First Taste of Danish - Part 2

H.C.Andersen's childhood home in Odense

Odense didn't hold a lot of attraction for a seventeen year old that had passed the fairytale stage and yet not gotten into admiring architectural wonders.
Not being a total cultural ignoramus I spent some time the next morning taking in the salient attractions of Odense, i.e. H. C. Andersen's childhood home.
Then it was check-out from the YH and on to Copenhagen. Quite a laborious undertaking in them days, one had to hitchhike to the eastern end of Fyn (Funen Island), catch the ferry to Sjaelland and then try to get lift/s to Copenhagen. Arrived at the Bellahoej YH very late afternoon, checked in and settled down - well, settled down involved arranging for and preparing dinner for myself. It was Friday night and I met another hiker from Kraut land who was absolutely charming. We decided to combine our dinner efforts to cook up a substantial meal.
After being sated we sat out in the gardens to have a smoke - don't be horrified, in them days it was the civilised thing to do - having a smoke after dinner.
Just a little aside at this point - then it was customary for people to smoke. I remember my mum preparing  for Sunday afternoon coffee if people were coming to visit. The preparations encompassed having at least two cakes ready, brewing a large pot of coffee and putting a bottle of Cognac and a porcelain oval jar with cigarettes in it, plus a matching lighter (matching the oval cigarette jar), on the coffee table. Mum didn't smoke, but if the company was congenial she'd 'puff' away on a cigarette just to be polite.

Part of Tivoli - the oldest entertainment park in the world

On with the story. Next morning, being a Saturday, my new-found mate and I ventured into Copenhagen to take in the sights. Quaint little city that it is, it was quite interesting - Little Mermaid, Rosenborg Castle, Town Square, Stroeget (believed to be one of the first pedestrian malls in the world), and so on.
Early afternoon we ended up in Tivoli, the unique Danish entertainment park in the middle of the city - just opposite the main railway station.  We lingered about and took in the sights, not having an abundance of money we avoided the rides and temptations. Mid afternoon we spotted two lovely looking Danish girls - scrumptious! My mate was very adept at chatting up the 'birds' - he soon had us hooked up with these two lovelies. Tivoli wasn't really the place where one could 'make out' with the girls, so we persuaded them to take us to a park that was a bit more 'private'! They chose Kongens Have (The Kings Gardens) as the venue.

First Taste of Danish - Mie on the left

Actually, we didn't care! All we wanted was to make out with them. We got the surprise of our lives, these Danish girls were not shy at all and quite forthcoming - up to a point! We spent hours in the park necking and petting, it got quite heavy at times. The end effect was that the girls took their leave about nine'ish and we were left with what is commonly known as 'blue balls'.
The girls had promised to meet us Sunday morning in the park - but that never eventuated. So, we decided to debunk Copenhagen and move on. My new mate was going south (back to Germany) and I was heading for Sweden - hopefully the pickings were a bit richer there.
I caught the early afternoon ferry to Malmoe - no bridges then - and contemplated where to go next.

I decided that Ystad was the ticket! Having been advised that hitchhiking in Sweden was not very popular (I think almost forbidden) I purchased the cheapest rail ticket I could get and went on one of those wonderful clean and fast Swedish electric trains that took me in a jiffy to Ystad. Ystad is lovely little town with even lovelier girls. BUT - one absolutely great disappointment happened there! It wasn't the female company BUT the bread!! Mum had equipped me with a large container of Schmaltz (pigs fat used for covering bread to make it more palatable - either on its own with a sprinkle of salt or a base for putting some cold cuts on it). Well, I'd run out of bread and ventured to the what was then 'supermarket' - really only a general store. I spied a rather lovely looking rye bread, nice, firm and dark! I purchased it, took it back to the YH and proceed to prepare my 'Abendbrot' - rye bread slices covered with Schmaltz and Salami. Shock Horror - it tasted like CRAP! Naturally,  first of I blamed my mum for supplying me with Schmaltz that had reached its use by date centuries ago! But NO - the bread was to blame - it was sweet like cake! Sweet bread and Schmaltz just don't go together - just ask Heston Blumenthal.
Never one to be discouraged by such small inconveniences, I soldiered on and had my Abendbrot - food is food after all.

That's today - then they were a lot skimpier

Went out the next morning to explore the town and more importantly the beaches. Ystad being on the very sheltered side of the Baltic Sea has, in July, a very agreeable climate. The beaches are, or were then, absolutely gorgeous. What was even more gorgeous were the girls frolicking on the beach. Them Swedes sure have the nag for putting out enticing messages - must have had something to with the Mid-Summers Night Dream movie of that era!
Ystad was not very 'profitable' in the 'bird' hunting department. I took in the sights, explored the town and beaches, had some lovely food, apart from the disgusting sweet rye bread, and took my leave. Train travel being ridiculously cheap in Sweden in those days, I purchased a ticket from Ystad to Lund - the famous university town. Yes, I was chasing an education, but not of the academic kind. Lund proved very profitable in that genre - but also very disappointing mainly due to my inability, then, to wake up early.
Arriving in Lund late afternoon I settled into the YH and went out to see what was going. Very soon I found this lovely girl, Kristen, and we got chatting. Chatting went to kissing and petting, we spent a lovely afternoon and evening together.
Turned out she was there with her parents, in a car, on their way to a Europe holiday. After enough petting and getting all steamed up Kristen said: "Why don't you join us on our car trip down south? I'm sure my parents wont mind!" OK, get the instructions and be ready. They were leaving by 6:30 the next morning.
What happened, being super-horny and bothered the night before, I promptly slept in. When I got up at seven the carriage, containing lovely Kristen, had left.
Devastated is not an apt word for what I felt. Harakiri came to mind - but then, we are made of sterner stuff than that and soldier on. Packed my bags, tears rolling down my face, checked out and headed for Helsingborg to catch the ferry to Helsingoer.
That was a somewhat fortuitous, or fatal as some might say, decision. It changed my life, my outlooks and my destination!
Sorry folks, enough rambling for today, look for Part 3 next week - promise??

First Taste of Danish - Part 1

Danish Delight - whichever way you want to see it

We have moved forward to 1961. I was then an apprentice in a hardware store, apprenticing as a hardware shop assistant.
Every year of my apprenticeship I would take a travelling holiday to somewhere.

Faster than greased lightening - The Quickly

First off was a hiking trip through what the Germans call the 'Middle Mountains' - nothing larger than oversized hills. Of course I had to do it in winter, Febraury actually, with lots of snow and walking about 30 kms a day. Most Youth Hostels were closed at that time of the year, but I always found accommodation. Next up was a cycling trip through Western Germany, Holland and Belgium. My 'Steely Steed' gave up the ghost in the Ardennes. I had to nurse it back to Luxembourg and put it, and myself, on a train to Trier, just inside Germany, and send it back by rail to Berlin. I hitchhiked back to Berlin and surprised mum with my arrival no end.

Checkpoint into Darkness

Well, by 1961 I had 'accumulated' enough funds to buy a moped - a 'glamorous' motorised bicycle, a NSU Quickly,  and decided to take a trip to Denmark and Sweden! Not that far away really for an enterprising spirit. Pity the moped didn't have the same spirit. Actually, it had no spirit at all - gave up the ghost half-way between West Berlin and the border crossing into West Germany at Lauenburg!
That presented a somewhat major problem. The rule then was, as imposed by the East Germans, that all 'slow' vehicles like bicycles and mopeds, had to make the crossing between West Berlin and West Germany during daylight hours, quite an ask for slow moving vehicles since it covered 220 km over some rather badly maintained 'highway'. By the way, this Transit route was the only one between Berlin and West Germany that allowed transit by bicycle or moped. The Quickly did have pedals, but pedalling was very hard and excrutiatingly slow. Chance of making the border crossing before sunset were slim, very slim.

The Tow Bug

As was typical in those days, everybody making the crossing helped anybody broken down or whatever. Along came a VW Bug with dad, mum and two gorgeous teenagers of the female variety on board. The car stopped, dad got out to assess the situation. The same as myself earlier he couldn't figure out the problem, let alone devise a fix. So, he declared the only remedy was to tow me to Lauenburg! He produced a tow rope, fastened it to the bumper bar of the Bug and gave me the other end to hold on to. "If anything untowards happens, just let go of the rope", were his words of advice. And off we went! He promised to drive slowly, yet still managed to clip along at 60 - 70 km/h. It would have been the most frightening 100 km I'd ever covered, or would ever cover, in my life. The pretty girls must have seen the terror on my face, they couldn't stop giggling.
Once in Lauenburg I had to recover from that stress and then push Quickly to the local Youth Hostel (YH). A good feed and sleep made the world look much brighter. Next morning a trip to the local moped shop for repairs. The guy recogned it was a coil or condensor that had the gong and replaced it. Off I went northwards towards Denmark.
I got as far as just outside Moelln, about 60 km distance, and the ruddy thing gave up the ghost AGAIN!
Alternating between pedalling and pushing I got the retched thing to a moped shop in Moelln, followed by check-in to the local YH. Next morning a return visit to the moped shop proved fatal. The diagnosis was not good to say the least. I decided to leave it in the hands of the seemingly capable guy for the next two weeks or so and continue my trip by hitchhiking.
Hitchhiking in those days was a relatively safe pursuit. On my first day I got a lift with a middle aged gent from Moelln to Itzehoe, where he lived. Being a very nice gent he promptly invited me to join him and his wife for 'Mittagessen', the quaint German custom of having ones main meal of the day at mid-day - supposedly very good for the digestive system and promoting better sleep at night. Never being one to decline a free meal I gladly accepted.
After Mittagessen I continued on my journey. I walked to the outskirts of Itzehoe and wagged my thumb. After a few minutes a VW stopped with a man in his thirties driving it. He offered me a lift to somewhere close to the Danish border. As we got underway and got chatting, not that I have much to say, it turned out he was a teacher from somewhere in the middle of Germany on his way for his summer vaccation. He had rented a cottage on Sylt, a rather quaint Island off the North-Western coast of Germany. He invited me to spend a few days with him if I was so inclined. Turned out he was gay, but a very nice and companionable person indeed. Before anybody worries, he never made a 'move' on me! He was just a very gracious host that entertained me, showed me the island (he'd be going there for years) and looked after my well being.
After a few days of R&R I crossed to the mainland to continue my hitchhiking. That day I got all the way to Odense (Hans Christian Andersen territory) courtesy of some very lucky lifts with little idle time in between.
OK folks - that's Part 1 - Part 2 will follow next week! Promise.

Stoppeln - the 'Art' of survival

When WW II came to a close and Germany had been carved up into five zones (surprise, surprise to everyone) the most important issue facing two of the occupiers ( the Russians and the Poles) was how to organise logistics to feed hungry hordes!

How Germany was carved up after WW II

The map on the right shows the five 'occupation' zones. The four western ones are representing what is now the Federal Republic of Germany. The other part on the map has long been accepted as a historical fact and will not change anytime soon.  In war, you gain or lose, BUT mostly everybody loses!

Back to the food problem, specifically as far as we were concerned. The Russians weren't then world champions in organisation and logistics! Thus, severe food shortages were to be endured. In the autumn of 1946 and 1947 the two women I had to live with decided they would join the squillions of others to go out an forage (stoppeln - scratching for remnants the farmers had not bothered to pick up) on the just-harvested fields for both grain (wheat and rye) and potatoes. Luckily there is a small time lag between the harvest of grain and then potatoes.

'Orderly' German train travel anno 1946

Well, off we went! The women dragged me along for jolly nice day-long outings to the countryside. Here was me thinking we were already in the country side!
First off, we had to 'march' the three kilometres to Koenigs Wusterhausen, loaded down with various equipment of dubious use, to catch a train to the backwaters or beyond. Train schedules were, in those years, definitely 'Un-German', i.e. very erratic if and when they happened.
I am not sure whether anybody bought tickets then - when a train arrived it was just a mad scramble to get on it and see where it took you.
Luckily for me, the women had thought of packing a 'cut lunch' -  rye bread slices lightly kissed by imitation margarine and Muckefuck! Muckefuck is a German expression for Ersatz Coffee or roasted grain coffee substitute. It is thought, by some scholars, to have originated from the French 'Mocca faux' - but as usual opinions are divided.

Women to the right - little boys left in the shade

Anyhow, the women would spend most of the day picking over harvested fields for a few bowls of grain or bags of potatoes. Meanwhile, I was parked at the edge of the field under some shady trees AND in charge of the provisions - no imminent hunger there!
Late afternoon, the poor women exhausted, we would make our way back to the rail siding to see if a train was coming along going in the right direction. If we were lucky we would scramble on one in a short time and arrive back home, after another long march from the train station in Koenigs Wusterhausen, in time for 'Abendbrot' (evening bread), which consistet of gluggy rye bread and margarine with some home grown vegetables on top, like tomato or cucumber. Then, off to bed for a well deserved long sleep.
Thus we obtained some supplies for the winter that were otherwise not available. The women managed to make quite wonderful dishes out of these pickings, or so I thought. At least it was food and kept the hunger pains away.
These 'hard' years had a profound effect on me in respect of food. Mum would never force me to eat anything at meal times. She would just say: "If you are not hungry, don't eat it. That's fine, we'll just keep it for the next meal time". I soon learned that it is far preferable to eat your meal when it is freshly cooked than being re-heated several times over! Because mum wouldn't, well couldn't, afford to waste any food. Thus, I would get the stuff for breakfast, lunch or dinner the next day, or the day after and so on.

22 Pfennig per 250 grams - you get what you pay for

In early autumn she often had me out collecting nettles (the stinging variety) to make nettle soup. Nettles taste similar to spinach and every kid knows that only Popeye really likes SPINACH!
The other thing mum specialised in in those days was 'Ersatz Coffee Soup' - the recipe is quite simple. Take some day (or two day) old left-over imitation coffee, tear some stale, half-mouldy, gluggy rye bread into it and sprinkle with a little bit of sugar. When required gently heat over a low flame till desired temperature is reached. Use a spoon to eat right out of the pot, or if you want to be fancy decant into a bowl or onto a soup plate - ENJOY.
The picture on the right shows the packing - NOTE the price: 22 Pfennig in useless East German money - what a bargain! What a crappy brew it made - honestly!
This dire predicament left mum, having gone through the hardships of food shortages after WW I and the Great Depression, with a lifelong fear of further shortages occurring. She would, from then on, always store either preserved fruit and vegetables (she became quite an expert in preserving produce) or canned food in her cupboard. Her saying was: "You never know when the Russians might be coming back!"
Mum kept food well past the 'Use by Date' - always. In the latter years, whenever I took people to visit mum, like a work colleague or my second wife, I would warn them before ascending to her flat NOT to touch the cakes she would offer for afternoon coffee - they were, invariably, slightly mouldy! But according to mum they were absolutely perfect, of course. Ingesting a little mould is nothing less than getting penecillin in it's basic form!
Well, my sister Gisela had a dickens of a time cleaning out mum's food storage once mum departed this earth. There were items of positively indeterminably age - some of those Gisela could have donated to the local museum!

Doodly Doo and other Surgery - German Style

Once I was born and my parents had departed from Berlin for Neue Muehle they, in their indisputable wisdom, decided to have me circumcised.

Not quite as many people were present when I was done

The procedure was going to be performed by the local GP (doctor), who was by then about two hundred years old and rather tottery. It was a miracle in itself that the village had a doctor. Doctors were needed at the front and got killed along with every other soldier at a great rate of knots. Our local chap was, due to his age, exempt from war duty.
Circumcision involves the removal (cutting off) of the foreskin, usually performed on very young baby boys. The good doctor did the dirty deed in his surgery, assisted by his nurse that was probably not far behind him in age, and my dad as the person holding me down while the doc did his butchery.
Lucky for me I can't remember a thing about the procedure, which is just as well.
I grew up in blissful ignorance, all pain and suffering forgotten. However, problems did develop when I was about nine or ten. But more about that a bit later.

My next encounter with the medical profession, apart from a smallpox vaccination performed by the school nurse in a production line environment, was when the two women I had to live with (my mum and my sister) complained about my breathing and persistent snoring. I have no idea why, especially mum couldn't complain on that subject since she was the greatest snorer known to mankind. But complain they did and carted me of to a doctor in Koenigs Wusterhausen. The doctor in Neue Muehle had, by then, taking his departure from this earth.
For a more scientific explanation why adenoids are removed refer to the picture on the right. Especially enlightening is the last sentence: "Most patients can go home a few hours after surgery"!
Well, what happened was that the good doctor decreed that the breathing and snoring problems would be solved by the removal of the adenoids. A rather simple procedure that he would perform in his surgery. My two tyrants did not consult me on the matter, they made the appointment and that was it!

Very precise anaesthetic device

On the appointed day Gisela had the day off (mum couldn't get time off work for such a minor thing) since it was school holidays. She came and stayed with us the night before and together we walked the three kilometres to the doctors surgery. Gisela was told to take a seat in the waiting room and I was led into the surgery by the 'nurse' - a rather large German Brunhilda with massive arms, an ample bosom and a backside to match. As was customary in those days the good doctor hardly acknowledged me. He simply told nurse Brunhilda to place me on her lap. Her massive arms gripped me in a vice-like embrace and my head was held rather steady by her ample breasts. The doc produced a strange looking gauze mask that Brunhilda place over my nose and mouth - see right.
The doc then proceeded to drip ether direct from a bottle onto the gauze. The stuff smelt absolutely evil and nearly caused me to gag and throw up at the same time. Doc kept dripping till I passed out. He then, presumably, did his evil business. Sometime later I woke up cradled in Gisela's arms in an anteroom to the surgery. Brunhilda came in, checked me over and declared: 'He's ready to go home. Any problems developing tomorrow just bring him back in". That was it! We walked the three kilometres back home, me somewhat unsteady, and I was put to bed.
Being of 'perpetually' hungry disposition I was starving to death by then, not having eaten all day due to the iminent anaesthetic. Gisela made me very nice mashed potatoes, with real butter in them. Where on earth she got real butter remains a mystery to me till this day.
The next day was not what one would call crash hot. The anaesthetic had worn off and the pain was 'excruciating'. But, I got over it thanks to some TLC from Gisela and everything was fine after that, except that neither my snoring nor my breathing improved! To this day I am being accused, by my wife, children and grandchildren, of being a very loud and persistent snorer - not that I would know!

Don't try this at home - get a professional!

Back to the circumcision problem. By about age eleven I noticed that my foreskin was growing back in a rather large weld around the penis head. It progressively got more painfull and peeing became somewhat of a problem. On the right is a diagram explaining what circumcision is all about.
Once we effected our 'escape' to West Berlin (see previous blog) mum took me to a 'foreskin specialist'. He took one look at the 'problem' and declared that another circumcision was in order to correct the botched first one. I was booked into a small private hospital, thanks to mum working for Siemens again by that time. Siemens then provided its employees with a rather generous supplementary private health cover.
I had to go, on the appointed day, by myself to the hospital since mum couldn't afford the time off. I was given strict instructions not to drink, eat or fornicate after 8 PM the night before. I arrived at the hospital at 8 AM and was operated on at 11 AM. Guess what happened next?
At about 6 PM my mum and sister arrived at my bedside. I was in a four-bed ward with three rather ancient gentlemen. The women marched in, said hi and promptly proceeded to remove the bedcover to inspect my doodle. It was a horrific sight - all bandaged up, swollen and red. Of course they had to poke around, turn it this way and that and go: "OOh, Aah, shocking" and so on. To say it was embarassing is a vast understatement.
I stayed in hospital for about five days. My main mission was to go for a pee! With all that wadding it just wouldn't come. By day three one of the nurses took me to the male toilet and stayed with me to supervise me peeing. When nothing happened the nurse turned on every tap in the bathroom and toilet. Guess what, once the waterworks started out of the taps so did mine!!
When I left the hospital the nurses gave me a very nice greeting card. It had a big Lion on the front and they had written in it that I was a very nice and brave patient.
I asked the duty nurse why they had selected the lion, her reply: "Because when you came out of the anaesthetic you roared out 'I'm a lion, I'm a lion', so we thought it is very appropriate".

Switching Sides - becoming a Refugee

It is the summer of 1956 and we, Mum and I, are about to 'defect' to the West. It was relatively easy in those days, no Berlin Wall yet. But, one had to contemplate whether to go in just the clothes on ones back or take a few possessions as well.
A bit of background to our 'defection' would, most likely, be helpful to explain our departure from the 'Workers Paradise'.
It was in early autumn 1955, the middle of the evening with storms threatening and rain pouring down, that my sister Gisela turned up at our place with her good friend Dagmar in tow.

The Contraption - very stable!? Tips over at the drop of a hat

Somehow, they had managed to persuade a kind soul who had access to a motor car, what we nowadays call a Ute (see picture on right), to load up Dagmar's possessions and drive the few kilometres to our place.
Naturally, at that point of time I was blissfully unaware of what was going on. I was told the full story once we had 'defected'.
What had happened was this: Dagmar was married at the time and had two ankle biters snapping at her heels. Her darling husband went to the local pub, a few villages away from us, one Friday night and got suitably sloshed - the only entertainment around then, apart from smoking Machorka.
As it so happened there were a few Russian soldiers in the pub that night, seeking the same entertainment and relaxation. Late at night, Dagmar's husband got into a rather heated argument with one of the Russians, to the point where he invited the Russian outside to settle the argument. Nothing unusual for a Friday night at the pub, fights were as easily started then as they are nowadays. However, this fight took a rather nasty turn, Dagmar's husband grabbed the pistol from the soldier's holster, aimed it at him and pulled the trigger.
Not the smartest thing to do! At point blank range the poor bugger, the Russian of course, had about a snowball's hope in hell.
Realising what he'd done, Dagmar's husband sobered up enough to gather his wits. He ran home, told his darling wife what had happened and declared he was out of there. He knew the Russians would be hunting him and his chance of a trial, let alone a fair one, were extremely remote. He simply told his wife "I'm out of here and you are on your own!" End of story, he was gone.
Dagmar spent a rather nervous night at her home with the two kids. Sure enough, next morning Russian military police, accompanied by local police, showed up at her home to enquire as to the whereabouts of her husband. Her claiming to know nothing and their search of the home not revealing a trace of her husband they left. That was the trigger to contact my sister and arrange for her 'escape' to West Berlin. The two girls thought, as far as girls think, that mum's would be a good place to store her belongings since there was only a very remote connection between the Mum and Dagmar.
Luckily her parents lived in West Berlin, so at least her and the kids had somewhere to go.
Well, Mum ended up with Dagmar's possessions since she could not take them and the kids on the suburban train to West Berlin, it would have been cumbersome and too suspicious.
Mum and I spent the next six months ferrying the belongings, bit bit bit, every week to West Berlin. It was all well intended but landed us, Mum and I, in rather hot water. The Gestapo replacement, the Stasi, weren't that dumb. They soon figured out the connection between Dagmar and Gisela (collegaues after all) and Gisela's mum! They had also noted mum and my weekly trips to West Berlin - very suspicious indeed.
Luckily we had a cousin who's husband was a sergeant in the vice squad in Berlin and had access to most records. In late June 1956 he conveyed a message to mum that she had appeared on the wanted list! The Russians weren't going to give up on catching the murderer of one of their own.
Our family member advised that the threat was not imminent as yet, but would escalate over the next few months and we better get out. So, what does my brazen mum do? She applies for another visiting visa to West Germany to spend time, again, with her sister Maria in Munich! Lo and behold, this request was granted in double quick time and we departed in the middle of July from Ostbahnhof, then Berlin Central as far as the East Germans were concerned, bound for Munich.
Doing it this way we were able to take along two large suitcases containing most of our possessions.
The trick was that the train departed Ostbahnhof, ambled though the rest of East Berlin before entering West Berlin for a stop at Berlin Zoo to pick up real paying passengers (West Berliners that payed in convertible currency, i.e. West Mark), before rambling on through East Germany before reaching the East/West German border somewhere in Thuringia.
We got on the train at Ostbahnhof, completed our border control at Friedrichstrasse (the last stop in East Berlin) and promptly got off at Berlin Zoo station. Being West Berlin, and a 'free' country as proclaimed by our Yankee friends, nobody gave a rats arse whether we got off or continued.

Marienfelde Refugee Camp swamped by new arrivals from the East

We lugged our suitcases from the long distance platform down to the suburban electric train and proceeded to Marienfelde, the refugee camp for East Germans escaping and, I believe, still in use today for refugees from much further afield like Iraq and Afghanistan.
We arrived at Marienfelde early in the afternoon. It took forever, in my view anyway, to get processed and allocated a small room with two beds. I was hungry and thirsty and didn't like the change in scenery at all!!
Just in the nick of time, before expiring from starvation and dehydration, I was fed and watered around 6 PM. The food wasn't crash hot, though - same bread as I would have gotten in Munich! All white, fluffy and no substance in it whatsoever. But beggars can't be choosers, you eat what is put in front of you!
Our next dilemma was to let Gisela know that we had safely arrived at the refugee camp and everything was OK.

The border notice then - before the Berlin Wall

Gisela didn't have a telephone then, it would have been diabolical to use it if she had, and sending a letter was out of the question.
Guess what my brilliant scheme mum came up with?
Movement between East and West Berlin being still relatively unrestricted, except for the East Germans patrolling all rail cars coming into or going out of East Berlin. Elsewhere it was just a matter of signs telling people they were now leaving/entering the American/English/French/Russian sector. None of the powers that be were in a position to patrol/control every little street or lane that crisscrossed Berlin. Eventually they build the WALL to stop all these shenanigans.
Mum dispatched me to see my cousin, she who's husband was in the vice squad, to pass on the good news to be conveyed to Gisela.
My instructions were to take the underground to Gesundbrunnen and then walk across the border, there were hardly any controls there at that time - especially not of cheeky 13 year olds, walk to nearest underground station in the East and get close to Prenzlauer Berg. Wasn't it lucky that mum had the presence of mind to take all of her East German money with her when we 'defected'?! Helps immensely with buying train tickets in a 'foreign' country without appearing suspicious, as East Berlin was termed then, doesn't it. It was then a relatively short walk to my cousin's place.
Mission accomplished, message delivered and eventually passed on, I arrived back at the refugee camp in the early evening.  Lucky for me my cousin had the right spirit. She fed and watered me (and very nice gluggy bread and imitation salami it was) before my departure for the return journey.
I did arrive back at the camp just in time for the evening meal - wouldn't have lasted till next morning on the few morsels I'd had during the day.