Erdmute Greis-Behrendt

I’ve only just learnt, with the heaviest of hearts, of the passing of my dear friend and ofttimes saviour Erdmute Greis-Behrendt. Rising above my sadness, however, come the memories of “Schoenhauserallee sieben-und-zwanzig” - the sound of that address is as engraved in my memory as Erdmute’s twinkling smile and giggle.

As a single man at the time, Erdmute was often my buffer between the ladies - of all ages - who would descend on the Reuters flat with the flimsiest of excuses. Courtesy of the Stasi, of course.

Erdmute was my anchor. God only knows what would have happened to me had she not been there.

I always felt the guilt that I was a rather well-paid young correspondent - as I recall, the Baron paid us correspondents in Deutschemark, which we changed in East Berlin at the rate of five-to-one - while Erdmute had to live modestly on her salary.

Hence our memorable nights out to the Offenbachstube, kind of an “Ivy” for East German poets, writers, artists, musicians, etc.

“Dinner with senior East German contact” - Erdmute - including champers, caviar, you name it, cost the Baron relatively little. 

It wasn’t really “fiddling expenses”. Erdmute WAS the best East German contact, and she knew everyone you needed to know. 

If my memory serves me well, which it no longer does, Erdmute made myself and my dear old pal Derek Parr godfathers of her new baby, Max. It is with great shame that I confess I never fulfilled that role. My reliability as a Reuter correspondent was, sadly, not matched by my reliability in relationships. I hope I’ve changed so please forgive me, Max.  

Of course, the Wall was a concrete entity to Erdmute and Thomas (and later Max). We as Reuter correspondents had virtual diplomatic status. We could splutter through Checkpoint Charlie at any time, night or day, in that old Wartburg for weak, frothy beer on the Kudamm. How Erdmute laughed when I told her a bunch of young West Berliners had stoned the Wartburg, with yours truly in it, because of its East German plates. 

One of the saddest days of my life was the day, in 1977, that Erdmute drove me to Checkpoint Charlie for my last time. My assignment was over. In the shadow of that bastard wall, she still managed that twinkle and that giggle. 

On the other side of the wall, I walked to the nearest platform, looked back into East Berlin and wept.

I only wish I'd seen Erdmute's face when they pulled that bastard wall down. ■