Itwas a hated symbol of the division of Europe and the world for more than 28 years. Then suddenly the Berlin Wall was gone.
Of course, the Wall did not physically disappear overnight, but the events of Nov. 9, 1989, effectively removed the Wall as a barrier between East and West.
That night was the busiest of my journalism career, as I shuttled from one city border crossing point to another, observing the build up of jubilant East Berliners at the inner city frontier — until, around midnight, panicky Communist border officials, unable to contain the swelling crowds any longer, let them pass through to West Berlin.
The crowds poured joyously in to the Western half of the city, from all the major checkpoints — Bornholmerstrasse in the north, Invalidenstrasse in the middle and, of course, at the internationally famous Checkpoint Charlie.
Many were setting foot on West Berlin territory for the first time in their lives. Some families even drove across in their Trabis — the legendary East German “stinker” cars — to the cheers of West Berliners who had congregated to welcome them.
At times the Wall almost disappeared beneath the waves of humanity.
The first person to cross at Checkpoint Charlie was Angelika Wache, a then 34-year-old East Berliner. Wiping joyous tears from her cheeks she exclaimed: “I just can’t believe it. I don’t feel like I’m in a prison anymore.”
For most of that wildly happy, unforgettable night, I stood at the Invalidenstrasse border crossing point interviewing East Berliners, thrilled by the sudden, unexpected breach in the Wall. They exchanged hugs and kisses and ran the gauntlet of cheering West Berliners.
I watched in disbelief as British and US military policemen were photographed shaking the hands of East German border guards, even conferring with them on how best they should control the sudden flood of East Berlin arrivals. Hours earlier they had been virtual enemies, treating one another with disdain.
At midnight, I forced my way through the throng at Invalidenstrasse to find a beaming Walter Momper, then Berlin’s mayor, with his familiar red scarf around his neck, standing near the control sheds, surrounded by celebrating East Berliners slapping him on the back and plying him with champagne.
We conducted a radio interview, albeit against a cacophony of joyful background noise. I had never seen Momper looking so happy.
He said: “This is the moment we have all been waiting for. For Berliners, this is the happiest day of their lives, the city is one again. It’s a wonderful moment for Berlin. A truly historic moment.”
There were tears in his eyes.
Momper said he’d always believed the Wall would topple one day, but he admitted there were times when he’d despaired of it ever happening in his lifetime. Seven months earlier, Communist leader Erich Honecker had even boasted that the Berlin Wall would “last for another 100 years.”
Now, West Berliners were pulling East Berliners to the top of the barrier along which, in earlier years, dozens of people had been shot trying to escape. The crowd tooted trumpets and danced in gay abandon atop the barrier, embracing one another warmly.
It was a sharp contrast to Aug. 17, 1962, when 19-year-old East Berliner Peter Fetchter was shot and wounded while trying to scale the barrier, screaming “help me, help me,” while helpless West Berlin police could only throw first aid packets over the barricade to him, watching for 50 minutes as Fetchter bled to death.
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