Last week a curious and serious malady was affecting Communist East Germany and reaching almost epidemic proportions. The name of the disease was Torschlusspanik, which literally means "fear of gate closing." Everything East German leaders did to shut off the flow of refugees to the West seemed, instead, to spur it on. The day that Deputy Premier Willi Stoph announced new secret measures to halt the refugees—ostensibly at the urging of "delegations of workers"—1.532 East Germans beat it over the border and checked into the big Marienfelde refugee center in West Berlin.
As party officials scuttled about, attempting to scare the East German public into docility, the sickness seemed to be getting worse. Rarely has criticism of the regime been more vocal. At an East Berlin lamp factory. Politburo Member Albert Norden asked assembled workers why, if they had complaints, they did not use the officially provided complaint book. "Sure," came a sneering voice, "it's always full, but no one ever reads it." Out in the potato country, Central Committee Functionary Bruno Wagner was told flatly by a farmer: "One ought to listen more to the West." Refugees arriving in West Berlin said that lesser party hacks were unwittingly contributing to the exodus by boasting ominously that all exit routes to the West would soon be sealed off. Among the 150,000 refugees so far this year were over 500 doctors, whom East Germany can hardly afford to lose, more than 1,000 teachers, and last, week an East German supreme court judge, and the medical chief of the People's Police hospital. A confidential East German report, meant for high Communist officials but smuggled to the West, complained in frustration: "Indoctrination at house and street meetings is almost impossible. The people do not come."
Portentous Mood. It all seemed much like the mood preceding the abortive East German uprising of June 1953, the memorable occasion when unarmed boys hurled rocks at Russian tanks. Refugee figures are now edging toward the record 1953 levels, and the volume of criticism among those who stay behind is higher now than at any time since the uprising. The similarities raise an ominous question: How would a new East German uprising affect Berlin?
In Paris, the West's foreign ministers found the question pressing in on their discussions. They were cheered by the evidence of discontent in East Germany, but worried, too—afraid that an uprising in East Germany would complicate, not help, the Berlin situation. Their realistic read ing was no doubt based on the theory that if the West should intervene in favor of any East German rebels, Soviet Russia would more likely go to war than to the bargaining table; if the West stood aside while the Soviet troops squelched an uprising, aroused public opinion in the West (especially in West Germany) would take it as a sign of weakness, one more evidence of Western unwillingness to fight for what it stands for.
Though conceding that some of the same ingredients of discontent are present in 1961 as in 1953, German specialists currently discount the likelihood of a real uprising. Their reasoning:
¶ The failure of previous East German and Hungarian uprisings has probably cooled East Germany's willingness to try again.