I arrive at Wernerwerk station around 5pm, after a fascinating tour of a destroyed nazi Flak Tower (anti-aircraft tower) earlier that afternoon. I have heard lots about the abandoned Siemensbahn S-Bahn line, as it's one of the more well-known abandoned locations in Berlin. Originally stretching 4.5 kilometres across the northwestern part of the city, the railway was active from 1929 to 1980, when industrial action lead to almost half of West Berlin's S-Bahn network shutting down. From 1984 onward, operations slowly resumed but due to low ridership prior to the strikes, Siemensbahn never reopened.
Stepping onto Wernerwerk station, my relation to space turns uncannily familiar. I imagine myself running up the stairs just to miss my train, checking the sign only to realise I could have saved my breath by waiting another five minutes and sitting down on a bench to read my book, in turn hoping the following train would be delayed to finish my chapter.
Whether going above or under, train passengers temporarily leave the chaos and frenzy of everyday life to enter a space of familiarity. Though commuting is often chaotic in its own right, it also offers a moment of pause to collect yourself, to mentally prepare for new experiences or forget about the outside world entirely.
Going onto the tracks feels like peeking behind the curtain, as you literally descend upon that which is usually forbidden. At the end of the path, you find a railway bridge. Originally, this took passengers across the river Spree to Jungfernheide station, connecting to the still active Ringbahn line. Today, this section of the railway no longer exists. So I retrace my steps and head towards the other end of the line.
While the first section is urban and industrial, as soon as you enter this path, you journey into a wondrous grove, wild and overgrown. But there's a certain dissonance between the tranquil bliss of Siemesnbahn, and how close you constantly are to civilisation. Just a few metres away, you witness kids walking home from school, mothers scolding their children and commuters occasionally giving you the side eye if they happen to notice you behind the flimsy barrier that seperates this Siemensbahn from its subcoonurban neighbourhood.
As you head down the line, however, the vegetation grows wilder and the two tracks guiding you slowly disappear behind foliage. All the while, the path grows wider, further isolating you from the world around you. Whereas earlier, it would be essentially impossible to miss other explorers (like the group of teenagers I attempt to communicate with in my very (very) broken German), it dawns on me that someone could now feasibly hide from me. And if that were the case, where would I possibly escape?
I'm struck by how alien Siemendstadt appears — an uncanny doppelgänger of the previous stop. Whereas the desolateness of Wernerwerk was complemented with few shrubs growing out the side of its huts, Siemenstadt is overgrown almost to the point of nonrecognition. Whereas Wernerwerk was an towering plateau, overlooking the bustling city, Siemenstadt is a lost alcove, making you forget about the world around.
The sight is eerie, but undeniably serene. Compared to the previous stop, however, the uncanny has a far stronger presence. Acting as a beacon of familiarity, this clearing in the forest accentuates how alien it has become. And the feeling of being watched continues to loom over me.
As I creep back into the thicket, chills run through my veins. Somewhat naively, it occurs to me why the colour green is typically associated with safety, as any other flash of colour, from packaging left behind to the early browning of leaves, intuitively signals distress in my brain, as a potential danger.
I arrive at the final station, Gartenfelt. To my dismay, the sun is setting at an alarming rate and the energy goes from eerie to downright scary. Being the end of the line, Gartenfelt station is more built up than the others. At the back, an empty buildings calls me over. I make my way into the dark and peak through the window. I see shapes reflected in the
glass and briskly decide to head home. Only now, I don't know the way out.
In this dark underworld, nature no longer represents serenity, but rather a test of my own vulnerability; and peaks into the outside world indicate both my potential return to civilisation and the possibility of being caught. In spite of being surrounded by the city, I am eerily alone. And the comfort of a train station changes to symbolise the terrifying potential of not being alone. Meaning collapses into an overwhelming feeling of weightlessness, of not quite being here.
I start to panic and run through the thicket, scratching up my arms and legs, as my feet get tangled in the weeds. I gather myself and slowly make my way to the last exit I remember, past Siemenstadt staion, as a sense of familiarity slowly returns. I feel oddly grounded, profoundly aware of my body, its vulnerability and its limits.
Lost within an unknown Berlin suburb, I wander around, trying to find my way back to familiarity. Eventually, I find a U-Bahn — my escape hatch from this strange and overwhelming dream on the edge of the sublime, the uncanny and the abject.
Comments