It wasn’t really a scene I was expecting to see that July afternoon as I sat idly watching the green countryside from my window seat on the train. But I should have— it was 1978, and I was, after all, travelling in a communist country. Earlier, we had crossed the border from West to East Germany, where the conductor had freshly stamped “Deutsche Demokratische Republik” in my passport with the familiar, metallic clicking sound. I was an 18-year-old student backpacking around Europe with my friend, Holly, and our next destination was West Berlin, a few hours away in the heart of East Germany. It was the first time for quite a while that the train was slowing down since we left the border.
               As we pulled into a station, I leaned forward to catch sight of the local people. What did communists look like? Instead, only empty concrete platforms appeared, and then—was it real? Soldiers in full uniform holding the leashes of their German Shepherds, pointing their rifles at the train—our train. No smiles, just a solemn gaze as we slowly passed through the station. An uneasy tension came over me that lingered even as the peaceful farmland re-appeared at my window. 
               Some hours of quiet conversation and reading, another stop at an empty station with the grim soldiers, dogs and guns, and then suddenly we were on familiar ground again. Familiar, because it was the West: the city of West Berlin. Hoisting our backpacks decorated with a Canadian flag, we stepped off the train into bustling crowd of the Bahnhof, and made our way out into the street. I felt like I could breathe again. I was surprised—there was so much to take in. Over the next few days, we walked under the huge leafy trees of  the spacious park called Tiergarten,  passed by a student protest on the Kurfenstendam Platz, listened to an organ concert in a cathedral, toured a palace with elegant rooms and lovely grounds and enjoyed strolling the colourful streets of West Berlin. We stayed at the comfortable Jugendherberge (the Youth Hostel), spending relaxed evenings with other young travellers as we had done in other Western cities like Paris and Amsterdam. The uneasy tension was gone.
               “You know you can go over to East Berlin for a day,” an American girl told me one morning at breakfast. “There is one subway which crosses the border underground by the Brandenburg Gate and comes out on the other side. They give you a little bag of their money so you can buy food or whatever. You should go—it's definitely worth the trip.” She casually collected her dishes and took them into the kitchen. 
               I didn’t know what to think at first. This wasn’t just a typical tourist site to pop into! We had briefly visited the Brandenburg Gate, with its barbed-wire topped walls stretching endlessly on either side. The barricades in front made it impossible to get close enough to touch the Wall. You could only stand and wonder about the city behind the concrete barrier...and take a picture.
               “I don’t know, Holly,” I said doubtfully, taking another sip of tea.
               “Oh, come on, Sharon, what an opportunity to actually go inside East Berlin!”
               She was right, of course. We decided to try it the next day. One by one, we travelled through the subway stops until I thought, “Now we’re going under the Wall.”
               I remember my dad using the phrase “Behind the Iron Curtain” in the ‘60s when I was little.
               “Why do they call it, the Iron Curtain, Dad?”
               “Well, the people there aren’t allowed to travel out of their countries. Their governments don’t let them,” he explained. I pictured in my mind an awful thick iron wall running down the European map.
               Now, I tightly clutched my bag as we filed out of the subway and down the narrow corridor into a customs office. A half-hour stay in the crowded room, a wait for our numbers to be called, a brief questioning by a sober official, and we stepped outside onto a sidewalk of East Berlin.
               I sighed. I saw the same sunshine and blue sky and the anxiety of the border crossing was gone, but the cityscape was markedly different. Instead of the vibrancy and colourful variety of West Berlin, we faced the dull, postwar architecture of square block buildings, many of them unfinished with immobile cranes dangling over them. The plainer, dated clothing of the passers-by and heaviness in the air took me by surprise.
               The heaviness lifted though, as we stood and ate our bratwurst lunch with the local people at an outdoor stand. No sober stares here—only friendly expressions. A toddler was dancing on the pavement, in between bites of her lunch held out to her by her parents.
               We wandered into a museum, mostly filled with artefacts and stone replicas of forbidding gates from the Assyrian empire. It was a welcome change to meet a small group of lively schoolgirls in the outer courtyard. They were about 12 or 13 years old, out on a field trip with their teachers and eager to talk to teenagers from the West. We felt the same way—a chance to connect with young East Germans!
               “Where are you from?” they asked with big smiles and sparkling eyes. I was so thankful I knew German, as I answered them. “Oh, so far away!” they breathed, and stared more inquisitively at us. 
               “And where are you from?” I asked.
               With heads held high, they proudly replied, “We are from the Deutsche Demokratische Republik!”
               My heart went out to them, knowing how few opportunities they had in this Republik, the stories of everyday oppression and suffering that refugees who made it across the wall had told. Still, looking at their bright faces, I thought there must be hope for a brighter future for them, somehow, sometime.
               “Would you like to have city pins from our home?” I asked cautiously, glancing at their teachers who were warily watching us from their stone bench.
               “Oh, yes, please!”
               We handed them the tiny pins and chatted for a few precious moments before they were called back to their group. With shining eyes and pins held like treasures, they repeatedly thanked us and ran off. Their classmates quickly formed a circle around them to see what the Canadian girls had given them and to hear their story.
               “There’s a supermarket near the customs office. Do you want to check it out before we head back?” Holly asked me as we strolled towards the border.
               “Sure, maybe we can buy some cheese for supper.  I think we’ve got enough change between us for that.” 
               Inside the supermarket the light glared white and artificial, and the almost empty shelves startled us. “Maybe they’re expecting a shipment in soon,” I whispered to Holly. 
               After we had paid for a small package of cheese, we trudged down the sloping sidewalk to show our passports to a young official, not much older than we were, stationed in a sentry box. He looked typically German with light blue eyes and blond hair. Not just one serious examination of the passport and my face, but two or three.
               Was something wrong? The tension returned…only to pass quickly when I caught sight of a slight smile at the corners of his mouth. I returned his smile as he waved me on to continue down the walkway and eventually back across the border.
               The scenic East German countryside flew by my train window on our trip back to the West. The soldiers standing on guard on the bare platforms didn’t seem as menacing as before. East German communism was still just as undesirable, but the people, the “communists?” If you went, if you looked, you would see the sparkle in their eyes, a young guard's smile, maybe even catch a glimpse of a youngster’s dance. 
               I have a picture of East Berlin in my photo album. It was taken on the other side of the Brandenburg Gate.