International: Journey to the West

(2 of 2)

The train chugged through Potsdam, past the tall pine trees that shade the Soviet Headquarters. When I sat down in Heinz Depper's compartment, he was looking at a big Red banner strung across a main street. The sign said: "Vote 'Ja' for democracy." It was part of a propaganda campaign for the Communist People's Congress "elections" this week.

"Vote 'Ja,' indeed," scoffed Depper, a ruddy, sandy-haired carpenter. "They pick a slate of their stooges and then ask you to vote yes so they can claim the stooges are democratically elected. The last time we had the choice between 'Ja' and 'Nein,' it was forced upon us by another great democrat named Adolf Hitler. Do they think we are crazy?"

In the aisle outside Depper's compartment I nearly bumped into one of the baby-faced plainclothesmen.

Beyond the Policemen. Shortly after crossing the muddy Elbe near Magdeburg, we began to see evidences of the blockade's end. On sidings were long strings of freight cars with glistening loads of Ruhr coal and machinery. There was a stir of excitement—we were pulling into the Soviet border town of Marienborn. The station swarmed with dark-uniformed, Soviet-zone police and Tommy-gun-bearing Russian soldiers. First, two German Soviet-zone policemen came into each compartment, scrutinized interzonal travel orders, noted down names & addresses. Next, two more entered and asked how many westmarks and eastmarks each passenger had. After that, two more cops came in to look through the baggage.

"I hear the Russians are coming through next," said the frightened blonde. "No, they are checking our names in the Soviet office up there on the hill," a mouselike little man replied, "then they will send for any passengers they want."

A fat, jolly German businessman, who did not seem to notice the other passengers' tension, kept telling endless stories about how he had outwitted the Reds. The scared blonde across the aisle tried to shush him, but he kept rambling on. "Why, you can bribe the Russians with cigarettes and schnapps any time. Why, let me tell you about one Russian officer —" His prattle was cut short by a jerk of the train. After more than an hour, we were moving again.

As we pulled into Helmstedt, in the British zone, the city's brass band played a booming march of welcome. The townspeople waved and cheered. Over a loudspeaker came the voice of the stationmaster: "We heartily welcome the passengers on this first train out of Berlin. We want you to know how good we feel to be able to reunite our ties with all of you. May your journey be a pleasant one."

There wasn't a policeman in sight, and the baby-faced young men had disappeared from the train. The passengers hung out the windows, applauding the wheezy brass band and waving back at the beaming townspeople. The blonde was crying.