on exactitude was however let down by reality. The fruit and veg shop never had much of either. It certainly never had anything green, although the white cabbage occasionally had a greenish tinge. The stock-in-trade was hoary carrots and bruised onions.
Across the road was the equivalent of a neighbourhood supermarket . It announced this with the word Lebensmittel (foodstuff), which included milk that wasn’t always sour, tomato juice imported from Romania as well as barely drinkable red wine, and, thankfully , an almost unlimited supply of still surprisingly excellent beer. The beer and the tomato juice – and some remarkably foul Russian mineral water – all came in identical half-litre bottles which were either brown or green irrespective of content, so it meant it was well worth paying attention to the label, even if it was usually faded.
The flat itself had a long, high-ceilinged corridor with a door to the stairwell at either end, three doors off to the left and three to the right. Those on the right were the bathroom, kitchen and a separate toilet; those on the left, in succession, the office, the living room, and the bedroom. The rooms were big and though it was far from luxurious it was as good a first marital home as many young couples in London could afford. The downside, of course, was that it also housed the office: I would be not so much working from home as living in the office.
And the office was the realm, let there be no mistaking it, of Erdmute. This improbable first name was derived from ‘Earth Mother’, and sounded just as preposterous to most 1980s Germans as it did to me. The exceptions were those old enough to sympathise with children of the thirties and forties who had been given names thought appropriate to the latent paganism of National Socialist ideology. (There are still middle-aged Russians today who labour under the name Melor, derived from Marx, Engels, Lenin, October Revolution – most of whom were called Melsor until Stalin fell out of favour). Erdmute had been employed as secretary since the opening of the office in 1959. Back then she had been a ‘slip of athing’, she claimed; by now she was a jovial, self-possessed woman in her forties with heavy glasses and a shock of bright red hennadyed hair.
As the one fixed element in a relatively transient world of young men who came and went over the years, Erdmute had a naturally possessive attitude to the Reuters office. This extended to previous correspondents, even – up to a point – those who predated her. Chief among these was one old man who was one of my first visitors in the East Berlin office: a tall thin Englishman called John Peet, who had been Reuters chief correspondent in occupied Berlin in the late 1940s and also a convinced pacifist. One day in the early summer of 1950, only months after the Soviet zone had declared itself a separate state – in response to currency reform and consolidation in the Western zones – Peet failed to turn up for work. London – to their disbelieving horror – soon found out why. He had left a neat roll of telex tape with instructions for the office clerk to send it over the wire to London. It was, in Peet’s usual manner, a well-crafted little news story, properly formatted in the correct Reuters house style. But it caused pandemonium in London, swiftly followed by disbelief . As a result Reuters were scooped on their very own story when, a week later, Peet turned up at a press conference in East Berlin accompanied by a senior member of the communist politburo to announce his defection.
Erdmute was slightly disapproving of him, whereas she absolutely doted on one of my predecessors whom I believe she regarded as her ‘star pupil’. In 1963 the office in East Berlin had been occupied by a young Reuters man, Frederick Forsyth, who had yet to turn his hand to the thriller-writing that would make him a fortune. The famous anecdote about him on the World Desk back in London was that
Across the road was the equivalent of a neighbourhood supermarket . It announced this with the word Lebensmittel (foodstuff), which included milk that wasn’t always sour, tomato juice imported from Romania as well as barely drinkable red wine, and, thankfully , an almost unlimited supply of still surprisingly excellent beer. The beer and the tomato juice – and some remarkably foul Russian mineral water – all came in identical half-litre bottles which were either brown or green irrespective of content, so it meant it was well worth paying attention to the label, even if it was usually faded.
The flat itself had a long, high-ceilinged corridor with a door to the stairwell at either end, three doors off to the left and three to the right. Those on the right were the bathroom, kitchen and a separate toilet; those on the left, in succession, the office, the living room, and the bedroom. The rooms were big and though it was far from luxurious it was as good a first marital home as many young couples in London could afford. The downside, of course, was that it also housed the office: I would be not so much working from home as living in the office.
And the office was the realm, let there be no mistaking it, of Erdmute. This improbable first name was derived from ‘Earth Mother’, and sounded just as preposterous to most 1980s Germans as it did to me. The exceptions were those old enough to sympathise with children of the thirties and forties who had been given names thought appropriate to the latent paganism of National Socialist ideology. (There are still middle-aged Russians today who labour under the name Melor, derived from Marx, Engels, Lenin, October Revolution – most of whom were called Melsor until Stalin fell out of favour). Erdmute had been employed as secretary since the opening of the office in 1959. Back then she had been a ‘slip of athing’, she claimed; by now she was a jovial, self-possessed woman in her forties with heavy glasses and a shock of bright red hennadyed hair.
As the one fixed element in a relatively transient world of young men who came and went over the years, Erdmute had a naturally possessive attitude to the Reuters office. This extended to previous correspondents, even – up to a point – those who predated her. Chief among these was one old man who was one of my first visitors in the East Berlin office: a tall thin Englishman called John Peet, who had been Reuters chief correspondent in occupied Berlin in the late 1940s and also a convinced pacifist. One day in the early summer of 1950, only months after the Soviet zone had declared itself a separate state – in response to currency reform and consolidation in the Western zones – Peet failed to turn up for work. London – to their disbelieving horror – soon found out why. He had left a neat roll of telex tape with instructions for the office clerk to send it over the wire to London. It was, in Peet’s usual manner, a well-crafted little news story, properly formatted in the correct Reuters house style. But it caused pandemonium in London, swiftly followed by disbelief . As a result Reuters were scooped on their very own story when, a week later, Peet turned up at a press conference in East Berlin accompanied by a senior member of the communist politburo to announce his defection.
Erdmute was slightly disapproving of him, whereas she absolutely doted on one of my predecessors whom I believe she regarded as her ‘star pupil’. In 1963 the office in East Berlin had been occupied by a young Reuters man, Frederick Forsyth, who had yet to turn his hand to the thriller-writing that would make him a fortune. The famous anecdote about him on the World Desk back in London was that
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