The Soloist E-Book

André Baganz

• Herausgeber: via tolino media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

"The Soloist" is a gripping memoir that delves into the life of a man who navigated the complexities of identity, belonging, and survival in the German Democratic Republic (GDR). Born to a Guinean father and a German mother, the author grew up as a minority in a predominantly white society. His story unfolds against the backdrop of the Cold War, exploring themes of resilience, identity, and the quest for freedom. The narrative takes readers through the author’s tumultuous journey, from his childhood in the GDR to his desperate attempts to escape to the West. His experiences in the oppressive regime, including a harrowing prison break and the subsequent life sentence, reveal the harsh realities faced by those who dared to defy the system. Throughout the memoir, the author reflects on his struggles with identity, the impact of societal prejudice, and his eventual path to self-acceptance and liberation. "The Soloist" is not just a tale of survival but also a testament to the human spirit's capacity for growth and transformation. The author’s candid storytelling offers a unique perspective on the GDR's socio-political landscape, making it a compelling read for anyone interested in history and personal narratives.

Leseprobe

The Soloist

André Baganz

Copyright © 2025 André Baganz

All rights reservedCover design and images by: Canva

impressum

André Baganz c/o autorenglück.de

Franz-Mehring-Str. 15

01237 Dresden

Prologue

I estimate that in the 1960s and 70s, during the time I was growing up, there were only a few hundred Afro-Germans living in East Germany. Most were descendants of young men from socialist-oriented countries like Ethiopia, Angola, Mozambique, and Guinea who came to East Germany for training as part of the "socialist brotherly aid" program. In addition, there were the "festival children," a legacy of the 10th World Festival of Youth and Students, which was held in East Berlin in 1973 and was attended by about 8 million people from all over the world. With a population of 17 million, a few hundred people of color were a minuscule minority, and even that term seems like an overstatement.

My father, Sékou Camara, was from Guinea. I have no personal memory of him, I only know from my mother that he was a "very kind person." He was one of the lucky ones from his country who was allowed to complete vocational training in "rich" East Germany. His first stop in East Germany was the Herder Institute in Leipzig, where he learned German in an intensive course. That's where he met my mother. I can only speculate about why my parents didn't stay together. However, I am quite certain that the rejection of people who looked different within the entirely white East German population played a significant, if not decisive, role. This seems to be confirmed by the fact that there's almost no example of such a relationship ever lasting.

My mother later married a German man who adopted me, and they had two more children. My parents—as long as I can remember, I considered my adoptive father my real father—were both teachers, and I grew up in an absolutely stable, intact family. However, this safe space within my family and close circle of acquaintances did not protect me from the outside world. As I got older, I started interacting more with people who didn't know me, and that's when the problems began. People's behavior toward me varied, ranging from friendly acceptance, to indifference, to unfriendliness, or even hostility. The hostility occurred with a disproportionate frequency. For someone who doesn't have to deal with such problems daily, it is impossible to understand what this does to a young person and that they can't develop normally under such circumstances. It was only much later that I learned that things might not have been much better for me in West Germany with my skin color, but I would have been able to leave that country without any problems. That was the difference.

What happened on September 20, 1981, in Frankfurt (Oder), can't be changed. However, the way we look at and evaluate what happened can. When I see myself today, over 40 years later, as a young person between the ages of 17 and 20, I am shocked by the willingness to resort to violence that I displayed at the time. At the same time, I have an understanding for that young person, because his action was nothing more than an act of despair and a reaction to the environment he had to live in. This environment led him to deny his own heritage because he had learned from a young age that "being German" was the best thing in the world, and that Africans, in particular, were inferior. And because he didn't want to be inferior, he tried especially hard, often even denying his true self. The innocent boy didn't know that no matter how hard he tried, he would never belong to the people who rejected him. It's unbelievable, but it wasn't until I was over fifty that it became crystal clear, and from that day on, I felt a sense of inner freedom.

This book is not about assigning blame. I just want to tell my story in the hope that other people in similar situations can take something positive away from it. Especially in a time of fake news and constant misinformation in all areas and on a scale that many of us would not have thought possible, I think it is important to learn things firsthand.

Prison Break

The lights went out, and we finally began to talk. For the first time, we had a conversation without worrying about the child abuser. He’d dismissed our chatter as nonsense, not believing for a second that we were serious. As morning got closer, the three of us kept having to go to the bathroom. Eventually, a quiet hush fell over the room as we all tried to get at least some sleep.

I counted down from twenty, but I couldn't fall asleep. I was too worked up; my thoughts were racing. Even though I was convinced this time would work, a part of me tried to talk me out of it. "The third time’s the charme … But isn't this actually the fourth time?" my inner voice whispered. "No, that's still part of the third time. It has to be. Stop it, are you suddenly superstitious?" The first two attempts played out like a movie in my mind.

After the taxi dropped us off, we walked for fifteen minutes toward what we thought was the wall. Soon, the glint of watchtowers appeared in the distance. At some point, we heard an engine noise getting closer, and when we turned, headlights were cutting through the darkness. We immediately ducked into the bushes, watching from our safe cover as a military jeep drove past. We were in the right place, then. The moment the jeep was out of sight and I was ready to keep going, Tommy's voice broke the silence.

"I think this was a stupid idea," he said.

I had a bad feeling. "What... do you mean?" I asked hesitantly.

"Coming here and wanting to escape to the West. We'll never make it. They'll just shoot us—"

I looked at him in disbelief. What a time to remember!

He shook his head, looking doubtful. "I drank a little too much. That's the only reason I went along with this bullshit."

"Bullshit?" I felt a surge of anger. We had certainly had a few drinks, but even though the decision to escape had been more or less spontaneous, alcohol hadn't played a role for me. For Tommy, it was obviously different, and I despised him for it. "You're the one who started it. You just wouldn't quit." My nostrils flared as I stared at him. "You're such a damn coward. All talk and no action."

"I know," he said, looking at the ground in shame.

The fact that he didn't even try to defend himself completely disarmed me. It also highlighted how different we were, even though we had been best friends for about a year. Although, the urge to spend time together was more from Tommy's side, as he admired me for my strength and speed, which I showed during our frequent fights. I often even had the feeling that he provoked fights with others just to see me in action. So, it didn't really surprise me that he was now getting cold feet when it mattered most, because he wasn't half as motivated as I was to finally get out of the GDR. And why would he be? Why would he put his life in danger when he was a normal East German teenager, unlike me? My father was from Africa, and my dark skin color made me a complete outcast in the white GDR society. From my earliest childhood, I had the desire to get away because I constantly felt like I didn't belong there.

Lately, Tommy and I had often talked about the topic. And after the conversation with the two guys, we spontaneously decided to "do it today." We met the two guys in a disco, but had heard about them before. They were like superstars in Eisenhüttenstadt, at least in the youth scene, because two months earlier they had actually managed to escape to the West, near Boizenburg/Elbe. One of the guys had relatives in the restricted area. Since he had been there several times as a child, he had the local knowledge needed to find the right way across the border with his friend. Once in the West, however, the boys were advised to return to the GDR because they were not yet of legal age. Their parents made a deal with the GDR authorities that guaranteed their sons immunity from prosecution if they returned voluntarily, which they did after a few weeks. After their return, they then went through the discos and bars of Eisenhüttenstadt, bragging about their success story. Among other things, they also talked about how much the "Western chicks" were into East German guys. I can't say how much of their stories were true. What was a fact, however, was that they had done it, and Tommy and I told ourselves: "What they can do, we can do too."

As for me, I hid my real motive and went along with the general one: I was fed up with the restrictive life in the GDR and finally wanted my freedom. I wanted to enjoy what I saw on West German TV every day: freedom of speech, freedom to travel, and also the freedom not to have to work. The last part is rather embarrassing from today's perspective, but I was still quite young then. If I'm completely honest, I have to say that I never would have thought of escaping from the GDR if I hadn't been such an outcast because of my skin color, because I had no complaints about life there itself.

After Tommy and I had made a dramatic farewell to our friends, of course with the promise not to forget them and to send them packages regularly, we took the bus to the Eisenhüttenstadt train station and got on the train to Berlin. It was the last one that day. About an hour and a half later, we got off at Ostbahnhof. From there, we took a taxi to Alt-Glienicke. We had been told that the chances of getting across were best there.

I was incredibly disappointed in Tommy. "Okay, then go back to Hütte," I said and kept walking, hoping he would still change his mind and follow me. He had always done that before. But this time he didn't. "Damn coward," I thought and continued on my way without looking back.

After about 500 meters, I reached an open field. I lay flat on the ground and observed the surroundings. The area was lit up by searchlights that kept swinging back and forth. To carry out my plan, I would first have to cross about a hundred meters of open field, then climb over a fence, and finally get over the wall. "You'll never make it. As soon as you stand up, you'll be a sitting duck and they'll shoot you." Tommy had been right, and I was too stubborn to admit it. I slowly crawled closer and closer to one of the watchtowers. Suddenly, a searchlight swung over again. For a moment, I was fully in the light. I lay there, frozen, and couldn't move. I was expecting some voice from a loudspeaker or for the cone of light to come back. But nothing happened. Had they really not seen me? That couldn't be! The ghostly cone of light moved on as if nothing had happened. I felt the shock slowly subside and I could move again. Getting shot wasn't worth it. Better to just keep living in the GDR. I jumped up and sprinted back. I had tried and learned that at least for me, it was an impossibility to get over the Berlin Wall.

A few weeks later, I tried again somewhere else, this time with another friend. We drove to Františkovy Lázně in Czechoslovakia in his father's Trabant. We parked the car there and made our way to the border with Bavaria. Although we had a map with us, we wandered around for half the night, had no idea which direction Bavaria was in. The forest got denser and denser. Soon it was so dark you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. At some point, it went steeply uphill. Suddenly, I heard my friend's startled voice: "Damn. I touched a wire."

At the same moment, we saw the cone of light from a flashlight cut through the darkness. Fast steps and panting could be heard. We stood there, paralyzed. Seconds later, the beam of the flashlight hit us. A weapon was being chambered. A man yelled something in Czech. We didn't understand a word, but we threw ourselves on the ground because we thought that's what he meant. Other soldiers with flashlights came. Now, in the full light, we saw that everything around us was staked out with signal wires at knee height. It was a miracle we hadn't touched them sooner. Handcuffs clicked. A hood was pulled over my head. Arms tugged at me. I was put in a vehicle and taken away.

When the hood was taken off again, I was in a small room. I was interrogated for hours with the help of an interpreter, but I stuck to our previously agreed-upon story: We were tourists who had gotten lost.

At some point, they pulled the hood over my head again. When it was taken off, I was at the border crossing we had entered Czechoslovakia through the day before. My buddy was standing next to me. The Czechs handed us over to the GDR authorities. They interrogated us again and finally let us go with the condition that we report to the police station in Eisenhüttenstadt the next day. Our IDs were confiscated.

At the local police station, I was given a PM 12. This was a special ID card that meant I could no longer leave the GDR and that would set off alarm bells for every comrade who checked it.

I stopped going to work and had only one thing on my mind: getting away to the West. Two weeks after the failure at the Czech-Bavarian border, I got on the train early in the morning with another friend, Andreas. We had come straight from the disco, still had a lot of alcohol in our blood, and were determined. We drove northwest, wanting to try to get across the border near Boizenburg. And specifically, where the two superstars had previously succeeded.

Shortly after Schwerin, a transport police patrol came through the train. When the officers asked me for my ID and I presented the special ID card, they were alarmed. At the next station, Andreas and I had to get off the train. Two men in plain clothes met us. I tried to talk my way out of it, but this time it didn't work.

After ten days in the local detention center, Andreas and I were transferred to our home district in Frankfurt (Oder). During the drive in the prisoner transport vehicle, strict care was taken to ensure that Andreas and I sat far apart so we couldn't talk to each other. There were about 30 prisoners in the vehicle, who were dropped off one by one at various correctional facilities. When it got pretty empty at the Rüdersdorf Correctional Facility, one of the accompanying correctional officers suddenly positioned me next to Andreas. Now we could communicate in whispers. We assured each other that we would, as previously agreed, break out of the detention center and then try again. Shortly before Frankfurt, the officers realized they had made a mistake and they separated us again. But by that time, we had already discussed everything.

When I arrived at the Frankfurt detention center, I was put in a cell where three other guys my age were already housed. One was in for theft, another for car-related offenses and attempted "fleeing the Republic," and the third for child abuse. I got along well with two of them, Jörg and Burkhard, from the beginning. The one who was in for child abuse was ignored by us, according to prison laws.

I perked up, my whole body leaning in when Burkhard said he could escape pre-trial detention if he wanted to.

"This is my second time here," he said, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Last time, I was on a construction crew, doing renovation work. I know every corner of the building. Every single one."

"So why don't you escape then?" I asked.

He gave me a thin, disapproving frown. "Because you can't pull off something like that alone."

"Why not?" Jörg asked, his eyes wide with a similar fascination.

"Look at me." Burkhard held his arms out. "Do I look like I can take out three prison guards?" He was scrawny, his jumpsuit hanging off his frame. But I was more interested in what he meant by "take out."

"How would you do it?" I asked.

He pursed his lips, a slow, meaningful shrug following. "First, you get the keys from them without a lot of noise. Lock 'em up so they can't set off an alarm. Then, you sneak up to the guardhouse by the recreation yard and take the submachine gun from the fat guy inside."

"But you still have to get out of the building first," Jörg interjected, a small frown on his face.

Burkhard waved him off with an impatient flick of his wrist. "That's easy. Next to the door that leads to the yard, there's a doorbell. All you have to do is press it."

"What about the guard in the sally port? Doesn't he check who goes through?"

Burkhard shook his head with absolute conviction. "He's supposed to, but he doesn't. Soon as the bell rings, he presses the button on his console without even looking, and the door opens. It's all routine. I saw it happen dozens of times during the renovations. No one's ever broken out, and they're convinced it's going to stay that way."

I scratched my chin thoughtfully. If that were actually true, it would be a piece of cake to break out of the detention center. I looked over at the child abuser. He had been listening to our conversation and curled his lip in contempt. "You've all lost your minds," he mumbled and turned away.

I decided to test Burkhard and Jörg's determination as soon as an opportunity arose. This happened the very next day because the child abuser was taken out of the cell for an interrogation. The two of them were very determined and said "yes" without hesitation.

On the following days, the child abuser also had to go to interrogations, so the three of us had enough time to discuss everything. We even borrowed a GDR Criminal Code from the library to find out what punishment we would face if it all went wrong. We figured five to ten years. As for Andreas, I wanted to offer him a part in it. Since I, as a co-conspirator, had no way of contacting him personally, Jörg did it for me. We sent him the message that he should ask to see the doctor. Jörg did the same and had the opportunity to speak with him. As expected, Andreas sent me a message saying that of course he would participate.

Our plan was to take two guards hostage, drive a stolen car to the Drewitz border crossing, and threaten to shoot the hostages if we were denied passage to West Berlin. In the West, they would celebrate us as heroes, as the ones who had escaped the communist regime. We would be able to sell our story for a lot of money and would be made men right away.

I felt myself getting drowsy. Definitely. What was going to happen tomorrow was still part of the third escape attempt. The third time’s the charme …

"End of nighttime rest!"

The guard's voice woke me. I was exhausted, had slept for at most an hour. But the tiredness vanished as I remembered the importance of this day. It was my last in the GDR. By this time tomorrow, I would already be in the West. I got up and got dressed right away. Jörg and Burkhard did the same. We exchanged glances, and they showed that neither of us had changed our minds. When the child abuser saw us putting on our shoes, he became suspicious. Now he seemed to realize that we were serious. But there was nothing he could do about it. We grabbed him, tied his hands behind his back, gagged him, and pushed him under one of the two bunk beds. Now we had reached the point of no return.

Shortly after, the cover on the peephole moved. An eye looked through and the bolts were pushed back with a crash. Keys rattled; the door opened. Without making the usual announcement, I rushed past the bewildered-looking guard. My goal was to subdue his comrade who was standing at the end of the hall. As I walked, I heard the man ask, surprised, whether there weren't supposed to be four prisoners in this holding cell. Then I heard a dull thud, a smack, and a clatter. Meanwhile, I had reached the guard station. I knocked him down with a punch and dragged him down the hall.

Jörg and Burkhard didn't have it so easy with their man, because he, nicknamed "Footballer," was an athletic guy who fought back with all his might. Although they had pushed him into the cell, they couldn't close the door because Footballer kept pushing against it from the inside. After he managed to push the door open again and leave the cell, he tried to reach one of the alarm boxes. That absolutely could not happen, because then our plan would have been foiled. When I saw that Jörg and Burkhard couldn't control the man, I rushed to their aid. With our combined strength, we managed to "take him out."

Suddenly, the sound of a security grid being unlocked in the stairwell was heard, then rapidly approaching steps. I reacted instantly and ran. The hall took a sharp right turn, putting me out of the guard's view. The moment he rounded the corner, I rammed my fist into his face. He staggered back and collapsed, dazed. I grabbed him, just like his comrade before, dragged him down the hall, and locked him in the cell with the other two.

Using the keys we'd taken from the guards, we freed Andreas from his cell one floor down. His shock was obvious; he clearly hadn't expected us to go through with it.

"Are you crazy, André!" he gasped as I opened his cell door. He stood there for a long moment, processing the shock, before finally coming along.

We unlocked our way down to the ground floor, where only one door now separated us from the building's service yard. We watched, mesmerized, as Burkhard pressed the doorbell. Just a second later, the door buzzed and swung open. We exchanged relieved glances, unable to believe we had actually made it out of the building.

But that was only half the battle.

We crept up to the windowless back of the guardhouse for the recreation yard. With a disguised voice, I ordered the guard to open the door. Shortly after, a bolt was pushed back and the metal door opened. The guard was relieved of his submachine gun in no time. We assured our first hostage that nothing would happen to him as long as he followed our instructions. The somewhat overweight senior master sergeant, who had always seemed extremely impressive to us, seemed extremely intimidated and immediately submitted. We continued on to the sally port. We saw the guard sitting at his desk through the window. He saw us, too, and realized that something wasn't right. Jörg leveled the newly acquired Kalashnikov and aimed it through the window at the man. He shouted, "Open the door or I'll shoot."

The guard nervously reached for the phone receiver, looking in our direction.

Jörg pulled the trigger without hesitation. Then he told all of us to step back because he wanted to shoot the door lock. No sooner said than done. When the door burst open, we entered the sally port.

The guard was lying on the floor, seriously injured. Jörg had hit him in the upper arm. We took his pistol. We also captured another submachine gun that was standing in a corner of the room. Before we left the sally port, Andreas put a bandage on the injured guard to stop the bleeding.

In the parking lot in front of the facility, there was only one car that could have held all of us. Jörg smashed a side window with the butt of the submachine gun and Burkhard, who claimed he could hot-wire any car in seconds, got to work. A few moments later, we saw a patrol car turn the corner. Damn! So the sally port guard had managed to sound the alarm after all. That threw our whole plan into disarray.

The patrol car rolled slowly toward us and stopped at some distance. The back doors opened and two police officers jumped out. At that time, I was holding the submachine gun we had found in the sally port. I yelled to the two of them that we had hostages and they should get lost. To make it clear how serious we were, I fired several shots in their direction. I didn't give a thought to the possibility that I might hit and even kill them. The two of them fled into the bushes, while the patrol car backed up, turned around, and drove away with screeching tires.

Since Burkhard couldn't get the car to start—the engine was turning over, but it wouldn't ignite—we left the parking lot to look for another suitable vehicle. After walking just a few meters, we saw another patrol car. It was in a parking spot, and behind it was a police officer with a drawn pistol in a shooting position. No one else was to be seen far and wide. Suddenly, I had an idea: Why make it difficult when it could be easy? Why not use the patrol car as our getaway vehicle?

We aimed our weapons at the man and ordered him to drop the pistol. Strangely, he followed the instruction without hesitation. He stepped out from behind the car and slowly walked toward us with his hands raised. The service weapon dangled from a lanyard attached to his belt. Burkhard walked up to the big, burly man and tugged at the pistol. On the third try, he managed to rip it off. When I told the police officer to give me the car key, he suddenly rushed at me and tried to disarm me. After a short struggle, there was a bang. I don't know which of us was on the trigger, but the thing went off and didn't injure anyone. The scare made the police officer let go, which gave me the chance to regain full control of the weapon. "Thought you could take me, asshole?", I said angrily and rammed my elbow into his face. I stood there, panting, and watched him stagger back. Suddenly, there were two quick bangs, one after the other. The police officer flinched and sank to the ground. I turned around and saw that Burkhard was still holding the pistol he had just taken from the man a few seconds before. He looked around in a daze, as if he couldn't believe what he had just done.

The police officer was lying on his side on the street pavement. A bloodstain formed in his stomach area, which quickly grew larger. Sirens getting closer could be heard. Residents, alerted by the bangs, looked out of the windows of the surrounding buildings curiously.

"We have to get out of here," Andreas said. "First, into that high-rise building over there." Driving the injured hostage in front of him, he ran toward the building. The rest of us followed him. Once in the high-rise, we rang the doorbell of the first apartment. A woman opened it. Given our appearance—prison clothes and armed—she was extremely confused, but still told us where the building superintendent's apartment was. We needed a phone to contact the police. In the GDR, few households had a connection, but building superintendents almost always did. Andreas, the injured hostage, and I first went up to his apartment alone by elevator to check out the situation. When the man opened and saw us, he tried to slam the door shut again, but I put my foot in the way. Then we simply pushed the man in his late fifties aside and marched in. His wife was sitting in the living room in a bathrobe. When she saw us, she jumped up, startled.

After we explained the situation, the building superintendent couple grudgingly accepted the fact that their Sunday morning was ruined. Since they had a phone, I stayed with them and the hostage while Andreas went to get the others. When they came, the building superintendent's wife asked us to at least have the courtesy to take off our shoes. We did her the favor. A few minutes later, the door to the bedroom opened and an older woman, dressed only in a nightgown, came out. When she saw us, she screamed and turned around. The building superintendent's wife followed her to explain. In the meantime, we learned from her husband that this was his 78-year-old aunt. She was visiting from West Berlin and wanted to go home that afternoon.

The condition of the hostage with the gunshot wound was visibly deteriorating. Our new plan was to contact the police by phone and demand a doctor, a getaway car, and safe passage to West Berlin. We actually wanted to copy a procedure we had seen in a gangster movie. I went to the phone and dialed 110 to make the call.

"Uh... listen," the police officer stammered. "I... I can't decide that. Don't do anything crazy. We can—"

"Listen, cop," I interrupted. "We're making the demands here. We want out of your Bolshevik state, and you should have already gotten the message that we're not joking." I motioned for the uninjured hostage to come over. "Explain to him that we're not joking."

The man got up from his spot on the sofa and came toward me. After I handed him the receiver, he began to speak hesitantly. "This... is Senior Master Sergeant K. The boys aren't kidding... honestly. Fulfill their demands, or they'll kill us. We urgently need a doctor. Comrade L. won't last much longer. He's bleeding like a stuck pig."

The building superintendent couple became more trusting and later even became very friendly. The woman made coffee for everyone. "I really hope you guys make it," she said. "If we were younger, we'd go too."

The old woman stayed in the background. She didn't want to sit with us because, as she put it, she was "too old for all this." Meanwhile, the hostages sat there silently with their heads down. K. was sweating profusely. He constantly wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and repeatedly asked for a glass of water, which he then drank in one gulp. The injured hostage's bandage had now bled through. Andreas put a new one on him.

An hour later, the second phone call came. I was assured that our demands would be met. However, we would have to be patient for a bit.

That sounded promising. While our mood had been depressed at that point, it now rose. We all sat at the living room table, drank coffee, and talked. However, when Jörg eventually went to the window and looked out, the mood plummeted again, because the streets were deserted. There was no traffic anymore. In the distance, we saw a large group of uniformed men. In the immediate vicinity of the high-rise, there were individual groups of men wearing bulletproof vests. So, the situation wasn't going to be as simple as it had seemed for a short time.

I dialed 110. "What about the doctor, cop?" I asked aggressively. "And when is our car coming?"

My contact tried to calm me down. "I already said: your demands will be met. But we need more time."

"You have another half hour," I said. "If the car isn't here by then, a shot will be fired and the first hostage will be dead."

"Please don't do that," I heard before I hung up.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---