Slam!

During the Russian blockade of Berlin, some Russians were themselves blockaded in the U.S. sector of the city. They worked in the massive grey Reichsbahn-Direktion, headquarters of the Soviet-controlled railroad spiderweb radiating from Berlin. After the blockade, in last summer's railroad strike, 200 West Berliners charged into the building, tore down pictures of Stalin. That was enough for the Russians: they moved their railroad officials into the Soviet sector, leaving only an automatic rail-telephone switchboard and a small school for railroaders in the Direktion; 600 offices stood empty.

In Berlin rooms are scarce. Last week a squabble over the 600 rooms became, through a combination of U.S. bumbling and Soviet truculence, a grave international crisis.

The Orange Placard. To Joseph P. McNulty, U.S. official in charge of former Reich property, came the heads of West Berlin city government agencies, in search of office space. Would he requisition the Reichsbahn-Direktion building? Wholly within his and the U.S.'s legal rights, McNulty agreed on one condition: the Soviet switchboard was to continue functioning. Then he signed his orange-colored Notice of Requisition, gave it to the city officials to post on the building. U.S. Commandant Major General Maxwell D. Taylor was not notified, nor was Taylor's superior in Frankfurt, U.S. High Commissioner John J. McCloy.

Early in the evening 50 West Berlin police drove up to the Direktion, charged in, took the Soviet guards by surprise, ousted some railway workers (see cut), and posted McNulty's orange placard by the gate. The Soviet-German press blared headlines about "illegal confiscation."

Next morning the Soviet answer became painfully plain. Berlin's elevated system, which is operated by the Soviet-controlled railroads, ran its trains 40 minutes apart in West Berlin. Angry riders jammed so tightly that glass panes were shattered. Communist rail officials explained: "[There had been] interference with the phone switchboard at the Direktion . . . We are reducing traffic to avoid catastrophes." This was an unvarnished lie: General Taylor showed correspondents (including embarrassed Communist reporters) the automatic board, clicking and blinking away as ever, and unimpaired.

When the Russians gave hints of "difficulties" on the regular railroads, on the barge lines and on the highways, there was a flurry in Frankfurt, a hotting-up of transatlantic cables. A new blockade of Berlin was feared.

Ready to Help. At week's end the U.S. abruptly reversed itself. General Taylor nervously and unhappily told a press conference that "600 rooms are not worth the threat of a new blockade ... I am suspending the notice of custody and withdrawing the police."

Added Taylor: "We now know the facts and shall watch to see" whether the Russians react cooperatively to the U.S. gesture. The Red press was quick to cackle over the defeat of the "imperialist provocateurs." Said the Communist railroad union: "The peaceful reconstruction of the city will be really possible if the [Americans] quickly leave." The West Berlin press grumbled about U.S. flabbiness.

Property Custodian McNulty, imbued with the new U.S. spirit of cooperativeness, took down his orange requisition poster at the Direktion and stood at the iron gate, awaiting the Soviet-sector officials. A Communist rail official with an escort of guards soon arrived and entered the building, slamming the heavy door. McNulty decided he ought to help the Reds inspect the premises. He pounded on the door. No answer.

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