'Epitaph for Brezhnev'

This trip to Berlin took place before Epitaph for Brezhnev was even a twinkle in anyone’s eye. I was, in fact, working on a book entitled Waiting for James Dean, my take on the Kennedy assassination and, at the time, still a viable option. However, Epitaph for Brezhnev was about to see the light of day.

Angela and I have always loved Berlin. It was the second time we visited the place together – I had visited the city numerous times previously – when things, at first, started to go wrong… every time we go somewhere, something usually goes wrong, but on this trip, we surpassed ourselves.

We had landed at Schonefeld Airport – the former airport of East Berlin – and cleared immigration. As such, we made our way to the adjoining train station, where we soon found the platform for the train to Alexanderplatz, the nearest station to the Radisson Blu Hotel, where we were staying. The platform was situated between two lines and there was one train ready for boarding.

It must have been close to half an hour and there was still no sign of the train leaving. We were waiting on the platform alongside our luggage – Angela never travels light – when Angela asked me if I thought the train was the one for Alexanderplatz and I said I wasn’t sure. Also, there was nobody around who we could ask, except, for one person, sitting in the last compartment on the train. Angela suggested I step onto the train and ask the person, or look at the S-Bahn map on board. This I did. The person on the train, unable to speak English, couldn’t help, and as there was no map, I turned to alight the carriage. You obviously know what is coming… right… the doors closed and I was trapped, somewhat. I looked out of the window at – the aghast – Angela, standing alongside the luggage, as the train was pulling away. I was hoping against hope that the train was not an express to somewhere like Potsdam.

I messaged Angela that I would be getting off at the next station. Fortunately, that next station was about five minutes down the line. I alighted the train there and simply got another train back to Schonefeld, where I re-joined Angela. Thinking our problems were over, we finally boarded the train for Alexanderplatz.

At the hotel and in need of a welcome pint, we were checking-in… surely a formality seeing as I had paid the bill in advance. But hang-on… it transpired that I had not paid the bill in advance. Fine, I simply handed over my credit card… no problem.

“This card is out of date,” the concierge told me.

Oh no… how could this be? Surely there was some mistake? No mistake… I had somehow brought the wrong credit card and although they did not need the £700 settlement there and then, they wanted to activate the card for any sundries such as drinks and meals. Fortunately, Angela had brought a credit card and she sorted everything out.

On our travels the following day, we were alongside the River Spree, about to partake of a boat trip, when Angela spotted the DDR Museum. We decided to visit the museum prior to our boat trip.

Inside the museum, where I was just mooching around, having been familiar with the actual DDR during the 1980s, Angela was keenly reading various things. In relation to one of the things she was reading, she called me over.

“Here is something about someone called Erich Honecker and your story about an invasion of West Berlin,” she said, excitedly.

I asked how on earth – or words to that effect – Erich Honecker would know anything about my story. As it turned-out, Honecker wanted East German troops and tanks, along with Soviet and Czech back-up, to roll into West Berlin and take the city for the Warsaw Pact. Although my story was set in 1992 – and written in 1986 when there was no sign of the Berlin Wall coming down or Reunification of the two Germanies – what Honecker was suggesting, WAS, in essence, my story, nevertheless, albeit on a twelve-year rewind. There was only one thing to do and that was to rewind my story. At that moment, Epitaph for Brezhnev was born.

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