I was in a hurry that evening, the 9th November 1989. I was probably the only Westerner fighting his way through the crowds by the Wall, waving away proffered bottles of beer as I headed for the border checkpoint.
“Where are you going?” I heard shouts. “The party is here.”
I kept my head down. I needed to be in East Berlin on this of all nights. I needed to see Svenja who I hadn’t seen for four months, turned back at the border each time. I figured I could get through unobserved, unchecked in the jubilant chaos.
And I was right. I pushed my way past crowds flocking the other way, past exhausted and bewildered border guards who had no will to check anything anymore. I ran and soon found myself at the U Bahn station from where I could take a train to Svenja’s flat.
Fifteen minutes later I dashed up steps into a dimly lit and empty street. I was once again in East Berlin and I had the city to myself. I pushed open the wooden door of the decaying building where Svenja had her flat. I flicked the light on and ran up the stairs, still polished to a shine even as the plaster crumbled from the façade, needing to make the next landing before the light went out.
I flicked the next switch and has light for the final push to the second floor. I was now hard and cold feel precome leaking out and soaking my boxers. I needed Svenja, I needed Svenja the convinced Communist who would never, surely, leave for the West, Svenja who I worshipped in her blue Freie Deutsche Jugend shirt, Svenja who was probably informing on me to the Stasi, Svenja who could have anything she wanted from me.
Her front door opened. As I turned right into the landing she stood before me, dressed, as I had hoped, in only her unbuttoned FDJ shirt, which both cloaked and emphasised her breasts.
“I knew you would come” she said simply.
There, in the doorway I knelt before her, kissed her feet, worked my way up her legs, and when I began to lick at her cunt my head was already enveloped by her shirt, the shirt that I had longed to have. I pressed my face into her pubic hair, tasted her juices, like a traveller tormented by thirst who had stumbled upon an oasis.
She grabbed my hair and began to pull me along the hallway to her bedroom. The door to the flat remained wide open. We didn’t care.
I kissed her breasts, kissed the badge on her shirt, took my swollen cock in my hand and moved into position to push into Svenja’s wet cunt.
Less than a mile away history was being made. But we didn’t care. We had each other, four months to make up for, and a city all to ourselves. I thrust hard and long and came with a loud cry. Svenja didn’t come so I worked her clit with my tongue until she, too, climaxed. Then we sat in bed, drinking Bulgarian brandy and smoking f6 cigarettes. We said little. It was as if we didn’t need to. I wanted to fuck her again, this time more slowly but I was tired, it had been a long and exhausting day and I fell asleep in her arms.
She had to shake me to wake me the following morning. I knelt up on the bed, looked out of the window to where the TV tower was flashing its red light over the grey morning as if noting had happened. Times were changing and there were things I needed to ask Svenja and which she could surely now answer. But, as so often, she was first to speak.
“Kneel up and say what I like you to say.”
“Es lebe die Deutsche Demokratische Republik!” I said, parodying the voice of the recently departed First Secretary Honecker and went down on her.
If one socialism was about to pass into history, I reflected, Svenja and I would build another. Fuck by fuck by fuck.