Berlin-Gotenland, Bülow-Strasse, Nollendorf-Platz, Wittenberg- Platz, Nürnberger-Platz, Hohenzollern-Platz—the stations succeed one another like pearls on a string. The carriages that work this line are prewar. Red cars for smokers, yellow for nonsmokers. Hard wooden seats have been rubbed shiny by three decades of Berlin backsides. Most passengers stand, holding on to the worn leather hand grips, swaying with the rhythm of the train. Signs urge them to turn informer. "The fare dodger's profit is the Berliner's loss! Notify the authorities of all wrongdoing!" "Has he given up his seat to a woman or veteran? Penalty for failure: 25 Reichsmarks!" March had bought a copy of the Berliner Tageblatt from a platform newsstand and was leaning next to the doors, skimming through it. Kennedy and the Führer, the Führer and Kennedy—that was all there was to read. The regime was clearly investing heavily in the success of the talks. That could only mean that things in the East were even worse than everyone thought.
