Wig Betrayed Read Free Page B

about in camp is all I done so far.”
    For all that, he seemed to know where he was going so it came as a surprise when he suddenly piped up, “I’m sorry, sir, but I think I took a wrong turning back there.”
    I sighed. I was becoming uncomfortable being squashed up in the back of the car and the length of the journey was beginning to take its toll. However, Beet had had to contend with the thickness of the fog.
    â€œNever mind, we’re bound to hit a village or something eventually and obtain directions. I’ve got my German phrasebook with me,” I replied.
    But the forest just grew darker as the afternoon began to fade and the quality of the road began to deteriorate markedly. This was unusual in Germany where the roads are normally so well maintained, but then I recalled where we were. Helmstedt had once been one of the border towns which straddled East and West Germany. The barriers had long since gone but, as a result, had we unwittingly strayed into countryside which had once lain behind the Iron Curtain?
    Eventually, we came across some derelict watchtowers peeping over the trees and drove up close to a large ramshackle shed with a collection of rusty poles and other building rubbish piled up against it. Beet began to slow the car.
    â€œCan we stop, sir? This looks like some sort of camp and I need to use the toilet. I’m sorry, sir.”
    â€œDon’t be, Private Beet, but I think you’ll have to go behind a tree – we’re in the middle of a deserted museum piece. You know what this is, don’t you?”
    By now, we had both got out of the car to stretch our legs.
    â€œNot the remains of a concentration camp, sir?” Beet glanced nervously up at one of the watchtowers. “Happened to watch a programme about them on the telly last week.”
    I laughed.
    â€œNot as bad as that, no. This was the old border crossing up to 1990 between West Germany and the DDR – the German Democratic Republic. It was heavily fortified and guarded to keep the East Germans contained within their border. What’s more, it’s the beginning of the Berlin corridor.”
    Beet looked puzzled so I explained, “West Berlin, cut off as it was, could only be reached by one road which crossed East Germany. This crossing was known as Checkpoint Alpha. It led to Checkpoint Bravo as it entered the suburbs of Berlin and finally to Checkpoint Charlie, the only entry point through the infamous wall.”
    Beet was looking around intrigued.
    â€œYou say it’s a museum piece, sir?”
    I pointed to a sign, half hidden in a bush, which proclaimed the area to be one of historic interest. It had an inscription in English, French, and Russian describing the location as the dividing line between the different zones of occupied Germany laid down in 1945. “Obviously they intended to preserve the whole area to begin with, but now it’s been thoroughly neglected. Somehow I think the Germans would prefer to forget their past. Whilst we’re here, we might as well look around.”
    Which we duly did, the weariness of travel forgotten. However, the site had long since been stripped of anything of interest so we didn’t tarry long. Driving back in the direction from where we had come, Beet managed to return to the motorway and we continued towards Helmstedt. The Hof Buscher, nestling in a suburb, also turned out to be easy to find. I was hoping that the hotel might be imbued with a certain
Hansel and Gretel
ambience but it was an entirely functional place: spotlessly clean with rather dreary modern furniture.
    I couldn’t help feeling lonely as stolid German businessmen trooped in and waited patiently for their
Bier Vom Fass
to be drawn from the tap: pure, gold lager always bearing a generous head of foam as it fills the glass. That feeling of isolation never quite went away in the many trips that I was to take around the country, but it was somewhat