While the fall of the Berlin Wall on November 9, 1989, is commonly considered the seminal moment that would eventually lead to the reunification of Germany, the first cracks in what had once seemed an immovable object had appeared months before.
By the time Poland had welcomed Tadeusz Mazowiecki as the Eastern Bloc’s first non-communist prime minister that August, the end was also in sight for East Germany’s communist party.
Already, the start of summer had seen a large exodus of East Germans seeking freedom, yet they hadn’t immediately headed West—where the borders of the two German states remained closely guarded—but on tourist visas east, where they subsequently claimed asylum in West German embassies in Hungary and Czechoslovakia.
Using such roundabout routes, thousands were able to eventually reach West Germany having secured onward travel documents from the embassies in question; in the eyes of many, it was this unprecedented migration that would ultimately doom the Berlin Wall.
However, it was not just to Budapest and Prague that East Germans traveled, but also to Warsaw, namely the West German Embassy on Dąbrowiecka Street in the quiet neighborhood of Saska Kępa.
First arriving in dribs and drabs in August, by November these numbers had swelled—in all, it is estimated that just over 6,000 East Germans were able to make their way westwards via the embassy in Warsaw.
Some had arrived in the Polish capital via train, taking great care to avoid the undercover Stasi agents that were rumored to be lurking in the stations, while several others are also known to have swum across the River Oder before heading onwards to Warsaw.
Yet more traveled by car, and it is the sight of so many East German vehicles that many Varsovians remember as their lingering memory of that autumn.
Today, Saska Kępa’s Dąbrowiecka Street typifies the area. Flanked by detached whitewashed houses dating from the interwar period, it is a leafy street that exudes a comfortable air of affluence; noise, if any, is limited to the occasional barking dog or the distant tinkle of a cyclist’s bell.
This was not the case 35 years ago. Whereas the streets are now neatly lined with premium sedans and immaculate SUVs, the autumn of 1989 saw the roads of Saska Kępa clogged by hundreds of Wartburgs and Trabants.
Parked higgledy-piggledy on the pavements, this mass of cars attracted a fleet of Polish entrepreneurs seeking to snap up these vehicles in return for pocket change. With the East Germans aware that they would never likely return to Warsaw, many cut-price deals were made on the spot.
This was not the only cottage industry that thrived at that time. As queues built up outside the embassy, food vendors worked the lines, while other enterprising individuals offered to stand in people's places while they went to the loo.
At first, officials allowed refugees to bed down inside the embassy, but with the numbers mounting, it wasn’t long before others were camping out in the grounds. Still, new arrivals continued to come, giving staff no choice but to close the gates.
This failed to act as a deterrent, and locals remember seeing East Germans scaling the fence or passing children over into the garden.
In one documentary, another neighbor recalls looking through her window to see “a fat, old lady being hauled over the fence with the use of a plank.” Although embassy security turned a blind eye to these incursions, soon the garden could hold no more, and the pavements outside found themselves buried under a sea of sleeping bags.
The people of Warsaw stepped up to the plate when it mattered the most. In Saska Kępa, many residents opened their doors; others took to the streets to dole out food and drink.
However, it wasn’t just members of the Warsaw public that came forward to do their bit. Tadeusz Mazowiecki’s newly formed government also swung into action, as did the Polish Red Cross, the Catholic charity Caritas, the Catholic Church and the Solidarity trade union.
Collectively, these organizations were able to source food as well as accommodation in seminaries, holiday resorts, hotels and schools.
At times, this charity was treated with distrust; rumors that East German snatch squads were operating with impunity swirled amid the masses, a direct result of the culture of suspicion fostered by decades of Communism. Fearful of being kidnapped by the Stasi, many spoke of panicked, sleepless nights.
In part, it was the diligence of the West German embassy that had made Warsaw such an attractive proposition. As early as September 21st, when the property’s capacity had reached its limits, Ambassador Franz Schoeller had struck a deal with the Polish government safeguarding refugees from arrest and extradition. While this eased the pressure on the embassy in terms of the number of people staying there, it simultaneously sparked a further surge in refugee numbers.
This placed the Polish government in a unique quandary. On the one hand, good relations with West Germany were imperative given that a large bulk of Poland’s foreign debt was directly owed to Bonn. On the other hand, a secret protocol signed in 1971 between East Germany and Poland expressly stated that Poland was bound by law to prevent East Germans from traveling to a third country if they did not possess relevant travel documents issued back home.
Calling for a diplomatic balancing act, the situation was finally resolved on September 29th when the East German leader, Erich Honecker, gave the green light for the refugees sheltering in West German embassies to leave for West Germany on sealed trains via the GDR.
The decision was formally announced the next day, and within days the first transports had left. Along the way, the refugees were to have their East German ID cards confiscated in a move designed to shame them as traitors to their nation.
“Everything backfired for Honecker,” writes the historian Frederick Taylor. “His decision turned out to be a terrible misjudgment. On the route through East Germany, far from being shunned and humiliated, the refugees were greeted by thousands of ordinary East Germans, who lined the roads and embankments besides the tracks and waved and cheered.
“At Dresden, the first major city across the border, the refugees were defiant,” adds Taylor. “They did not reluctantly surrender their documents, as the authorities expected, but tore them up and tossed them out of the train windows, along with their worthless Eastern marks.”
Back in Saska Kępa, the embassy continued to work round the clock. In addition to train transports, officials also organized flights using the Polish carrier LOT. On October 9th alone, 3,260 East Germans were flown out of Warsaw.
This did little to stem the tide of refugees, and those that left were simply replaced by more—social discontent in East Germany had reached boiling point, and only when the Berlin Wall fell on November 9th did the refugees finally stop coming.
Warsaw’s generosity was not forgotten, though. As Christmas approached, staff sent out thank-you letters to all the institutions that had aided refugees.
There were financial gifts as well. Left with a mountain of złoty accumulated from visa fees and unable to exchange them into foreign currency, embassy staff sent out cash donations to those that had helped.
Nowadays, it is impossible to imagine the chaos of that autumn. Gone are the Trabants and gone are the crowds. Gone, also, is the embassy. The building, however, stands and today serves as the headquarters of a pizza delivery firm.
The gates that people once scaled in their desperate bid for freedom also remain standing. It is fitting, therefore, that it is on these that a discreet plaque has been hung commemorating the building’s passing role in history.
Funded by the German embassy and offering a brief background to the property’s relevance, the tablet’s inscription finishes on a sincere note: “This plaque was unveiled in gratitude to Warsaw, and particularly the inhabitants of Saska Kępa, who showed such kindness to help refugees from the GDR who gathered in the nearby streets.”
