overhead guard towers, searchlights, and hidden camera arrays.

Julian had been through the crossing many times. His company did a significant amount of business with the East German Government. As such, he held a special visa that made it easier for him to transit the checkpoint than would otherwise be possible. At the least, some of the guards might recognize him and relax a bit. That Julian spoke German perfectly helped as well. As for Zoey, being an American, she was a “permitted user” of the checkpoint.

Still, clearance and vetting was a slow, psychological, and highly methodical process. First, cars were directed into tight, winding concrete lanes designed to force drivers to crawl at a walking pace. Following a passport and identity inspection, there was a visa issuance and mandatory currency exchange. That is, visitors were required to exchange a mandatory minimum amount of hard Western currency into East German Marks. Any unspent East German Marks had to be left behind.

Then came the vehicle and baggage inspection, complete with under-carriage mirrors, physical probing, and luggage screening. Here, Julian lucked out. He and the guard who had ordered him to open the trunk knew each other. As they stood there, Julian took a new pack of Gauloises cigarettes from his coat pocket and, removing the wrapping, offered him one. The guard refused, waving Julian off, signaling an awareness of the many cameras surveilling the area. Shrugging, Julian placed a cigarette between his lips, lit up, inhaled deeply, and slowly let the thick, heavy, pungent smoke out through pursed lips. Then, surreptitiously, he slipped the pack into the guard’s pants pocket.

The guard, of course, was immediately drawn to the crumpled newspaper on top of the clothes.

“What’s this?” asked the guard in German?

Julian threw his hands into air and proclaimed loudly: “Oh, that stupid girl. What the hell am I going to do with her?!”

They laughed, exchanged a few more comments in German, and with that, the guard closed the trunk and motioned for Julian to get back in the car and move on.

With all checks passed, a barrier was lowered, and they crossed into East Berlin, making their way to Hotel Palast.

“You know, it’s a shame you weren’t here a few years ago,” Julian said as he drove.

“Why’s that?”

“I would have taken us to the Hotel Adlon. At one time, it was one of Europe’s most famous luxury destinations. The main building was destroyed by fire in 1945, but one wing was kept open primarily for high-ranking East German military officials, state guests, and socialist dignitaries. Sadly, it was too close to ze Berlin Wall and ze Brandenburg Gate for use by everyday Western tourists and foreign visitors, though my special passport allowed me to stay zere when I was doing business with ze government. Ze opulence was not to be believed. Vast skylit inner courtyard, marble columns, indoor palms, plush velvet seating . . . ze works!”

“So, where are we going to stay?”

“Hotel Palast. Don’t worry . . . it’s a modern, high-rise building constructed by a Swedish firm and designed explicitly to attract foreign travelers with hard currency. Great place . . . it even has a swimming pool and a gym. Just be careful, zere are cameras and listening devices everywhere.”

“So, I have to ask,” I said, as Julian pulled into the hotel’s valet parking area, “what are your plans for the weekend?”

“Well, if zis were a Saturday 2 or 3 years ago, I would have planned for a car and tour guide to take you to zee the sights in East Berlin. Then, given no government officials would be available to discuss business, I would have spent ze day wis a lady friend I have known for many years. Unfortunately, she had increasingly wanted to enter into marriage and emigrate to the West, a long and involved process that would have made life difficult for both of us. Sadly, I had no other choice but to end ze relationship.”

“Julian, I’m so sorry,” said Zoey. “That must have been exceedingly difficult for you both.”

“It’s okay. Zere really were no ozer options, given ze political circumstances.”

Zoey nodded.

“Well, here we are. Let’s check in and have lunch. Zen, I’ll take you around ze city. It’s not pretty, but it will be an experience you’ll never forget.”

The dining areas of the hotel were designed to project Western-style comfort and luxury for the purpose of generating hard-currency. The décor featured heavy use of brown tones in carpets, furnishing, and fixtures. While there was a French-oriented restaurant for fine dining, Julian preferred the Café am Palast for today’s visit, which was located on an outdoor terrace offering views of the Spree, the Berliner Dome, and the Palast der Republik.

“I want you follow my lead on ordering,” he instructed Zoey as they were seated and a waiter poured water for them.

“Okay,” she responded, sounding puzzled.

“Deutsch? Englisch? Französisch?” asked the waiter.

“English,” replied Julian, whereupon the waiter brought two menus in English.

“You should be aware,” Julian whispered, “there is no way they can bring us anything on the menu. They simply can’t get the ingredients. I’ll ask what the specials are, and then, we’ll order those.”

As he said, Julian, speaking German, asked what the specials of the day were.             Two kinds of pasta were available.

Julian ordered first: “Two salads and both pastas, please.”

The waiter looked at him, puzzled.

“I have a big appetite,” Julian said with a shrug. “Will zat be a problem?”

“No. No sir,” replied the waiter. “Of course not. And you, Miss?”

“Oh, I’ll have the same,” Zoey replied, following the instructions given to her by Julian, not having a clue as to what was happening.

“Thank you,” replied the waiter, scooping up the menus and disappearing into the kitchen.

“Okay,” said Zoey, “what’s this all about?”

“Listen,” said Julian, “the people here are as poor as church mice. Zey couldn’t afford zis food if you tripled zer salaries. You and I are going to eat half or less of each dish he brings, leaving zem to clear ze rest and take it back to ze kitchen. Zere, I guarantee you, it will not go to waste!”

“Ah, I get it. Very generous of you, sir! I assume, then, I can order two desserts.”

“Zee how fast you catch on,” he replied laughing.

With lunch over, they jumped into Julian’s Opal for a tour of East Berlin.

To Zoey, it was like stepping back in time. Gone was the bright, neon-lit, consumer-oriented vibe of West Berlin. In its place was a stark, colorless world of dreary concrete apartment buildings (Plattenbauten), socialist monumental architecture (Karl-Marx-Allee), and unrepaired damage from World War II. The buildings were covered in soot, the result of the population’s use of brown coal to heat their homes and apartments. Also, because most of the cars there were two-stroke Trabans and Wartburgs, even on a Saturday afternoon there was a blue haze in the air from their exhausts. Public transportation, though running on reduced schedules during the weekend, comprised trams and older elevated rail lines that rattled through quiet urban neighborhoods. Uniformed police and plainclothes agents of the Stasi were everywhere. Americans, in particular, were made to feel aware that their movements were being watch.

So, this is what Hell looks like, thought Zoey as they drove through the occupied city. What she was witnessing was so foreign to her it was almost unbelievable. The war had ended 34 years earlier, and still, the Soviet-dominated part of Berlin, in many ways, was a world unto itself . . . a world left behind. Dark, dreary, and dirty. Almost lifeless.

They returned to the Hotel Palast late in the afternoon and decided to nap before dinner. “Meet me at the entrance to Rôti d’or, the French restaurant, at 7 p.m.” said Julian, as he slipped his key into his room’s door lock. “I’ve already made a reservation.”

 The two ordered generously from the specials offered, which featured modest French cuisine and wines. And, as was the case at lunch, better than half of their meals were left uneaten, much to the dismay of the waiter, who thought something might be wrong with the food. That said, after inquiring and learning the food was to his guests satisfaction, he realized what they were doing and eagerly cleared plates away at the first sign Julian or Zoey had finished a course.

Payment was made in Western currencies. Julian tipped generously. He also left behind an unopened pack of Gauloises cigarettes and a gold-plated lighter.

“Now, tomorrow morning,” intoned Julian as they were about to enter their rooms, leave behind whatever extra clothes and shoes you brought with you. Set them on the wastebasket. Put cash on the bedside table if you’d like to tip the maid. Anything you can do for these people will be appreciated beyond belief.”

With that, he turned the key in the lock, twisted the handle on his door, and, stepping forward, bid her a good night. “Zee you at the zelf-service restaurant at 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. Zleep well.”

Breakfast was uneventful, though if anyone had taken notice, they would have observed both Julian and Zoey making multiple trips to the buffet, each time leaving behind plates half-filled with uneaten food to be cleared before they returned from the counter with their refills.

Packing for the return trip to West Berlin took no time at all, given that everything extra they had brought with them was left on their wastebaskets. Finally, given that Julian’s remaining East German Marks could not be redeemed, he left those for the maid on his nightstand.

Checkpoint Charlie crossing times were always a guessing game, based on traffic, document checks, and the intensity of the scrutiny by border guards. This morning if took well over an hour, delaying Julian and Zoey’s return to Julian’s apartment until almost 10 a.m.

Julian, apologizing, saying he had to hurry off to check with his staff at the convention center prior to the next day’s activities. “I’m zo zorry to leave you on your own. But my cook will take care of your meals. And, of course, my car and driver will zee to it that you are taken to and from your work zite.

“Julian, you’ve been more than kind. I don’t know how I can repay you. This has been the experience of a lifetime.”

“Zoey, seeing you again and spending yesterday with you vas a gift! You have no idea how you’ve lifted my spirits. I hope your stay here is the most productive of your career.”

With that, he was off.

The week went fast for Zoey. As promised, Julian’s cook and driver took excellent care of her. The photo shoot turned out to be a career-changer for her, bringing in several new clients on the Continent. And to think it all began with a second chance meeting in the airport in Milan, she thought upon returning home to New York.

To this day, the memories of her stay in Julian’s apartment and that day in East Berlin linger in her mind, though sadly, she never saw nor heard from Julian again.