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It was the spring of 1987 when I briefly visited the Technical University in West Berlin. I had quite good contacts with them, having worked on some joint projects over the years. For some

reason which I cannot quite put my finger on, I had never used these opportunities to visit the Eastern part of the city. By the time of this visit, I was worried that I would miss

something, that the East German way of life would disappear, and I would never see it. Of course, I knew roughly what it was like. It was the most retrograde society politically and the most

advanced one technically and economically in the Eastern Bloc. Gorbachev had been in power for three years by 1987. He had already introduced perestroika and glasnost in the Soviet Union.

Perestroika means rebuilding in Russian: moulding the entire economy from a new foundation. I had seen many attempts of this kind made by various Communist Party Secretaries. None of them

ever worked. But glasnost was unique. Its approach to managing the Soviet media landscape was fundamentally different to all that had come before. The basic idea, radical and amazing, was to

tell the truth. And this applied not only to present-day events. It covered the past as well. The Moscow show trials came up for scrutiny; the secret clause of the 1939 Ribbentrop-Molotov

pact was published, and so was Koestler’s anti-communist novel _Darkness at Noon. _Out of this shift came the Russian saying: “One never knows what the past will bring”. I knew that I had a

contact from East Berlin in my diary. The telephone number was clearly readable. The name was not. Perhaps it was  “Kirschner”, or “Kirchner”, or something similar. I’d jotted it down a

couple of years previously. He was an East German scientist whom I had met casually at a conference in the US. I suspect he was quite high up in the hierarchy at Humboldt University, given

that he was allowed to cross the Atlantic (although, of course, I presume that he was constantly watched by two or three members of the Stasi). He told me: “Whenever you are in Berlin, come

and visit us.” I rang him. “Professor Solymar, yes, I do remember you. Are you able to come at the weekend? We can show you the Pergamon Museum. It is a quite unique place, a city delivered

from a few thousand miles away stone by stone. And of course you will be able to see a lot more. The Old City, you know, Unter den Linden, etc. is in East Berlin. Can we take you to a

restaurant?” I declined. “My interest is mainly in people,” I said, thinking that the last place where I would want a political discussion in East Germany is a restaurant. I took a taxi to

their address in Prenzlauer Berg. Well, the house needed a bit of paint but the first impression was good. There were lots of people walking on the streets, lots of cars parked (an

indication of prosperity, but not one that clogged up everything), lots of children apparently on their way to playgrounds or skipping home from them. Life seemed to go on happily. I even

saw a street-trader selling bananas. These observations were further reinforced when they showed me their flat. They had three big rooms for two of them. A son of theirs was studying at

Moscow University. The sitting room was a showcase of Scandinavian furniture that I would have been glad to have in our house in Oxford. Did they pay for it by being staunch supporters of

the regime? As it turned out, they were no fans of Mr Honecker. While his wife, the deputy headmistress of an elite secondary school, prepared a light lunch for us, I discussed Mr

Gorbachev’s reforms with the husband. “It is an entirely new beginning,” he said, “The dinosaurs in our politics will very soon be gone.” He then told me an old joke: “What would happen if

the Sahara went Socialist? Nothing for a long time, and then a shortage of sand.” And yet he would not denounce Socialism: “Should it be so? Not at all. There is nothing wrong with

Socialism. Believe me. What we need is an infusion of private enterprise. Not too much, not too little. Just enough to oil the economic machine. We should have no dogmas. We should replace

our bureaucrats with computers.” His wife also espoused radical views, strongly favouring elite education: “Yes, there should be selection,” she said. “I want to run a school of bright young

boys and girls.” With his proposed changes, the man had high hopes for the future of East Germany. “We can be efficient, as efficient as anything in the West. There is no reason why your

capitalist world shouldn’t invest in our industry. It will bring good returns.” I was not convinced but I kept silent. My scepticism felt too impolite. “And there is no reason either why

Socialism should be oppressive,” he continued. There I agreed: Budapest in the summer of 1956 was more politically free than any other society I had experienced. But I wondered whether he

would mention the Stasi. He did not. During my visit, my eye had been drawn several times to some picture frames leaning against the back of the settee. Was this a hiding place for items

they did not want to show? My curiosity overrode my tact. “May I have a look?” I asked. The wife immediately turned round one of the picture frames. It was a reproduction of a fairly

well-known Picasso. Are Cubist pictures against the current Party line?” I asked.  The man clarified: “No, not at all. The reason we can’t hang them at the moment is because our shops have

temporarily run out of nails.” When I wanted to leave, my host apologised. “Sorry, I can’t drive you to your hotel in West Berlin. Maybe next year.” A MESSAGE FROM THEARTICLE _We are the

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