The Lives Of Others, and why Germany is still haunted by the ghosts of the Stasi
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It was the shoes that gave it away. Clompy, grey. I asked myself if they were plastic as I looked down, trying to avoid contact with the man with the thin briefcase who was heading to a place that was out of bounds for the likes of me. We both mumbled a stunted version of “Guten Morgen!”, as we squashed up in the rickety lift each day.
He knew that I knew; I knew that he knew that I knew. He was heading for the top floor of my ugly tower block on Leipziger Strasse, one of East Berlin’s ugliest
He knew that I knew; I knew that he knew that I knew. He was heading for the top floor of my ugly tower block on Leipziger Strasse, one of East Berlin’s ugliest
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