Platform 17, Grunewald, Berlin

Preface

This photograph shows the brick underpass beneath Platform 17 at Grunewald station in Berlin. A single figure walks away from the camera, carrying a bag and wearing a backpack. The arched ceiling and repeating brickwork create strong symmetry. Overhead lights run along the centre line, guiding the viewer’s gaze toward the bright opening at the far end.

A sign reading Gleis 17 hangs above the exit. Today, commuters and visitors pass through this space without pause. During the Second World War, Jews were forced through these platforms and loaded onto trains bound for concentration camps. This underpass formed part of that route.

The image holds tension between past and present. The bricks remain. The structure remains. Daily life continues. Yet the location carries the memory of deportation and loss. The solitary figure becomes a quiet witness, walking through a corridor shaped by history. — Platform 17 Underpass, Grunewald

I walk through the brick underpass at Platform 17 in Berlin. The ceiling curves overhead. The bricks line up in straight rows. Lights run down the centre, drawing my eyes toward the bright exit. A sign above reads Gleis 17.

People pass through here every day. Some go to work. Others carry shopping bags. During the Second World War, Jewish families were forced through this same space. Guards pushed them onto trains that took them to ghettos and concentration camps. This tunnel was part of that route.

An upward view of the Gleis 17 sign at Platform 17 in Berlin. Brick walls rise toward a glass roof where weeds push through cracked panes. A single lamp hangs above. This was the departure point for thousands of Jews deported during the Second World War to concentration camps and death. — Light over Gleis 17

The bricks are still here. The structure remains. Life goes on. But the air feels heavy when I stand there.

Platform 17 in the Grunewald district is more than an old railway platform. Between 1941 and 1945, trains left here carrying thousands of people to their deaths. These deportations were organised. The national railway scheduled the trains, provided staff and cars, kept records, and billed the state for each person transported. The system ran on timetables and paperwork.

For decades after the war, little was said about this. Trains kept running. Anniversaries were celebrated, but the deportations were barely mentioned. The platform blended back into daily life.

A flight of concrete steps rises between brick walls at Platform 17 in Berlin. Light falls across the stairway, dividing shadow from brightness. This quiet exit stands above the tracks from which thousands of Jewish men, women, and children were deported during the Second World War. — Ascending to Platform 17

That changed in 1998 when a memorial was built along the old platform. It doesn’t rise high or demand attention from afar. Instead, 186 steel plates lie flat on the ground. Each one shows a date, a destination, and the number of people deported that day.

I walk along the platform to read them. I look down. The repetition hits me date after date, number after number. Every number represents lives.

Near the platform is a concrete wall pressed with outlines of human figures. The bodies aren’t there, only their absence remains. The shapes feel real. I can almost measure the space a person once filled.

As I move through this site, I notice how the space changes my pace. The gravel shifts under my shoes. The tracks lead nowhere. Weeds grow between the sleepers. I slow down without even realising it. feels different from walking in the city. The noise fades. Trees surround the tracks. The place encourages wandering. I follow a path. I pause at a plate. I turn back. There is no rush.

A tree lined pathway at Platform 17 in Berlin stretches into shadow and light. Once a departure point for thousands of Jews deported during the Second World War, the site now stands silent. Nature frames the track bed, where absence speaks with a weight history refuses to release. — Platform 17, The Quiet Departure

As I read the plates, I see large numbers of hundreds sent east. Then a smaller number: eighteen people sent to Theresienstadt. That small number hits harder than a big one. I imagine eighteen faces. Eighteen families.

The site affects me before I read anything. The narrow tunnel, the dim light, the quiet woods. My body reacts first, then my mind catches up.

The railway made these deportations possible with steel tracks, switches, schedules, and offices. Today, those same tracks rust. Plants push through the ballast. Birch trees grow between the iron lines. Nature moves in. It doesn’t erase what happened. It grows around it.

This photograph shows the overgrown railway lines at Platform 17, Am Bahnhof Grunewald, Berlin. Here, thousands of Jewish men, women, and children were forced onto trains and deported to concentration camps during the Second World War. The site stands as a memorial to those who were taken.

In the frame, rusted steel tracks cut horizontally across the image. Dry leaves, twigs, and tangled undergrowth cover the sleepers. Slender birch trees rise through the ballast, their pale bark marked and peeling. Dense green foliage fills the background, partially obscuring brick structures and railway elements.

The scene is still. No trains run here now. Nature has advanced without ceremony, threading roots between iron and stone. The geometry of the railway remains visible, yet it is softened by decay and growth. The photograph holds tension between historical violence and present calm. It records a place where memory persists, even as the land attempts to reclaim the ground. — Reclaimed Tracks, Platform 17

When I photograph this place, I feel a responsibility. It would be easy to look for dramatic angles, but that would be wrong. I focus on details rust on steel, letters stamped into metal, leaves gathering on a plate.

The 186 plates repeat the rhythm of the trains that once left on schedule. Photographing them feels repetitive, but repetition tells the truth. The system worked through the routine. That is part of the horror.

Overgrown railway tracks disappear into woodland beside the signial box at Platform 17, Berlin. From this place, thousands of Jews were deported during the Second World War to concentration camps. Nature now reclaims the line, yet the silence holds the weight of absence and memory. — Platform 17, The Tracks That Remain

Every image I take becomes a record of a place that already records absence. I choose what to frame, decide how close to stand, and ask myself what I’m showing and why.

There is no story of rescue here, no return trains. The plates list departures only. The tracks end in the forest.

The memorial took decades to build. That delay says something about how institutions deal with guilt. Acknowledgement came late, but it came.

When I stand at the end of the line, I see trees where trains once moved. History doesn’t resolve itself. It stops. The forest keeps growing.

Platform 17 teaches me that places shape how I think and feel. Architecture guides my steps. Materials carry memory. Infrastructure holds history.

The rails speak through rust. The plates speak through numbers. The trees stand in silence.

When I walk here, I slow down. I look down. I pay attention.

Rust stains the steel beside the railway tracks at Platform 17 in Berlin. Dates and destinations mark the deportation of Jews during the Second World War. From this platform, thousands were sent to ghettos and camps. The trains left. Few returned. The silence remains. — Platform 17, Berlin. Departure Without Return

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