As the West resolutely girded for any Communist-made showdown on Berlin, East German Puppet Boss Walter Ulbricht showed signs of nervousness. He ordered the 100,000 men of East Germany's "People's Army" alerted to "maximum combat readiness" and gave them their first assignment: to use "all means" to try to stop the debilitating (and embarrassing) flow of refugees through Berlin to the West—an average of 1,000 per day last week. The Communists began to evict East Berliners who work in West Berlin from their homes, mounted a show trial of five East Germans charged with helping refugees escape (penalty: three years' imprisonment).
Ulbricht also summoned some 1,500 party functionaries for a pep talk. "After all," he said, "when housewives come into the stores and can't find milk or butter, they begin to criticize. You must understand that we have to pay for all our imports with expensive products. Therefore we can't import any more food than is absolutely necessary." Ulbricht also had a few words for the commissars about East Germany's restive farmers. "You must do a better job of explaining questions of international politics," urged Ulbricht, "so that all the farmers understand that the powers of peace and socialism will win."
Burning Shoes. Ulbricht unwittingly was underscoring what every East German knows—and every refugee's escape mutely testifies to: that life is grim in East Germany and getting grimmer all the time. In its headlong efforts to emphasize heavy industry (East Germany is now the sixth largest industrial nation in the world), the regime has given short shrift to consumer goods. Buyers have to wait at least a year for delivery of refrigerators, up to two years for washing machines. Even the outrageously priced Wartburg car (selling in East Germany for $3,750, in West Germany for $1,250) has a waiting list six-months-to-a-year long. The bulk of new apartment houses built have no bathtubs in them.
Even when the goods are available, they are usually so shoddily made as to be almost useless. Two enormous hangars in the Johannestal airport are crammed with $75 million worth of textile products that nobody at home or abroad will buy. (After Ghana and Guinea turned them down, the East Germans tried to fob them off on Communist Hungary—which indignantly returned the whole lot.) The state-owned shoe industry was recently forced to burn 25,000 pairs of sandals that were unmarketable.
The visitor to East Germany is invariably struck by the overcrowded restaurants. "What else can I do with my money?" explained one diner. "It isn't safe to save it, since you never know when they are going to change the currency or ask all of those with money in banks to buy worthless state bonds. We can't get decent furniture or clothes. So the best idea is to eat well and forget about it."
Dresden Today. Most of the West's knowledge of life in East Germany today is gleaned from refugees, or guided tours of East Berlin, the regime's carefully rebuilt showcase. But last week TIME Correspondent William Rademaekers was allowed a rare U.S. look at Dresden, East Germany's third largest city, set deep in the southern Saxony hills of East Germany on the Czechoslovakian border. Cabled Rademaekers: