Not every rose has its thorn

By Renee L. TenEyck

HappyNews Citizen Journalist

It was the summer of 1988 in West Berlin, and I was the primary driver of the lead vehicle for the next temporary duty assignment that my unit would be in. The trip would be via the corridor through East Germany during a time when the Wall still divided many German families within city boundaries.

The nine-hour drive in Army vehicles to the border between East and West Germany dragged on uneventfully. I had this lingering fear that once we entered East Germany, our convoy could be a moving target.

We stopped for the night near the border and early the next morning, attended a briefing on the second segment of the trip. Our instructions at Checkpoint One were simple and direct: the maximum speed limit for combat vehicles would be 45 miles per hour. We were allowed to stop only in rest areas that were not already occupied by civilians or East German official vehicles. The convoy would stop at each checkpoint, which was manned by Soviet and East German guards. At each checkpoint drivers would stop their vehicle, turn off the engine and wait until the Officer-in-Charge (OIC) completed registration of the convoy and returned to his vehicle. Direct communication between American service members and the guards was prohibited. We were forbidden to give to, receive from or trade anything with them.

We also received instructions for the "unlikely" possibility of hostilities.

As we climbed into our vehicles, I noted that gray clouds covered the sky as far as I could see. These instructions heightened my anxiety about driving through the corridor.

The drive to the second checkpoint dragged on and on, partly because we were driving so slowly but also because the terrain seemed barren and lifeless. A few groups of trees dotted the landscape occasionally, but the fields appeared dry and motionless. We saw no houses, no cattle or any other domestic animals. My heart sank deeper into my stomach as we drove on.

East Germany appeared dark, desolate and poor. I felt as if I were entering a prison and began to resent the Soviet presence. We passed a small, black outdated van that looked like an oversized Matchbox truck of the 1920s. Parked on the edge of the two-lane highway, dark gray smoke floated up from the engine past the propped-up hood. The occupants, a bride and groom whose attire also looked of the 1920s, stood outside the vehicle near the front. Forbidden to help them, I continued driving past them.

I felt powerless and angry.

I stared ahead at the empty road, never saying a word as my co-driver and OIC had fallen asleep, his head leaning against his door. I decided at that moment that the ugly reality was that the Soviets reigned here and the people paid for it.

By the time our convoy pulled up to the second checkpoint, I knew without a doubt that the Soviets were the stereotypical monsters portrayed during my childhood. I pulled up alongside the checkpoint building, put my green Army pickup in park and turned off the ignition.

Staff Sgt. Mockabee, my assistant and designated OIC, opened his eyes, looked around, put on his cap and stepped out of the truck, clutching the convoy logbook tightly. He could not mask his apprehension. Uneasiness apparent in his eyes, his hands trembled slightly as he set his travel coffee mug on the floor of the truck. He closed the door and marched past the front of the truck to the Soviet guard who sported a loaded assault rifle. The guard slung the rifle strap over his shoulder so the rifle hung with the barrel pointing down behind him and returned Mockabee's salute.

The guard glanced over the papers in the logbook, handed it back and signaled permission for Mockabee to proceed into the small building. Mockabee turned on his heel and strode quickly back past the truck and into the building where he would officially receive permission for us to continue to the third and final checkpoint, the infamous Checkpoint Charlie.

I felt nervous and my palms were sweaty. I rolled down my window and felt a cool breeze, ever so slight, touch my face. I looked around outside my truck. Bushes with light pink roses lined the base of the building wall. In front of me stood a wooden blockade that would be moved when we started on our way again.

I looked at the guard with the assault rifle and our eyes met. I realized that he had been staring at me. I thought, "Here we go. World War III." I immediately looked away. I had brought a paperback book along and opened it but could not focus on its words. My eyes kept wandering to where the guard stood, about eight feet away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him move casually from his post to a spot directly across from my door.

For a few moments longer he remained there, looking at me as if trying to get my attention. I did not know what to make of it, but knew only that he was the enemy and I was forbidden to communicate with him, despite my own curiosity. I continued looking down at my book, which I held up high enough for him to see. I tried to focus on the words, though I would have been unable to state what I had read even five minutes after reading it.

The enemy walked forward a few paces where he could almost touch my door. What did he want? Why was he doing this?

Then he stood right by my open window and handed me a tiny pink blossom from the rose bushes. I looked up and took the flower from him. I knew my face portrayed bewilderment with no language barriers. He nodded his head as he tipped his cap and said, "Pretty lady soldier" in broken English. Though his Russian accent dominated his speech, the words were clear. The respect he bestowed was confirmed by the look on his face and the sincerity in his dark brown, almond-shaped eyes.

Could I have been too judgmental? This Soviet soldier was only a man doing a job not so unlike my own. I conjured up a weak smile, thanked him and watched in awe as he walked quickly back to his post.

A few moments later Mockabee returned to the truck and, upon seeing the rose asked how I had acquired it. I was not supposed to leave the vehicle.

"I got it from a friend," I replied and started the truck. Barely aware of his lecture that I should not have accepted it and that it could be bugged, I looked up and noted a break in the clouds as we started to drive away. Blue sky peaked out from behind the clouds, which were no longer gray, but fluffy white. I took one last glance at the friend I would never see again. He had moved the barricade and now stood at perfect attention, his eyes straight ahead and his hands at his sides. I was relieved.

"Thank you," I whispered quietly to myself, "for brightening the day and warming my heart."

This story was produced by, Happynews Citizen Journalist, Renee L. TenEyck. TenEyck currently lives in Colorado and is both a solder and the wife of a solder. She is also a mother and student.

For more information on contributing to Happynews, click here.