Stories
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A Jewish couple was standing at the counter beside me. They were in their sixties. And I knew and they knew --- as I looked into their eyes --- it had been them or their religious and ethnic identification thirty years before, although my experience was merely symbolic. I caved.
Passing out of East Germany to the west, something less than a week later, I made sure that the American authorities were aware of my transit plans and expected time of emergence.
That final time through the maze of identity, the last guard who asked for my passport, with his leather knee length trench coat, jack boots and machine gun slung over his shoulder gave me a hard time. Pointed at the picture and pointed at me. I thought here we go again. He made me sweat it for a few minutes, but then he relented and waved me through. This last sentry unnerved me. I passed on over the border but was then stopped by a West German border guard. He stopped me and asked for my passport. I got off my scooter handed him my passport and then knelt down and kissed the ground, something I never imagined myself capable of doing. I was not what you call a patriotic sort.
The guard observed this and then he said, "Where is your USA a sticker?"
I said, "I don't have one".
Many vehicles had a white oval sticker near the rear license plate indicating
an abbreviation of country of origin.
He said, "You must have a USA sticker on your scooter. Ya Vol !"
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