Snails and things - Tony Cunnane's Life and Times

I took all the photographs on this page in and around West Berlin in 1979-80 (c) Tony Cunnane 1979

I looked carefully at the suspicious objects floating  in the sauce and then bravely dug in. I tentatively chewed into one of the snails and found it rubbery and unyielding. I could not taste anything unpleasant because the excellent garlic sauce disguised any flavour the snails might have had.

Without realising it, I ate speedily, swallowing the snails whole, with the misguided idea that the sooner I got it over with, the better. I soon emptied my plate - long before my hosts had emptied theirs. I sat back contentedly in my chair sipping an excellent Auslese."You seem to have enjoyed your first snails," beamed Frau Franks and, as I nodded enthusiastically whilst dabbing my lips with a napkin, Herr Franks spooned another large helping onto my plate. "There’s plenty more," he added.

I began to feel rather sick well before the long meal was finished but I managed to conceal that and tried to concentrate on the conversation. Herr Franks asked how I was getting home from Berlin and was I looking forward to my next job.

"I’ll be driving home through the Central Corridor and then right across France before taking the ferry from Calais to Dover," I answered. "I don’t know what my next job will be - I expect they’ll tell me before my disembarkation leave is over." That was another lie. I knew perfectly well that I was posted as an instructor to the Joint Services Intelligence School at Templar Barracks, Ashford in Kent. That was why I intended using the short sea crossing from Calais to Dover rather than my preferred, but much longer, route in a cabin on the overnight car ferry from Hamburg to Felixstowe. I had already booked a room in the Officers' Mess at Templar Barracks to recover from the long drive and to drop off some of my belongings.

"I believe I heard someone saying you were being posted to an Army unit in Kent," said Herr Franks, with his bushy eyebrows raised questioningly.

"I don’t know where they got that from," I lied - for the third time - and changed the subject.

I started to feel better. Over brandy, liqueurs, Schwartzwaldekirschtorte with added fresh cream, and Bavarian chocolates, the conversation eventually turned to music. Frau Franks put on an LP of Wagner's Siegfried Idyll on the hi-fi in the corner of the room.

As it happens, it was a recording I often played on my own hi-fi in the Officers' Mess but I didn't mention that. I explained how much I'd enjoyed my frequent visits to the Berlin Philhamonie and the West Berlin Opera House. On the spur of the moment, grateful to my hosts for their hospitality, I offered to hand on my Philharmonie season ticket to Herr Franks.

Concerts by the resident Berliner Philharmoniker under Herbert von Karajan were always, without fail, sold out within minutes of the Box Office opening. The only way to get a decent seat for most concerts was by means of a season ticket, which were virtually impossible to buy. Germans who had them invariably used them for life, and in death handed them over to other members of their family. A few, the so-called Protocol Tickets, had originally been allocated to the British, French and American HQs for the use of senior diplomats and they were usually handed from one incumbent to another. I acquired mine, for a very expensive seat, in my first week in Berlin from an Army officer I met. The season ticket itself was free but that merely reserved the seat. I had to pay for each individual concert I went to.

Herr Franks was overwhelmed with gratitude at my offer and, of course, accepted it. Frau Franks was unmoved because the season ticket was for a single seat. Nevertheless, I felt good at my generosity. It was my way of thanking my hosts for an excellent evening - and eased my conscience for having lied to them three times.

Fortunately, I had a Service car with an RAF driver to take me the short distance back to RAF Gatow but we had to stop at a quiet lay-by in the forest for me to offload much of Frau Frank’s beautifully prepared dinner. My driver remained impassive.

About 10 years later, after the Wall had been demolished and Germany reunited, I read that the very same Herr Franks had been sent to prison, having been convicted in a German court of being a long-standing spy for East Germany. His activities, which started before my time in Berlin and continued afterwards, had apparently been known about for a long time. I also read that many Germans worked as spies for both East and West at the same time and that this was well known by the agencies of both sides. Herr Franks apparently came into that category - but who was he working for when he invited me round for dinner?

I could not feel any ill-feeling towards Herr Franks, but I did wonder who got my season ticket to the Philharmonie. Whenever I watch a televised concert from the Philharmonie I can still see my former seat, in the centre, a few rows from the front, but I don't recognise the man sitting there.

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