GERMANY: Seven Wonderful Days

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"Leipzig this week," said an old German toymaker, "looks like Nürnberg when the Nazi rallies were held there—except that now the flags are red instead of red and black."

The Soviet masters of Eastern Germany were staging their own version of the 700-year-old Leipzig Fair. For one week, newsmen and prospective buyers from the West were allowed to enter the Russian-run forbidden land to look at 7,500 exhibits of Red Europe's industrial and agricultural products. Everywhere they went, their eyes met yard upon yard of red banners bearing quotes from Stalin.

"Keep Moving." Standout attraction of the fair was the Russian exhibit. The biggest building of all, it was surmounted by a gilded Byzantine tower topped by a giant red star. Russian music boomed through the hall as the East Germans gaped at the huge display: freight cars, trucks, tractors, radios, precision instruments. One teen-ager caressed the leather seat of a custom-built convertible sedan, murmured ecstatically, "Wunderbar!" A man with a red armband came up behind him. "Keep moving," he snapped, "everybody must have a look."

The satellites' shows were not so impressive. Poland featured a large train model, Hungary an immense graph which announced that Hungarian heavy industry had increased production by 138%. A sign over the entrance to Bulgaria's display room urged: "Visit the land of roses and wine, the land of peace and democracy."

A Magic Show. Western businessmen who looked at Eastern Germany's exhibits—giant cranes, rakish little automobiles (see cut), shiny new Contax cameras—were disappointed when they went to the fair's export offices to put in orders. "Sorry," they were told, "we're only exporting that line to the east." "You know why they encouraged us to come here," said one embittered American buyer. "Because it helps their propaganda along." He pointed to a sign that proclaimed: "Leipzig Fair—Symbol of German Unity."

East Germans were equally disgruntled. "It's a magic show," said an attendant at the Goethestrasse parking lot. "The stuff comes out of nowhere, gets everyone's hopes high for seven wonderful days, and then it disappears again." "Leipzig is a showcase," explained a Hausfrau from Dresden, "and for one brief week they fill it well. But to pay for one week, we have short rations for weeks ahead."

Behind the fair's gaudy façade, the Leipziger's life was as harsh and drab as ever. The unskilled laborer earned 200 Ostmarks a month, worth just $10 in a free market. In the nationalized stores, a pound of butter cost 30 marks, a pair of shoes 70. "We all know where these fine goods in the fair are going," said one old man. "To Russia, to the 'people's democracies.' Wir krepieren—we are dying a slow death."