Manfred Jannot, born in 1933 in Ahlsdorf (Saxony-Anhalt), has lived in Leipzig (Saxony) since 1968. He studied education there and graduated as a teacher. He previously worked as a qualified welder and pipe fitter.

He was later involved in the construction of the Druschba line. Until reunification, he managed a department of the municipal housing administration in Leipzig. He has also been making music as a singer and guitarist for decades.

The Bright Side of the Doom is the prequel to his sons's diary The 18-Year-Old Who Wrote a Note and Disappeared.

The prequel starts with first memories during the Nazi era and ends with the fall of the Berlin Wall. Both stories are based on facts. To be continued…

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Welcome to the English version of a German trilogy about modern history from the perspective of everyday people. It starts with a daring escape from the GDR.

In his real-time diary, the author describes a true crime for which he was sentenced to prison in 1984.

The 18-Year-Old Who Wrote a Note and Disappeared is the sequel to his father's memoirs The Bright Side of the Doom, which were published as a book in 2016.

Both stories are based on facts. The sequel starts on Friday, January 6, 1984.

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Here we go again. Selchow, the drunken clochard, wants to kick me out again. This time he’s going to overdo it and make a big deal of it. This is the opportunity to finally start my final journey.

“I’m coming with you,” says Jens. “It could take two years or more,” I reply. “We agreed,” he adds. “Your decision,” I insist one last time.

To avoid any misunderstandings, I write a note and place it prominently on my bed. Then we get dressed warmly and leave the dormitory.

We walk to Kemnitz. After half an hour, we hear a Trabi coming from our direction. We hide in the ditch.

Three hours later we arrive at Greifswald station. We buy tickets and wait for the night train.

Two Trapos (regional slang for railroad policemen) come and check our IDs. Then the handcuffs click.

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This is our last chance. If we tell a fairy tale now, we might get out of this place again. But I wrote the note to prevent that.

If we overdo it, we could end up in the loony bin. If our plan works, they’ll lock us up. If we back out, they’ll harass us until we take our own lives.

We went to the police station in the patrol car. My interrogation began at around three in the morning.

An officer from the Kripo (regional slang for CID, criminal investigation department) types into his typewriter. Routine questions. Honest answers.

Then comes the all-important question of whether and why I wrote the words “Let’s go West” on the note. Yes, I did. So that it’s clear where the hammer hangs.

He wants to know how we were going to get to the West. We were going to get on the next transit train over at the weekend, I confess.

At the border, we wanted to show our IDs as normal. Then the train would have continued either with or without us. End of story.

Early in the morning, I sign my confession. Let’s see what the concrete heads make of it. My prediction:

At worst, two years in jail. Release to the East and eat shit until deportation.

In the best case scenario, a ransom is paid from the West after a few months in prison.

With regular applications to leave the country, maybe something in the middle.

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This is what a prison cell looks like from the inside. Roughly as I imagined it from books about the Nazi era. Five step lengths long, three steps wide.

Instead of a fold-out cot, a double bunk bed along the left wall. A small table and two chairs on the right.

In the corner between the bed and the cell door, a toilet bowl and a tiny washbasin with a narrow shelf above it.

No poop bucket like the Russians have! That’s what I call progress.

A funnel-shaped depression at eye level in the iron-framed cell door made of solid wood. At waist height, a closed flap half the size of a canteen tray.

Opposite the cell door, a barred window that could only be reached with a chair. A dim cellar light on the ceiling.

All four walls from floor to half height sealed with a thick gray paint. Countless scribbles.

They locked me in here last night. There was even something to eat. Two “Bemmen” (regional slang for slices of bred) with something and a cup of something.

No really bad words so far. Just “Stop!” and “Face the wall!” when various bars are opened and closed in the stairwell or third parties cross the path.

The door opens early in the morning. Warm water is poured into the sink and a razor blade is handed out. Shave and cat wash.

At some point, the flap opens and breakfast served through. Two “Bemmen” with jam and a mug of “Muckefuck” (regional slang for coffee substitute).

At some point, yard walk. Many rounds with unknown men in civilian clothes in single row in a circle.

No talking. Eye contact or gesticulating forbidden. Hands clasped on the back.

One uniformed man with binoculars and a rifle on each of two watchtowers.

Back to the cell at some point. “Stop!”. “Face the wall”. Lockdown.

Lunch at some point. Potatoes with gravy and something. With a cup of something.

Then nothing for hours. Until it gets dark outside again and the cellar light comes on.

Lying on the bed is forbidden. Looking out of the window is forbidden. But going to the west is also forbidden.

Thus listening to hear if there are any suspicious noises outside the cell door. No.

Looking to see if an eye can be seen in the peephole in the cell door. No.

Then putting a chair under the window and looking out. Directly opposite the Greifswald train station.

At the bus stop to Lubmin, colleagues who have been home for the weekend and want to go back to the dormitory. I can actually see them. They can’t see me.

Getting ready for bed after dinner. Somewhere in the evening I’am allowed to use the bed.

At some point the light goes out. With tears in my eyes, I ponder for hours and try to sleep.

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Rump-rump, rattle-rattle, lock-lock. The door bangs open. A big old prison guard with a cute fistula voice and a nicely delicate face barks “Get out!”.

He steps back so I can bend down through the door. “Stop!”, “Face the wall!” so that he can close the door. This goes on for many meters, stairs, corridors and bars.

In front of a door to the outside, the guard demonstratively puts a gag chain on me harder than necessary and almost breaks my wrist. Then he leads me across another courtyard into an outbuilding. A magistrate is waiting for me there.

Strong suspicion of attempted unlawful border crossing. The attempt is punishable. Risk of absconding. In custody until the investigation is complete. Stamp. Signature. “Take away!”. The fistula voice looks at me with a dazed expression. Probably because it’s a bit far from Greifswald to the border. On the way back to the cell building he loosens the gag chain. Thanks.

As soon as I’m back in my cell, the flap bangs open. Writing paper and a pen are passed through. Writing a letter. “Dear parents! I would like to inform you that I have been taken into custody. I am fine. Do not worry. I will soon be applying to leave the country. Give my regards to Werner, Erika, Karin & Co. Best regards, TJ”. Let’s see if they get the message and do the right thing.

Even though my stepfather is a stone-cold asshole who bit my older brother out of the house and sees me as nothing more than a useful idiot, there’s one thing we fucking agree on: that the zone is at an end and the future starts in the West. At best case, he’ll realize that the word “departure request” in a censored letter from custody is a clear message: there’s only one direction. Inform my relatives in Wuppertal. Worst case, I’ll have to find another way.

Rump-rump, rattle-rattle, lock-lock. The door bangs open. A small prison guard with an inverted officer’s behavior barks “Get out!”. He steps back so I can bend down through the door. “Stop!” “Face the wall!” so that he can close the door. We walk a few meters and up a few stairs into another cell, which is a poor office.

There he tries to engage me in conversation and makes fun of my intention to apply to leave the country. Anyone could come. What he doesn’t know is that I wrote my first one in November, which I only need to confirm, as it should already be part of the investigation.

Then he instructs me on the house rules and hands me a piece of paper. “Learn by heart!”. For the rest of the day, I memorize the ranks, which I recognize by the shoulder flaps of the guards according to the note and that I have to address them correctly. The next time the door bangs open, I have to take a step back, stand at attention and report “Mr. Constable, a prisoner and/or a convict lined up in the custody room”.

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Rump-rump, rattle-rattle, lock-lock. This sound is produced when a prison guard slams open the two steel bolts on the upper and lower frame of the cell door with his hands and feet in a fluid motion.

At the same time, he swings a heavy bunch of keys like a Colt and shoots the matching one from his hip into the keyhole. Then he turns it two full rounds at supersonic speed.

I can tell what a guard is up to by the suddenness, volume and frequency of the movements. It gets really unpleasant when I'm sitting on the pot. If you have regular bowel movements, you have a clear advantage.

After just three days and nights, I have learned to distinguish real silence from dangerous silence. Quiet footsteps that are actually moving away sound very different from creeping footsteps that cannot be heard, even though they should have been. Solitary confinement sharpens the senses for soundscapes, movement patterns and vibrations. Suspicious silence can be damn loud.

The door bangs open. No "Get out!" this time, but a demonstrative wait. Pants up and one step back. A glance at the epaulettes. Then my "Mr. Constable, custody room occupied by one prisoner". Satisfied nod. "Get out!". "Face the wall!".

This time it's through narrow corridors into an interrogation room somewhere. The interrogator, an old white-haired man in a gray uniform, asks me pretty much the same questions as the Kripo (CID) did a few days ago. He can't believe that I don't want to deny anything. That I had written the note after all and that we were just about to take the next transit train to the West. What if we had been checked, of course? Then Stasi (Secret police of the GDR). End of story.

He tries one or two trick questions about spectacular escape plans, brute force and/or accomplices who know about it. Nothing to do. We just wanted to drive over like normal pensioners. I'm here now and will do it again at the next opportunity. As often as it takes to make it work. He is amazed. After I sign the protocol, he looks at me shaking his head and wishes me good luck.

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The flap opens. Stationery and a list of lawyers are passed through. A short letter to one of them. An attachment with the heading “Application to leave the country”.

Memory log of a letter I wrote to the Stasi in Rostock in November. Cramped verbiage. As reactionary as necessary and as unambiguous as possible.

Right or wrong – the main thing is to get the documents to the lawyer. Let him clarify how to do it properly through the courts. Let’s see what happens. All Quiet in the Eastern Jail.

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