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The Orange X. Soon the task of the Communist patrols will be infinitely simpler, for teams of official excavators are ripping down buildings too close to the boundary all along the Wall. For the East German families who live along the frontier, the first tip-off is a clump of civilian surveyors, maps under their arms, tape measures in their hands. Every now and then, one of the surveyors nods, and an aide paints a huge orange X on the wall of a home. This means it is time for those inside to pack, for next day the bulldozer will be there to knock the place down.
The Wall and the evil things happening behind it have an irresistible attraction for West Berliners, who flock along its length by the thousands to stare across for hours on end. Some are just curious; others hope for a glimpse of some now separated brother, cousin or lover. Intricate signals are worked out to arrange these rendezvous of stares and waves; indeed, a portrait of two typical Berliners today might well show each gazing at the other through binoculars, for this is the common sight along the entire wall of Communism.
But for the occasional incident of violence, there is little actual tension along most of the barrier; kids fly kites near by, housewives shout contemptuous gibes at Vopos on the other side; the Vopos shrug, reply with an obscene gesture or just silence. I saw the Communist cops watching curiously as an old man approached the Wall from the western side at Heidelberger-strasse. His yellow arm band showed he was blind. Shuffling up to the wire, he reached out to feel the enormity of the barrier for himself. A young West Berlin woman standing near by curled her lip and cried to the pimple-faced youth in uniform across the wall: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself." The young Vopo, flushing, looked the other way.