ISAHNHOF
101
was
Time's
reporting of the East German decision to make Western
visitors to East Berlin buy some East money at
their
rates.
Time
repre–
sented this money as a fee, as if one were not allowed to spend it. And
they repeated their usual description of the customs officials and police
as Surly. These men can indeed be surly and worse, but just as often
they are jovial and all sm·les. For this is not Whittaker Chambers, it is
Kafka. When they smil'e,
you
are surly, as often as not. You ask yourself
what
in
hell they are so cheerful about.
Yes, it's one's own moods one must watch, as they are affected, not
only by the moods of others, but by the bureaucratic process itself. One
evening I got so furious, here at the Wall, I turned round and went
home without ever getting through. I had been on my way to the
theater, which was about five minutes away-but on the other side.
I had handed in my passport, it had disappeared into the Rooms
Beyond, and I was left watching a queue that seemed totally stationary.
What seemed infuriating about the guards was that they were doing
nothing-and not surlily
a
la Time,
but imperturbably. I thought I'd
get a rise out of one by demanding my passport back and announcing
I was returning home. He remained imp6rturbable and gave me the
passport. No impropriety that I could report to
Time's
Berlin office!
I drove back home
in
redoubled rage.
And this incident had a sequel with another significant twist-or do
I mean significantly lacking in significance? As long as my rage lasted
I was resolved never to go through the Wall again. I cancelled a
speaking engagement I had had in East Berlin. Yet rage subsides, and
gives place to sullen resentment. I wanted to see that show, and turned
up again at show time, sulking vigorously to an audience of fellow
visitors only. For the customs men and police, though they are always
the same individuals, and one gets to know their faces well, have ob–
viously been instructed
not
to get on familiar terms with visitors, and
each time one is greeted as a total stranger by someone who is less and
less a total stranger, which also helps the resentment grow. But this time,
of all times, the young man handling my papers decided to know me.
Reading my name out from my passport, he asked:
"Mister
Bentley?
Did you give an interview to the press that was quoted on the radio?"
Dh
my God, I thought, my little tantrum set them to checking up on
me, now doubtless they have rooted out some unpleasant remarks I've
made about som'ething
in
East German theater, and I'm about to be
banished from their territory forever. "What interview was that?" I
asked nervously. "A few months back," said the young man, "you said
East Berlin also had good theater.
Was
it you?" So, I was getting a
good mark.
They wanted me to feel appreciated. This was as near as
