According to my official career-plan I was to become an assistant to the boss some day soon. He was waiting to be transferred to some consulate in a far off little country. He had been hoping it would be Spain. In preparation, I had taken Spanish courses for three years. Top diplomatic positions in exotic places are often granted as political favors, which made him a candidate. In those cases the responsibility for doing all the detailed work falls on the trained assistants. It was more or less in the same capacity, as an assistant temporarily assigned to the US consul in West Germany, that I was able to qualify for the assignment to cross the line into the East.

      "Man, don't worry; it's an easy mission," my boss had said. "We already have an agreement. You simply have to arrange for the steps and execute the exchange. Nothing can go wrong, right?"

      "Right!" I had agreed.

      He had handed me the papers in an envelope. "You'll be leaving tomorrow," he had said with a handshake.

      Excited as I was, I hadn't checked the papers until I was on the plane the next day. That's where I noticed the designation 'junior,' added to my title, which was duly noted in Bonn. I supposed it was customary, but the guy in charge at the embassy didn't like any assistants meddling in his affairs, especially not a greenhorn. And on top of it, he hated to see 'his' embassy involved with the Leroy Anderson affair. He disliked anything connected with the CIA. He was adamant about it.

      The mission that I had looked forward to, and was still proud to have been selected for, suddenly unfolded like a badly written spy novel. "So they're sending a baby," the guy in charge remarked acidly after he had given me a good looking over as though the entire mission depended on the quality of my suit. What gall this man had! I knew he wasn't the ambassador, but I wasn't quite clear on whether I outranked him, or he me. It seemed wiser to let him go on until he had enough of it. All I wanted was some transportation.

      "So, you want a car?" he grunted and took a puff on his cigar. "Take the train," he added, "they don't like show-offs in the East."

      When he was finished giving his 'advice,' he abruptly walked out of the room. This ended our chat.

      Of course, as a freshman, I had expected to get a shocking introduction to the real world. The lesson I learned that day is that some people never grow up. I soon found out that this happens to countries as well. Naturally it didn't occur to me that I, too, had a great deal of growing up to do.

      I decided not to take the man's advice. Instead of going by train I leased a silver-gray Nissan Micra, the smallest car on the road that I felt comfortable enough to give someone a ride in. I leased it for a whole month. It was cheap enough for that. And so, with a diplomatic identity sticker pasted in the corner of the windshield I set out for East Berlin, entering the walled in city of a country guarded with machine gun towers, land mines and trip wires that set off shrapnel throwing machines.

      All that I knew about my mission within this fortress, were the objective, to get Leroy Anderson out, and the name of my contact with whom the arrangements were to be made.

      At the ministry in Berlin I was told that my contact person, Ursula Fleischer, worked in Leipzig, a city some distance away deep inside the fenced-in country. Miraculously, it only took the better part a day to find this out.

      In Leipzig, a city with a long cultural history, life was definitely more relaxed than in the capital city. I was told that I had come too late. I was told that Ursula Fleischer was on vacation for a month. It seemed the whole country was on vacation. When I mentioned the Anderson exchange, only a few people knew anything about it and most of them didn't care. I should just wait, I was told repeatedly. I argued at great length with the people at her office after all those hours of trying to find it and gaining access to it. I tried to give them a sense of the importance of the mission, almost pleading with them, suggesting that someone else might handle the case. No, it wasn't possible. Nor would they give me her home address. That was against the rules. They also assured me with a 'smile' that this wasn't an urgent case. They said I should be patient and wait, or come back in a month.

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Stories about  Sex from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche