Hans followed Koch into the abandoned station.
“I believe you will find the security measures as strong as we can make them,” Koch said. “Until they permanently re-route the West Berlin S-Bahn—which they haven’t done in twenty years—this is as secure as we’ll ever get down here. But of course, it’s your duty to check these things out.”
Hans and the guard arrived at a landing in the staircase. Hans paused for a moment, scanning the mezzanine level of the station. It was deserted, closed up, and dimly lit. There was a confounding silence in the place, only broken by the occasional sound of dripping water. Hans spotted a puddle near a pillar and scanned above to where the water was dripping, then followed the sergeant down to the platform level.
“In the early days,” Koch continued, “we would patrol the platforms out in the open. No walls, no bunkers. Then, there was no protection. If the train stopped, and anyone got off, well… you had a problem. And drunks, capitalist bastards, would throw beer bottles at you. We had little protection against provocations.”
They stopped at a barrier of thick concrete walls, a bunker on the platform. Horizontal observation slits were set every few feet at eye level.
“Now,” the sergeant patted the concrete wall, “we have a much better system.”
Hans peered through an observation slit out onto the platform. Potsdamer Platz was one of Berlin’s “ghost stations,” a fitting name. Fading advertisements from August 1961 crumbled on the walls. There was an ad for a brand of shaving cream that no longer existed, a shoe repair shop on Torstrasse that had long gone out of business. Time had stood still here from the night the Wall had gone up.
The ghost stations resulted from a cumbersome maze of logistical issues when the Wall was created. Just like the rest of Germany at the end of World War II, Berlin was divided into four sectors by the victorious powers of Britain, France, the U.S. and the USSR. These divisions were made along city district boundaries. When relations soured between the Soviets and the Western allies, the four sectors became a de facto two: East and West Berlin. As the Wall went up in August 1961, it was built along these district lines. Yet the S-Bahn transit system, a combination of above- and below-ground trains, traversed over these boundaries. The district of Mitte, in particular, arced out into West Berlin, through the heart of the city. Initially all train transit was stopped between East and West Berlin. But as heads cooled, the GDR allowed S-Bahn trains to traverse these lines, going from West to West without stopping at those underground stations that lay in-between, under the East. As a result, the north-south S-Bahn line and two U-Bahn lines had several East Berlin stations sealed off from the public and patrolled by the Border Troops.
There was also an earlier, more literal, and gruesome reason for the “ghost station” name: in the waning days of World War II, Nazi troops detonated charges near the Landwehrkanal and flooded the train tunnels from Friedrichstrasse onward. It was a desperate attempt to prevent the advancing Soviets from using the tunnels, but the action came far too late; the city was already lost. Tragically, hundreds of civilians and soldiers who had taken refuge in the tunnels drowned. Young border guards were often frightened to patrol the dim tunnels late at night, when rumors of ghostly activity had been reported.
Hans learned that Sergeant Koch had served in more of these underground posts than any other active member of the Border Troops. Years ago, Koch had run afoul of one of his superiors, and the officer had branded him with the derogatory nickname, “The Sewer Rat.” The name stuck, and Koch, though a competent soldier, was never allowed to advance to an above-ground post again. He made the best of his lot, earning the respect of new superiors until he distinguished himself as an invaluable postenführer. Ironically, officers who might have been sympathetic to Koch’s underground sentence could not let him move up. As the most experienced soldier in the ghost station posts, they needed him to stay put.
“We patrol the platform and in the tunnels after the trains stop running at one a.m.,” Koch explained. “We head south first, make sure the tunnels are clear, then north and rendezvous with the patrol from the Unter den Linden station. We look for anything unusual, but all you ever get is the trash thrown from the trains. We have a concrete collar built at the exact point of the border. That is particularly effective, if simple; it creates a passage so narrow that only the train itself can pass through, so if a fugitive manages to grab hold of a passing train, they will be forced off at that point. But you should already be aware of those measures. It would be a good system except for when a train breaks down in one of the tunnels,” he sighed. “Then we have to call up a special team to help escort the passengers out, and observe the maintenance crew while they fix the problems.”
“Does that happen often?” Hans asked.
“Fortunately, no. Just once in the last year. But it’s hard for us to get the maintenance crews down here to keep the tracks in shape. That requires another special patrol to supervise them. Frankly, I wish we’d just seal off these tunnels entirely and sell the rest of the line to West Berlin. Then it would just be the “Wessies” problem. But temporary solutions have become permanent, and now no one wants to pay out to change the status quo.”
Hans murmured something in response. The sergeant took it to be a sign of agreement.
A stream of light illuminated the tunnel from the southern end of the station. Hans heard the rumble of an approaching train and watched as the light grew. The sound reverberated off the tiled walls, growing louder as the train approached. Soon it was joined by the screech of the train wheels rounding the last corner before the station. Hans felt the air blow through the tunnel, pushed by the oncoming train. An old advertisement, peeled back at one corner, started to flap on the far wall. The train broke into the station, slowing as it passed the platform.
On board, a beautiful twenty-five year old blonde woman named Anna sat by the window. She ignored two purple-mohawked kids that made obnoxious noise across the aisle. But as the train drove through the station, the car fell silent. Everyone felt the eerie presence of the barren station, bathed in dull sodium light. Some stared at the peeling paint on the walls and the corroding advertisements. Others looked at the rotting wooden benches. Anna brushed back her long hair with one hand and watched the concrete bunkers. She could see shadowy figures moving behind the slits.
Hans watched the train pass from within the bunker. He scanned the cars, watching the passengers looking out into the station. Their expressions reminded Hans of a tour bus passing a horrific accident. He caught sight of Anna. His eyes discreetly followed her until the car passed into the darkness of the tunnel, headed toward the next station.
Anna Svobodova climbed the steps from the underground S-Bahn platform and entered the maze of the ground floor at Berlin’s Friedrichstrasse train station. Passing a newsstand, she glanced at the headlines. One caught her attention: Soviets kill American Officer: Claim Major was Spying. Anna tensed. As she fell into line at the East German customs checkpoint, her fear grew. It was unusual for her to feel nervous―she had been through this procedure countless times. But while she retained a serene, almost bored surface, a gnawing anxiety festered under her calm exterior. Anna tried to dismiss her nerves―perhaps it had just been too long since she last visited East Berlin.
Toward the front of the line, two customs agents looked over the travelers. The younger man stared at Anna, looking her up and down. It was lecherous behavior, but Anna had grown used to it. She was a strikingly beautiful woman: Czech by birth, about five-foot-eight with honey blonde hair. She was trim, but had a sinuous, womanly figure. Men always looked at her; the East German customs agents stared.