Chapter 208 - 118: Handover at the East-West German Border

Chapter 208: Chapter 118: Handover at the East-West German Border

At four in the morning, three black Volvo sedans drove out of East Berlin.

The convoy moved without headlights, relying only on the faint streetlights and moonlight. Bare trees lined both sides of the road, their branches swaying in the cold wind, casting distorted shadows.

Werner sat in the front passenger seat of the first car and glanced back at the rest of the convoy. Hans and Peter were in the second car, and the third held Martin the journalist, Friedrich the publisher, and a priest.

There were two Stasi agents in each car. They were in plainclothes, but the bulges at their waists were unmistakable—they were carrying guns.

"How much longer?" Werner asked the driver.

"An hour or two." The driver was a man in his thirties with a blank expression. "There might be checkpoints on the way, but we have a pass."

Werner nodded and lit a cigarette.

Smoke filled the car. The driver frowned but said nothing.

The convoy entered the highway leading to the western border. The road was built after the war; its surface was pitted and uneven, flanked by farmland and wasteland. Occasionally, they would see a village or two, pitch-black and without lights.

Nights in East Germany were always this deathly still.

***************

At five in the morning, the convoy stopped at a checkpoint.

This was the third checkpoint inside East Germany, still fifty kilometers from the border. The checkpoint was a small, gray building with four soldiers standing guard at the entrance. They wore thick military greatcoats and held AK-47s.

A soldier walked over and knocked on the car window.

The driver rolled down the window and handed out a document.

"Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Special pass."

The soldier took the document, shone a flashlight on it, and then looked into the car. The beam swept across Werner’s face and then over the back seat.

"Who’s in the car?"

"A coordinator and escorts," the driver said, his tone flat.

The soldier looked at the document again, then walked back to the guard post and made a phone call. After a few minutes, he returned and handed the document back to the driver.

"You can pass. Are the two cars behind you also part of your group?"

"Yes."

"They can go through together."

The barrier lifted, and the three cars slowly drove through the checkpoint.

Werner glanced back. The soldier was still standing there, the beam of his flashlight bobbing in the darkness.

"Is it always like this?" he asked the driver.

"Always," the driver said. "The checks get stricter the closer you get to the border. But we have a pass from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, so there usually aren’t any problems."

"Usually?"

"Unless we run into a neurotic officer." The driver sneered. "Those types are capable of anything."

Werner didn’t ask any more questions.

He knew what the driver meant.

Anything could go wrong. Even with a pass, even with official approval, there was no guarantee of one-hundred-percent safety.

**************

At six in the morning, the sky began to lighten.

The convoy drove into a fog-shrouded area.

This was the transitional zone along the border of East and West Germany, filled with abandoned farmland and demolished houses. After the Berlin Wall was built, all villages within five kilometers of either side of the border were forcibly cleared, their residents relocated inland.

Now, only ruins remained.

Occasionally, they could see abandoned farm equipment—a rusted tractor, a collapsed barn, a broken fence. The wind wailed across the empty fields, sounding like a mournful cry.

"We’re almost there," the driver said.

Werner looked ahead.

In the distance, a row of towering watchtowers appeared, their tops fitted with searchlights that swept back and forth. Farther on, a straight line of barbed wire stretched to the horizon.

The Helmstedt-Marienborn Checkpoint.

The most important highway border crossing between East and West Germany, and one of the infamous "death strips" of the Cold War.

The convoy stopped five hundred meters from the checkpoint.

Werner pushed open the car door. A cold wind hit him, carrying the smell of rust and earth.

He walked to the car behind him and knocked on the window.

The window rolled down, and Hans’s face appeared, pale and tense.

"We’re almost there," Werner said. "Just a little longer."

Hans nodded, his lips moved, but no words came out.

Werner walked to the third car and saw the priest sitting in the back seat, his hands crossed on his lap and his eyes closed as if in prayer.

Vogel got out of the first car and walked over to Werner.

"Have the people from West Germany arrived?" Werner asked.

"They should have." Vogel pushed up his glasses and pulled a document from his briefcase. "Let’s go over and verify the situation."

The two of them walked toward the checkpoint.

***************

The Helmstedt-Marienborn Checkpoint was a massive complex of concrete buildings.

In the center was the main checkpoint, a three-story gray building with windows sealed by iron bars. On either side were barracks for soldiers and parking areas for armored vehicles. The entire area was surrounded by high walls and barbed wire, with high-voltage wires strung along the top of the walls.

A dozen or so soldiers stood at the entrance, fully armed and with cold expressions.

Werner and Vogel walked to the entrance, and an officer came forward to greet them.

"Lawyer Vogel?"

"That’s me."

"Follow me." The officer turned and walked inside. "The border commander is waiting for you."

They walked through a long corridor. The walls were lined with rows of photographs—all of people who had been shot and killed while trying to cross the border. Each photo was captioned with a name, age, and date of death.

Werner did a rough count. There were at least a hundred.

At the end of the corridor was an office.

The border commander was a man in his forties with a scar that ran from the corner of his eye to his chin. He was wearing a crisp military uniform and sat behind his desk, reviewing a document.

He looked up as the two men entered.

"From the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?"

"Yes." Vogel handed over the documents. "These are the release order and the pass."

The border commander took the documents, examined them carefully, then looked up and stared at Werner.

"And who are you?"

"Werner Betrich, the coordinator."

"Coordinator?" The border commander sneered. "Another new term."

He threw the documents on the desk.

"Five traitors, to be sent to West Germany. It’s an order from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, so I must comply. But I’ll have you know, I don’t like it. These people betrayed their country, yet now they get to walk away alive."

"This is a humanitarian release," Vogel said.

"Humanitarian?" The border commander stood up and walked to the window. "Do you know how many of my soldiers have given their lives to guard this border? Do you know how many traitors we’ve shot and killed trying to cross?"

He turned and looked at Vogel.

"And now you’re telling me these five can just waltz out of here because the West German Government paid for them. Is that your ’humanitarianism’?"

Vogel was silent for a few seconds.

"These are our superiors’ orders," he said. "We are just carrying them out."

The border commander stared at him for a long moment, then finally let out a cold snort and sat back down.

"The people from West Germany are already waiting on the other side." He picked up the intercom on his desk. "Bring the five traitors over. Check their identities, verify the documents, and then release them."

He put down the intercom and looked at Werner and Vogel.

"You can go. But remember one thing: these people you’re letting go today will regret it. West Germany is no paradise. They’ll soon find out that life over there isn’t as wonderful as they imagine."

Werner didn’t answer.

He turned and walked out.

As he reached the doorway, he glanced back.

The border commander sat behind his desk, the scar on his face looking even more sinister under the light.

****************

The handover area of the checkpoint was an empty expanse of concrete.

A white line was painted down the middle—the border between East and West Germany.

On the east side of the white line were high walls, barbed wire, and watchtowers—the border defenses of East Germany.

On the west side was a relatively open area where the West German checkpoint was visible—a modern building with glass curtain walls, looking much cleaner and tidier than its East German counterpart.

The three cars were parked on the east side of the handover area.

The five political prisoners were led out of the cars and stood in a line.