LUTZ VOGEL Survivor of DDR Injustices

Former East German defector Lutz Vogel’s personal history is a classic story of survival against the bleakest odds in a Divided Germany. As a teenager he was active in youth sports clubs, and showed potential to join one of the country’s prestigious Olympic Teams. Athletes with promise were highly sought after to embellish the DDR’s sports reputation abroad. He did not make the cut. Instead Lutz was recruited into the military, East German equivalent of The Marines.

Raised in modest circumstances this was a viable route as any to status and financial stability for himself and his family. At boot camp Lutz worked hard. He always wanted to perform at his best. He took pride in perfecting his military training and he took pride in his personal conduct. His single-mindedness did not go unnoticed.

Lutz was a soldier never a political person. He was loyal to his commanders and to the oath he had sworn to. He held no ideological priorities and took seriously his duty to serve the nation. He was among an elite contingent of East Bloc military ordered to Poland to fight alongside government forces against striking ship workers. Battling in the streets of Gdansk Lutz proved a formidable soldier. 

Decorated for his Polish service he received a Silver Medal recognizing his bravery and loyalty in containing the uprising. Lutz anticipated at some point he would get a promotion and secure a better pay grade. Back in East Germany talk of his valiant service preceded him. This was at a point when he might have used the good standing to leverage favorable connections. But cultivating political ties were of no interest to Lutz. He’d grown accustomed to the soldiering life; it suited him best. He even found a partner and was planning to marry.

Then the nightmare began.

His lack of political engagement annoyed some officers. One high-ranking lieutenant started ribbing him unmercifully about the fact he showed no interest in joining The Socialist Party, membership he might easily obtain as a war veteran. Lutz good-naturedly tried to clarify his position to put an end to the harassment. Matters only worsened.

The officer thought him a fool and dismissed his arguments with disdain. Lutz tried to ignore the insults but they soon grew increasingly vicious and mean-spirited. The stress grew intolerable and one day Lutz lost it. This highly trained and superbly tuned fighting machine had reached breaking point. He beat the officer severely and was promptly arrested.

He was court marshaled based on perjured testimony and subjected to cruel and inhumane punishment. He was kept in damp isolated cells for years. So low and narrow he could not stand straight but always had to stoop in order to avoid hitting the ceiling--no mean feat for a strapping six footer. He was never allowed out in fair weather but made to stand naked in driving rainstorms. He put up with the treatment until it appeared they had broken him. But Lutz was only planning his escape.

As soon as he was released he began preparing to defect, a journey that would take him through four countries in the mid-1980s--the only way young men could get out of the DDR at the time. He was under constant surveillance. Relying on his military training he not only managed to elude Stasi but on foot and in deepest night slipped through border crossings into Poland then Hungary and finally into Yugoslavia. It took weeks travelling only at night, sleeping days and foraging for food and handouts.

In a forest outside Belgrade he was starving and foolishly ate wild mushrooms. He came down with salmonella poisoning and spent an excruciating week alone near death sleeping on the forest floor. He got well enough to continue travel and managed to reach Italy via Trieste. Immediately given asylum at the nearest West Germany consulate and flown back to Germany, West Germany.

At first West German authorities were suspicious of his motives. He was thoroughly interrogated and then debriefed about his military experience. Just as his communist torturers had feared, he was providing the West German secret service with pertinent details from firsthand experience. As was policy for all East German defectors he was provided with housing, financial support and training opportunities.

Lutz soon learned his parents had been jailed. They were accused of knowing about his planned escape and not reporting to authorities, something Lutz vehemently denied; they knew nothing of his plans he insisted. (After reunification they learned from Stasi files that Lutz's older brother had made claims that gave cause to jail the parents.)

The first few years in the West, Lutz was gung ho, eager to test the limits of democratic society and his physical prowess. Always a fitness buff and martial arts fanatic, he went heavily into fight sports, training in Kung Fu, Karate, et al. He used drugs to enhance performance and got so pumped he entered the world of extreme sports. His career was brief but vivid. He was nearly beaten to death in a cage fight before a roaring crowd. That near death experience was his wake-up call.

He pulled out of the fight business, became a practicing Buddhist, and operated his own martial arts studio for a while. Picking up occasional jobs as stuntman for Germany’s active movie and TV production industry, he was hoping it might lead to professional acting work.

I met Lutz in Berlin when he was hired to perform stunts for a master class on Hong Kong action film-making conducted by Tsui Hark and organized by European Film Academy. I was engaged to document the working workshop seminar. During breaks we often chatted. He appeared to be in his late 40s, early 50s, cliche handsome and in great shape.

Lutz confided he was writing a film treatment based on these events in his life. He was trying to find some way to get it produced. Naturally he hoped to play himself. We lost touch after the master class ended. I often wonder how close he got to making his dream a reality. Sadly his story echoes the fate of so many forced to flee in the bad old days of East German rule!

Jemand weisst?

PEIK JOHANN, Lover, Friend, Son, Brother, Writer

The boys in Berlin won't soon forget him. He left a trail of broken hearts and shattered could-have-beens. I was almost one of them. It was nice while it lasted. I still visit our spot, in the Tiergarten city park, under the tree where we first caressed.

I was aloof in the beginning. It tweaked his interest to be put off at first. He followed me deeper into the woods. I led him to the bank along the lake, under the linden that's become 'our' tree. (I wonder if he ever thought of it that way. Probably not; I'm the sentimental one.)

Later, getting acquainted we discovered much in common: business acquaintances, similar work experience, literary aspirations -- why I'd even been dealing with somebody in his office. We exchanged numbers and agreed to meet again real soon.

A couple of days later he called.

I suggested a new cafe in the Goltzstrasse. I liked the high ceilings and widely spaced tables, and there was never a crowd in the early evening. He arrived promptly, dashing in bright blue silk tie, tweed jacket, tailored blue jeans and well-buffed cordovan shoes -- a virtual uniform I came to anticipate.

(Maybe I should have asked for something of his. The tie, or better, one of his monogrammed shirts, or some jewelry: cuff links, a stickpin. I'd settle for a handkerchief, anything that was his, something to remember him by.)

That was the first of several dates we squeezed in before I was due to depart. He was so attentive: always arriving promptly, and always entertaining to be with. It was fascinating just watching him charm us into a table at crowded restaurants. Or how strangers at other tables would often try to ingratiate themselves.

We did make an attractive couple, even if I say so myself. His patrician goodlooks and hoch-deutsch inflection when he spoke made his education and breeding easily apparent. I, in suitable contrast, the exotic companion he lavished so much attention on.

My departure was unavoidable. He prepared a special goodbye envelope. Driving to the airport he presented it to me, first making me promise not to open until I was over the Atlantic. Then at the last minute he bought for me in the terminal gift shop a kitschy bottle marked 'Berliner luft'. The air in Berlin is notoriously bad.

In bits and pieces I learned his history. He grew up in Hamburg, after university jobbed in the film business. He moved to Paris, having always wanted to bask in the breath-taking beauty of the City of Light. He studied French, got occasional freelance work, and become a familiar face in the upscale cafes of Mommartre and in the deep shrubbery edging the Tuillerie Gardens. I believe he had a trust fund but it was never discussed with me.

The years in Paris proved hard professionally as he struggled with the language. He'd always been reluctant to even visit Cold War Berlin. He despised the Wall that enclosed and divided the city, and only traveled in and out by air. He couldn't stand the idea of driving through East Germany, or suffer the humiliation of the infamous passport controls at border crossings. Yet unable to get work that suited him in France when an opening in Berlin came his way, he grabbed it.

Compared to Paris, the Berlin night scene was smaller and easily navigated. He quickly insinuated himself with a succession of casual acquaintances, and just as quickly let them fall by the wayside. He seemed perfect partner material -- attractive, thoughtful and generous -- easy to see why so many fell so fast and so hard.

I guess I could have easily fallen into that category but I intuitively cultivated a friendship rather than make romantic demands. Once he said he didn't believe in flaunting his preferences, and of course he would never want to live with a lover.

"Imagine having to see someone every morning before you've brushed your teeth or combed your hair. That's not for me," he said, reaching over to touch my hand after shifting gears. He would sometimes whisper that he loved me. I luxuriated in the glow of his affection.

We never really became lovers in the conventional sense, he wasn't looking to settle down and I wasn't living full time in Europe. But whenever I was in town he was good to me. Then when I finally came for an extended stay he had already decamped back to Paris.

We stayed in touch by letter and the occasional phone call, and planned on spending New Year's together in Paris. I got stuck in New York that winter, but I figured we still had lots of years ahead, and there was time enough for other New Year's Eve celebrations in Paris or wherever we wished.

The phone rang one September morning in New York and it was he. He was in town for a few days on business, would I join him for dinner that evening? Would I!

We had drinks at his hotel and then went on to a restaurant I suggested on the West Side. It proved the perfect choice, just what foreign visitors consider very New York: a French-style bistro featuring live jazz.

We went back to his hotel. I waited in the lobby. He went to his room to freshen up. (Perhaps he'd gone to take medication. I now know he was on AZT.) He came down about fifteen minutes later and we got into his rental car. I wanted to show him my hometown from the standpoint of the places that had meaning for me, and he was game for the whole tour.

I showed him how the city sparkled from Brooklyn Heights promonade and the maze of crowded streets that formed Chinatown, Little Italy and Soho. In the wee hours, we walked arm and arm up, down and around Christopher Street spooning out of cups of Hagen-Dazs ice cream and drawing the appreciative smiles of passersby.

It was past four o'clock in the morning when he dropped me off. He gave me a goodnight kiss, nothing lingering -- that wasn't his style -- but not passionless either. I remembered half-hoping he'd want to come up even as I knew he probably wouldn't. I also knew it was pointless to ask him or suggest we try to meet once again before he left town. If he had time I knew he would call. I watched him drive away.

It wasn't until a year later that we saw each other again, this time in his hometown. He picked me up at friends where I was staying and drove me out to see his parents in the suburbs for afternoon tea. His sisters and their husbands joined us. Somehow I saw fledgling status as a significant other in this domestic picture.

His family had other dinner plans so we went to a favorite Italian ristorante not far from the waterfront. We drove across town chattering away. At a stoplight he turned to me and said, "You are very patient, aren't you?"

I was startled by this out of the blue comment but readily agreed, "Yes, I'm willing to wait for something I really want."

He nodded approvingly.

"Shall we spend our old age on the French Riviera?" he quipped gamely.

"Sounds divine," I said. "We can trade off gigolos over lunch everyday."

He laughed and readily agreed.

How was I to know this was to be the last time I would see him. The only hint of what was to come would be in a letter he sent the following spring from France. It was just a casual mention, almost a metaphor for life in bohemian Paris. He said he was getting over the flu but couldn't seem to get warm.

I was busy that spring and summer and the months flew. I finally managed to dash off a note to him in early September. I probably even alluded to our standing invitation to spend New Year's in Paris together.

A few weeks later I received a letter that immediately struck me as curious. It had a foreign postmark but no return address. I barely had a foot in the door when I tore the envelope open. At first I thought it was some kind of a wedding announcement. His name, some dates, a black border.

Gradually it dawned on me: this was not good news; this was a death notice. He was dead! Even as I thought it I couldn't fully grasp it. I really couldn't believe it. It was just past 7 PM New York time, well after midnight in Central Europe.

Shaking, I retrieved his parents' phone number, and though it was late felt compelled to call. His father answered, obviously in bed, perhaps even asleep. I told him who it was and apologized for calling so late. He said it was okay and not to worry about it. He asked me how I was doing?

"I'm fine, but I wanted to call about the card I received. What's happened?"

"Cancer," his father said quietly. "It was cancer," he repeated more emphatically. "My wife and I are very sad."

"Please give her my condolences. What kind of cancer?" I pressed.

"Cancer," he said and would say no more.

I told him I would stay in touch and asked for their address. "And certainly the next time I'm in Europe, or you're in New York, I hope we can meet." We said goodbye.

At first I was angry that Peik hadn't told me he was sick. That probably had a lot to do with the schoolboy sex we had. On further reflection realized I was better off not knowing while he was still alive. What could I have done except offer to help him anyway I could. There were others more capable and they did for him, as I was later to learn. My memories of him will always be when he was at his best.

A few days later I received another copy of the death notice, this time from Paris with a note from one of his friends who said she had found my last letter to him in the mail, and since it was obvious we cared for each other, it was her sad duty to inform me.

I wrote Michelle back immediately, thanked her, and said that I was hoping to pass through Paris soon and would very much like to meet her. But I didn't get to Paris that winter either and so a few months later she sent me a photograph of him, one that captured him in all his golden glory. He was as I remembered him so vital and disarming.

A year or more passed and finally I had a chance to stop in Paris for two days. As soon as I knew I called and left a message for Michelle. No message for me when I got to Paris. I called her the first morning. She was glad I reached her but unless I could come right then she was afraid there was no other chance to meet.

"If only you'd given me more warning but now I'm afraid its too late to change anything, they're all business appointments and very important." She and Peik were partners in a business venture she was now running alone.

"Why don't we talk now," I suggested.

And we did, for a long time. She sketched in the last eighteen months of his life; beginning with the first time he became seriously ill. She said it began with a case of what appeared to be the flu but it just didn't seem to want to go away. Running a 40 Celsius fever he flew to Germany and was immediately hospitalized. It was then he was diagnosed Positive.

After a hospital stay and home recuperation he was put on regular medication. In a few weeks he felt well enough to return to Paris and did so. The first indication that she had of anything serious was one night they had a date for dinner. As they pulled up to a parking space, he said that he had to go home, that he was too sick to go into the restaurant. She complied immediately, of course.

He was bedridden for several weeks and finally it got so bad his father flew in to bring him home. Once again he recuperated and was soon back in Paris. And then one day in March she returned home late to find a series of desperate messages from him on the answering band. He was at the prefect of police and needed her to come immediately.

As it turned out he'd been picked up wandering the streets barefooted and disoriented. He later explained that he was having an epileptic seizure and afraid of being alone in the apartment rushed out into the street in the hope of finding help. Now it was apparent he was no longer able to take care of himself, so arrangements were made for him to return to Germany.

His health stabilized and in July he accepted an invitation to visit friends in Majorca. They had no idea about his precarious condition. The flight was shaky and it was apparent when the friends came to pick him up at the airport he wasn't well. They insisted he return to Germany. Instead he flew to Paris, his beloved Paris.

Michelle was not prepared for the man she picked up at Orly that sultry summer day. He was thin, emaciated, and his hair, his full dark silky hair was severely thinning. She knew immediately he had to go home. But it was impossible for him to travel alone for at least a few days. His conditioned worsened, and once more his father was summoned to Paris to bring him home.

Last summer I called his parents and his father included me in a family outing. Over the course of the evening I got to see what caring loving people my friend had left behind, leaving a void in their lives that would probably never be filled.

After dinner I asked the sister closest to him in age and expression, where his grave was, and she said she would take me. The next morning we drove to the cemetery, one she'd said they'd chosen because it was small and intimate.

As she led me to the gravesite she talked about his final days. He was hospitalized and the doctors weren't too reassuring. He'd rally for several days and just when it seemed he might be released, he'd relapse and uncertainty would return. And then one afternoon the family gathered at his bedside for the last time.

At the end of a long path beneath shade trees like the ancient linden under which we first encountered each other, stands a imposing grave marker of polished granite carved simply with his full name and dates.

I finally said goodbye.

Had he surviced Peik would be late 50s today.