by Debby Pattiz

It was late December 1989. The Berlin Wall was down. The East German border was open. What could go wrong?

The port town where I lived back in 1988 was deep inside East Germany, far from Berlin. Rostock was located all the way north on the Baltic Coast, between Poland and West Germany. Only an inch from Copenhagen on my map, Rostock was a world away.

A world apart.

My roommate and dear friend Anneli and I used to sit on the windy beach in nearby Warnemünde and watch the ferry cross back and forth to Copenhagen. Prior to departure, outbound passengers (mostly Western Europeans transiting to Denmark) were subjected to rigorous passport controls before being segregated behind concrete barriers by armed guards.

I remember digging bare toes into cold wintery sand as Anneli and I stared out at the gray sea, hoping that—against all odds—invisible roots might sprout from our soles and anchor us together forever. You see, it perplexed and distressed our 20-year-old selves that one of us could board the ferry to Copenhagen any day she wished. The other could not. It didn’t make any sense. And it hurt.

So that’s why, during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve 1989, the two of us planned to catch that ferry. We wanted to experience Anneli’s first independent trip outside of East Germany together.

The Wall was down. The border was open. What could go wrong?