Metal slabs disrupt the lush grass. They aren’t stepping stones; they mark the tunnels of long-ago refugees. Native East Germans, not at all practiced escape artists, fled their homeland a few at a time.
Helpers on both sides of the newly erected border dug laboriously with spoons, slowly relocating cups of dirt. Many tunnels were started, but very few were finished. There were always those who would betray the effort. There were always the Stasi who would collapse or block the underpasses.
Those who successfully surfaced onto western ground, never failed to appreciate the miracle of their freedom.