15 - Propaganda Tool in Berlin

Summary

I almost failed to reach Berlin in time. Arriving punctually to catch the night train, laden down with bulky scores and orchestral material for my unconventional programme, as well as a hefty suitcase containing my conductor's ‘uniform’, I waited three hours, the only passenger on a deserted platform, shivering in a temperature several degrees below zero. When the Moscow-Berlin train finally lumbered in, I jumped towards a carriage door with my luggage, but the handle would not budge. I tried several more doors but they were all locked. I ran after the guard, seeing that he was about to blow the whistle for departure. Breathing vodka fumes all over me, he barked that the train was full. Furious, I grabbed his arm just in time to prevent him waving his green flag, and thrust under his nose my ticket and sleeper reservation issued by the Ministry of Culture, ordering him, with what I hoped was the voice of authority, to show me to my place. Suddenly alarmed, he muttered that my booking was indeed valid, and let me into my compartment, where a Soviet army officer was already tucking himself into the lower bunk.

My problems were not over. Longing to warm my frozen limbs under the blankets, I found that my mattress was bare; there was not so much as a pillow or sheet. The Russian officer sent me to the attendant, a tiny Mongolian girl, who was sleeping on an upright seat, her head against the corridor wall. She woke up fast enough at my approach and insisted on payment for the bedclothes in German marks (presumably for black-market use), of which I had none. My Russian companion not only saved me from being frozen all night, but was so friendly that he refused repayment. So I could hardly complain when he consumed a stinking garlic sausage which later would not allow itself to be forgotten. Like most of our fellow passengers, he was en route to Berlin on an army posting. Never having been abroad before, he was envious of my wider travels to the rest of Europe. He had a lot to say about his life, his wife and his vodka. Sleep was impossible. His night-long conversation was interspersed at regular intervals by the sounds and fumes provoked by the battle between the garlic sausage and his digestive system.