Chapter 362 - 7: Both a Birthday and a Funeral

Chapter 362: Chapter 7: Both a Birthday and a Funeral

October 7, 1989, East Berlin.

At six in the morning, Werner was woken by a phone call.

"Are you up?" It was Gunter on the other end. "A car will pick you up at nine. Remember to wear a good suit; today’s event is very important."

"I know." Werner rubbed his temples and hung up the phone.

Outside the window, East Berlin was still shrouded in a gray morning fog.

Werner walked to the window and lit a cigarette.

Down on the street, people were already arranging flags and banners. Slogans in gold lettering on red backgrounds read, "For Our Socialism" and "Fortieth Anniversary of the German Democratic Republic." Several workers in blue uniforms were moving a massive portrait of the leader. Anger’s face took up an entire wall.

Werner exhaled a cloud of smoke, a bitter smile touching his lips.

Forty years. A regime had existed for forty years, yet at the very moment of its celebration, it was already on the verge of collapse.

He recalled the news from Prague last night—another three hundred people had flooded into the West German embassy, and the number of protesters in Leipzig had exceeded seventy thousand. And yet, the country’s leaders were still preparing for a celebration, as if nothing had happened.

"They’re just fooling themselves," Werner said under his breath.

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked into the bathroom.

***************

At exactly nine o’clock, a black Volga sedan pulled up in front of the apartment building. The driver, dressed in a crisp uniform, immediately saluted Werner upon seeing him.

"Comrade Betelich, the car is ready."

Werner nodded and slipped into the back seat.

Someone was already in the car—Gunter.

"Morning, Werner. Ready to witness a historic moment?"

Werner sat down.

"A historic moment?" he said lightly. "We witness history every day, Director Gunter."

"You’re as witty as ever. But today really is different. Gorbachev is here. I hear Comrade Anger is going to have an important meeting with him."

"Is that so?" Werner looked out the window.

The streets were already lined with people—workers, students, and soldiers, all holding small flags, their faces fixed in stiff smiles.

Werner knew they had all been organized by their work units to be here. If they didn’t show up, their performance evaluations would suffer.

The sedan drove down Karl Marx Street, the roadsides thick with red flags. A giant billboard read: "Forty Years of Glory, Our Nation Prospers!"

Werner glanced over and sneered inwardly. ’Flourishing? You can barely find bread in the shops, the national debt has surpassed twenty billion Marks, and workers in Leipzig are protesting every week. This is their "glorious journey"?’

"Werner, how has your health been lately?" Gunter suddenly asked.

"Fine." Werner pulled his gaze back inside. "Why do you ask?"

"I’ve noticed you’ve lost a lot of weight these past few months," Gunter said with concern. "Is work tiring you out? You have to take care of yourself. Koko still needs key people like you."

Werner just smiled and didn’t answer.

Of course he was tired. For the past few months, he had been working overtime to transfer assets, destroy documents, and secure an escape route. But he couldn’t tell Gunter any of that.

The car turned into Alexanderplatz, and a sea of red appeared before them. The entire square was covered in red flags. A grandstand had been erected, surrounded by a dense crowd. Werner roughly estimated there were at least a hundred thousand people.

*************

At ten o’clock, the celebration officially began.

On the grandstand, Anger stood front and center, flanked by members of the Politburo.

Werner’s seat was in the third row of the VIP section, offering a good view. He scanned the old men on the stage—Anger was seventy-seven, and most of the other Politburo members were just as decrepit.

Anger began his speech. His voice, amplified by loudspeakers, boomed across the square, passionate and rousing: "Comrades! Friends! Today is the great day of the fortieth anniversary of the founding of the German Democratic Republic..."

Werner listened to the old platitudes, resisting the urge to yawn. He secretly glanced at the people around him. Most had their heads down, their expressions numb. Only a few old cadres in the front rows were still clapping vigorously, their eyes filled with fanatical zeal.

Anger continued, "We have successfully resisted the infiltration of Western imperialism, and on the journey of socialist construction, we are marching with steady steps toward the ’Great Unity of Economic and Social Policy.’ Economically, we have also achieved brilliant successes. Our industrial output has increased tenfold, and the people’s standard of living has risen significantly..."

’Bullshit,’ Werner cursed internally.

’Industrial output? Those state-owned enterprises have been insolvent for years.’

’Standard of living? You still need ration tickets for sausages.’

His gaze fell on the right side of the grandstand. Gorbachev was standing there—the new tsar of the Soviet Union, the promoter of reform.

Gorbachev’s expression was subtle. His lips were curved in a polite smile, but his eyes betrayed a hint of impatience.

Werner recalled the information he had received from Anna late last night.

"There was an emergency Politburo meeting. Gorbachev and Anger got into an argument," Anna had said, her voice low over the phone. "Our people outside the conference room heard some of it."

"What about?" Werner had asked.

"Gorbachev demanded that East Germany implement reforms, open up politically, and improve human rights," Anna said. "He said the Soviet Union is already reforming, and East Germany should follow suit. But Anger refused, saying East Germany’s path was the correct one and needed no change."

"And then?"

"Then Gorbachev said something." Anna paused. "He said, ’Erich, life punishes those who come too late.’"

The meaning could not have been clearer: if you don’t reform, history will abandon you.

More importantly, it was Gorbachev’s way of telling Anger that the Soviet Union would no longer send troops to support East Germany, as it had in 1953, 1956, and 1968. They were on their own.

"What did Anger say?" Werner had asked.

"He said, ’Mikhail, we are walking our own path,’" Anna replied. "Werner, do you know what this means? Anger didn’t understand Gorbachev’s warning at all. Or rather, he understood, but he didn’t believe it."

Werner closed his eyes.

’That old man is still living in 1961, thinking he can build a wall and cage the people forever.’

’He doesn’t understand. Times have changed. Without Soviet tanks, East Germany is nothing.’

Anger’s speech ended, and the square erupted in thunderous applause. Werner clapped along, but his mind was elsewhere.

Just then, a sudden commotion arose from the edge of the square.

"Gobi! Gobi!"

Werner heard the shouts of young people. He turned his head and saw a few dozen people in their twenties at the edge of the crowd, hands raised, yelling toward the grandstand:

"Gobi, save us!"

"Gobi! Gobi!"

Werner was stunned.

These young people weren’t chanting Anger’s name. They were chanting for Gorbachev!

They were pinning their hopes on the leader of the Soviet Union, not the leader of their own country. In past National Day celebrations, this would have been completely unimaginable.

On the grandstand, Anger’s face was ashen. Gorbachev still maintained his smile, but a complex emotion flickered in his eyes.

"Quiet! Quiet!" A few police officers rushed over, trying to disperse the young people. But the shouting didn’t stop; it only grew louder.

"Gobi, save us!"

"We want reform!"

"We want freedom!"

On the other side of the square, the workers who had been organized to attend the celebration held their red flags, waving them mechanically and chanting slogans. But their voices sounded hollow and feeble, a stark contrast to the spontaneous cries.

On one side, state-arranged praise; on the other, a spontaneous protest from the people.

On one side, "Long live the German Democratic Republic!"; on the other, "Gobi, save us!"

On one side, orderly ranks under the leader’s portrait; on the other, the cries of young people yearning for freedom.

This was East Germany in 1989—beneath the veneer of splendor, the cracks could no longer be concealed.

Werner noticed that the number of security personnel behind the grandstand had clearly increased. Several Stasi officers, looking tense, were speaking urgently into their walkie-talkies. One of them hurried to Anger’s side and whispered something in his ear. Anger’s expression grew even uglier.

’Something’s happened,’ Werner thought.