The street he was on passed from East Berlin to West Berlin at a crossroads. Lounging on the corner, smoking, were three Vopos, East German cops. They had the right to challenge anyone crossing the invisible border. They could not possibly speak to everyone, because so many thousands of people went over every day, including many Grenzgänger, East Berliners who worked in the West for higher wages paid in valuable deutschmarks. Walli’s father was a Grenzgänger, though he worked for profits, not wages. Walli himself crossed over at least once a week, usually to go with his friends to West Berlin cinemas, which showed sexy, violent American films that were more exciting than the preachy fables in Communist movie houses.

In practice the Vopos stopped anyone who caught their eye. Entire families crossing together, parents and children, were almost certain to be challenged on suspicion of trying to leave the East permanently, especially if they had luggage. The other types the Vopos liked to harass were adolescents, particularly those wearing Western fashions. Many East Berlin boys belonged to antiestablishment gangs: the Texas Gang, the Jeans Gang, the Elvis Presley Appreciation Society, and others. They hated the police and the police hated them.

Walli was wearing plain black pants, a white T-shirt, and a tan windbreaker. He looked cool, he thought, a little like James Dean, but not a gang member. However, the guitar might get him noticed. It was the ultimate symbol of what they called “American unculture”—even worse than a Superman comic.

He crossed the road, careful not to look at the Vopos. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw one staring at him. But nothing was said, and he passed without stopping into the free world.

He caught a tram along the south side of the park to the Ku’damm. The best thing about West Berlin, he thought, was that all the girls wore stockings.

He made his way to the Minnesänger club, a cellar in a side street off the Ku’damm where they sold weak beer and frankfurter sausages. He was early, but the place was already filling up. Walli spoke to the club’s young owner, Danni Hausmann, and put his name down on the list of competitors. He bought a beer without being questioned about his age. There were lots of boys like himself carrying guitars, almost as many girls, and a few older people.

An hour later the contest began. Each act did two songs. Some of the competitors were hopeless beginners strumming simple chords but, to Walli’s consternation, several guitarists were more accomplished than he. Most looked like the American artists whose material they copied. Three men dressed like the Kingston Trio sang “Tom Dooley,” and a girl with long black hair and a guitar sang “The House of the Rising Sun” just like Joan Baez, and got loud applause and cheers.

An older couple in corduroys got up and did a song about farming called “Im Märzen der Bauer” to the accompaniment of a piano-accordion. It was folk music, but not the kind this audience wanted. They got an ironic cheer, but they were out of date.