Still, there were questionnaires regarding the purpose and length of our visit and a detailed itinerary to complete. We were required to exchange money at an exorbitant rate after we and our car were thoroughly searched. Carl’s magazine and my paperback book were confiscated, as if Jayne Eyre might corrupt the residents of East Berlin. By the time we crossed Checkpoint Charlie, I felt almost violated. Only my need for answers bolstered my courage. Carl wasted no time in finding the Kirchmanns’ old street. We searched up and down the street, but there was no number 143. We knocked repeatedly on doors in the vicinity. At last a woman cracked her door —perhaps four inches. “There’s been no number 143 as long as we have lived here —ten years at least.” She closed the door in our faces. We knocked on three other doors, but there was no answer. “Look.” Carl pointed to an old woman carrying her shopping bags from the bus corner. “She’s old enough; she might have lived here then.”
