Auszug PSEUDO Englisch (A punk novel); Last chapters of the skinhead part

Heimerich gets a good thrashing from Rotzig

We were strolling through the city again with a small group of skinheads, and as usual we had been celebrating a little and talking nonsense. Towards the evening, it was still bright, we moved again in the direction of Bergstrasse. Suddenly there was a big commotion. We arrived one after the other at the platform of the gasoline station at the corner of Muhliusstrasse, where resolute punks waited in a rage. The punk, Rotzig, who we believed to be in Berlin as a military service refugee, suddenly appeared out of nowhere on the platform and purposefully attacked Heimerich, as if he had planned to in advance. That damned Rotzig, dressed all in black with a leather jacket, with dyed black hair and black boots, appeared as if he had just driven up from Hell to do the Devil's work. He was regarded as the most unpopular Kiel punk of all time. Heimerich, who always behaved appropriately, had no clue what was going to happen to him. Rotzig, who was full of hate that day, rushed the last few metres to Heimerich. Rotzig had made up his mind to attack him and struck him without warning. He kicked and punched Heimerich until he, dependent on his wooden leg, went down like a wet sack. The skinhead with the wooden leg was not able to defend himself. Poor Heimerich had not even taken part in the skinhead meeting during Kiel Week. Zico, the die-hard punk, played his part in the evil deed and punched him as well. A small cluster of punks formed, to which the Mettenhofer Smike and Bonny also belonged. Heimerich had no chance to grab anyone whom he could pull to the ground while he was falling. Rotzig kicked him with his heavy boots like a madman. Meanwhile, I arrived late from the direction of Wilhelminenstrasse to the gasoline station entrance on Bergstrasse, just to see how poor Heimerich went to the ground and received a severe kicking. At first I didn't know what was going on as I was a good fifteen metres away. It took me a few seconds to understand the situation. The people standing close to the crowd didn't intervene. I don't know why Rotzig had only chosen Heimerich. I stopped for a moment, spellbound and shocked, not knowing how to react, when suddenly one of our group, Marius, courageously intervened and stopped Rotzig and the other punks from further disaster. Rotzig was totally hateful – completely enraged, almost in a bloodlust. He left just as infernally as he had hurried to the scene. He headed towards the gas station exit and turned right into Muhliusstrasse. The bouncers of Bergstrasse did not interfere. Only Marius had intervened. I caught the end of the action from the corner above, where I saw Heimerich finally struggling back to his feet and shambling away in the direction of the Kleiner Kiel pond. There was no further confrontation. We had to gather ourselves mentally as well as physically as a group. The punks seemed to have no interest in competing with the other skins. Rotzig probably disappeared to Berlin again afterwards. We'd had enough; we were frustrated and asking ourselves why this fucking punk had just chosen Heimerich, who in principle was the weakest member of our clique and was always friendly to everyone.

For a long time I had a bad conscience, because I had not intervened at the decisive moment. Why did I stop at the top of the corner, as if rooted there? Why didn't I attack Rotzig to knock him down? I never saw Rotzig again after that. I hoped that he died of an overdose or some other reason. I have to calm down again. When I think about it nowadays, it still makes me sick.

Frustration is spreading

It was a mystery to me how it could get that far; how group dynamics could seize us and pull us into a mental abyss. The clash with the punks was another ingloriously negative episode and, at the same time, a wake-up call. For me, what followed was a great awakening from this comatose state. I wondered why we had caused this shit and why I had not acted consistently against these right-wing tendencies.

I was sick and tired of the whole thing: meeting regularly with this group of skinheads to start trouble, drinking several times a week, contradicting others pointlessly for reasons of provocation, arguing amongst each other and with passers-by, brawling and causing mischief. When we were in the right mood, we rioted and smashed bottles – and that was on a children's playground. This had been going on for a good year now. We heard nothing other than our Oi! music, Cockney Rejects and a couple of English street punk bands. When we were drunk we incited each other; we were all mouth and tried to sing street punk anthems, although many of us did not know more than the refrain. We constantly tried to imitate our heroes from the movie A Clockwork Orange by integrating their vocabulary. We were always talking about Tolchocks, Gulliver, Em & Pe and the whole horror show until we sounded stupid.

In the beginning, we got along with a few characters from the local punk scene we met at the beer vending machine or at the Muhlius statue, but the overwhelming majority of the punks avoided us. There was less and less fraternizing. Meanwhile, I was fed up with the everlasting rumours in the punk and new wave circles. Some things were close to hypocrisy and character assassination. Despite the friction, several protagonists still shook hands with us. Many punks still worshipped Gonnrad and Radke, some also the Konz brothers, because they were legendary in punk times. Others couldn't believe what was going on and let things slide.

The situation threatened to get worse, because some punks had also fallen from grace in the skins' eyes, especially when they spread unjustified rumours or because they had wronged somebody from their own common circle of friends, by withholding borrowed clothes, records, musical instruments and other things. The chaos continued, but despite all of the mutual accusations, one thing was clear: there was no one in the punk ranks who used right-wing extremist sayings or anti-migrant slogans.

During my skinhead past, I wore a shaved head, which had since grown back. A few weeks after every visit to the hairdresser, my hair would grow too long again, especially for the ringleaders of the clique.

      "You definitely have to go to the barber soon!"

they would say.

      "Your hair is too long. You almost look like a punk."

      "You need a new skin haircut. Get it cut again!"

These moments were celebrated endlessly. For almost a year I had been wearing my Docs with my bomber jacket (which was just a cheap one from C&A), or my blue Harrington, with a pair of jeans. The behaviour of the ringleaders and others had become far too rude to me. I was also tired of permanently having to raise objections. When I was tipsy and being incited by the others, I would hit back more often. I started to become brutal, just like my skinhead colleagues and all the others who were hanging out with us at the Ansgar playground. I disliked it when some of them unthinkingly talked down to migrants or when right-wing sayings slipped out of their mouths.

Those people did not want to be called right-wing, but they gradually introduced right-wing statements. It was a grey area and last but not least sad because that a young Persian, Alit, belonged to our clique. Some tried to tease "our Persian" Alit in order to check out his limit. It was never quite clear whether the provocations were meant seriously, but things started to get out of hand. In addition, there was the bitter realization that the Kiel skinhead scene had been transformed into a neo-Nazi scene by outsiders, especially due to people like Nazi-Gerd. The development did not happen over night. It was a gradual process, in which the skins were driven a bit further each time to take part in this melée. Where was that supposed to lead? It had gone too far. Our clique had fallen into disrepute everywhere. I had also learned that from outsiders. Therefore I decided to turn my back on the skins. The clique was an enormous, close-knit network, who arranged their meetings by telephone, although nearly everything was about getting pissed. If someone didn't join in completely, he had to justify himself and was discriminated against. After the recent events – the spoiled Kiel Week, the evening with the two right-wing extremist Bundeswehr soldiers on the Blü and the attempted brainwashing by Nazi-Gerd and the piss artist – it was high time to draw a line.

The decision to exit

I was devastated when it dawned on me how dramatic life had become in Kiel between punks and skins. However, I had to finally realize that we skins as a group had made a complete mess of things. None of this should have happened, especially not the bullshit during Kiel Week with Stidi's Skinhead Chaos Days. We should have fought the right-wing tendencies of some group members more consistently and bashed up Nazi-Gerd and the fascist piss artist immediately. I realized too late that it was one of the biggest mistakes of my life to get involved with Nazi-Gerd. We should not have gone with him to the Chaos Days in Hanover the year before. I always thought we could control his manipulation attempts and turn the tables on him, but alcohol and our idiocy got the better of us. Another evening came, on which we drank together and provoked each other as usual.

Later, our horde dragged themselves again in the direction of Bergstrasse despite the recent incidents. On the way, I once again quarreled with Stidi. We all knew that he did not even refrain from attacking his own brother, Mig. Finally, we reached the corner at the petrol station entrance on Bergstrasse. I still argued with Stidi. The others had walked quite a distance infront of us. Stidi, with mental problems and seriously manipulated political stances, was standing in front of me during our dispute, with his back to the parking lot of the petrol station. Suddenly, he attacked me with an insult face-to-face, which turned out to be the worst insult I had ever heard. The moment he had insulted me, it felt like I had lost my hearing. He turned around immediately and walked towards the staircase to the Hinterhof disco. I stopped at the top of the corner as if rooted in place and stared after him for a few seconds. I was incredibly shocked. I could not imagine that he would say such a horrible thing and insult me so much. I don't want to defend Stidi, but I suspect that he picked up this cruel, insulting word from one of the old Nazi henchmen during a verbal exchange on the street. It was so cruel that he surely couldn't have invented it by himself, but perhaps I am wrong. The word was so anti-Semitic and sexist that I don't want to repeat it out of respect for the discriminated groups of people. Seconds after he had said it, I turned around and decided to go to the bus stop. At that moment, I finished with the skinhead scene. I drove home, depressed, and slept off my hangover.

Suddenly, I was ashamed of everything that had happened in the recent weeks and decided not to meet the skinheads anymore. I turned my back on them once and for all – demolished, exploited and humiliated. An escalation had been looming for a long time. The aggressions of some protagonists were concentrated more and more on me. It was foreseeable that everything would become even more radical. I had to pull the ripcord now, even if I would have liked to remain a skinhead – England-style and working-class like in the early days – but not under these circumstances, not with what had happened. Now it was over.

The creepers

After this drastic experience with Stidi, I didn't want to be a skinhead anymore. I still had my shaved head, my bomber jacket and the cherry-red 14-hole Doc Martens with steel caps, which were almost worn-out from daily use. At Pfefferminz, where I stayed more often without the other skins, I sometimes met waver Koh from Schilksee. He revealed to me that he had a pair of black creeper shoes sitting around at home, which he absolutely wanted to get rid of, and offered them to me for a tenner. A few days later, I visited him in Langenfelde Street in Schilksee to try on his shoes. He lived in the same skyscraper as Zilvana; he lived on the first floor, she on the tenth. When I saw the shoes standing in the middle of the room, it was love at first sight. They offered me completely new future prospects. I took off my Doc Martens and slipped into the bulky, black suede creepers with ribbed rubber soles. The small, black studs on them also appealed to me from the start. The sole had already come loose in places and the smell was not great, but they fitted perfectly. I walked a few metres up and down Koh's room and they gave me a whole new feeling of walking. I pulled out my wallet, gave Koh the promised tenner, and we talked briefly about various subjects. I put on my Doc Martens again, packed the creepers in a bag (because I wanted to treat them at home first with a shoe deodorant), said goodbye to Koh and cycled back to Pries-Friedrichsort. I went back home and into the cellar, where there was a small shoe cupboard, and disinfected my "new" shoes with a shoe spray. From then on I wore a short-sleeved, checked shirt, turned jeans and the creepers. I put a button from ska band The Beat on my shirt. At Pfefferminz I met new people and was even invited to great ska parties. Tapes were recorded for me, but alcohol still played an important role in the future. I literally wore out the creepers in the weeks that followed. The black colour faded, and the soles completely detached. I tried to glue them several times with Pattex, but it didn't help.

I later bought myself a pair of cheap, grey pseudo-creepers in a low-priced shoe shop in Dreiecksplatz, but after a short time I found them so unattractive that I never put them on again. My involvement in the ska scene lasted only a few months.

Meanwhile, my hair got longer and longer. I sold my old bomber jacket to Mannek from Friedrichsort, the brother of Trabbel. Mannek also worked in the tank construction business. I soon separated the steel caps from my Doc Martens. I wore them a few more times before I threw them away. I sold my old skinhead records to Heimerich for a ridiculously low price, including all five Oi! samplers released so far.

The fight

The protagonists of the old skinhead clique heard from several sources that I had recently refused to cut my hair and was wearing Koh's old creeper shoes instead of my cherry-red Docs. For the skins, of course, that was a clear clash in styles.

I came to the conclusion that on one hand the punks regarded me as right-wing, because I had been walking around with a skin-haircut and a bomber jacket for almost a year, but on the other hand various skinheads and people from the right-wing scene called me left-wing scum, since I turned my back on the skins. Up to that point I hadn't managed to dissociate myself convincingly from the increasingly right-wing skins, for fear that all hell might break loose. So a final process of detachment had to take place, which should make clear to all parties that I distance myself from the radical people and radical thoughts, without running the risk of getting crushed.

Finally, a school festival took place at the Kiel School of Scholars near the city centre. I went to the celebration, because I suspected there may have been a few friends there. A DJ played dance music. For a moment I stood outside the entrance, when suddenly Stidi and Mig appeared. It was quite plain to me that something had to follow on the part of the skins, since I no longer spent any more time with them. Would they take revenge or even try to bring me back into line? When they saw me standing there, they immediately started to torment me. First they told me that my hair was much too long and asked why I now wear creepers.

      "You have to go to the barber again. You're looking like a hippie."

      "What kind of shoes are you wearing? Are you serious? You don't want to run up here with creepers, do you? Where are your Docs?"

      "Why? Creepers are good shoes?"

I answered courageously.

I also had to answer the question of why I didn't show up with the clique anymore,

      "Why don't you meet with us anymore? We already miss you."

      "I'm shooting my own film now,"

I said resolutely.

I wanted to stand firm and not get involved in any discussion. My newly awakened self-confidence gave me strength. It was already dark outside when a hectic battle of words elapsed between Stidi and me. Suddenly, Mig jumped onto my back from behind and clung to me in a piggyback. I hadn't yet shaken him off when Stidi attacked me frontally. It only took a few seconds for a small cluster of spectators to form around us, consisting primarily of School of Scholars pupils from higher classes and party-goers who never missed an event. Mig released me, and someone from the crowd called upon him to stay away so that a one-on-one fight could develop between Stidi and me. We stood eye-to-eye facing each other. A fistfight broke out, an open exchange of blows in which the spectators spurred us on as if we were in a boxing ring. We both took direct strikes to our faces. After a few minutes we already had our first bleeding wounds. For me it was my nose again, for Stidi his upper lip was cut. The fight continued to the constant cheers of the spectators. I think I collected a lot of sympathy points simply because I was inferior in Stidi by stature. Throughout the whole fight, my main problem was that I had to strike upwards at an angle if I wanted to hit Stidi effectively in the head. Blows into his stomach area and to his chest did not seem to do anything, because he endured them without any hassle. As the fight continued, we hit each other in the face, without cover and regardless of damages. In my head, the will arose to stand strong and win the fight.

Meanwhile, after a continuous exchange of blows, we both had lots of cuts on our faces and were very blood-stained. Our lips and eyes were already heavily swollen an my right cheekbone had been hit. I didn't want to be the loser and tried to frighten my opponent, who was over half a head taller than me. I snarled, 

      "I will rip you to shreds!"

The exchange of punches continued, but I didn't give up so quickly. We both took further heavy hits. I felt the vibrations of his fist punching at my head. It was quite dark so I could hardly see my opponent or the spectators, who were standing around between the main entrance and the entrance to the auditorium. In spite of the darkness, I could see from the swelling and the blood that Stidi had taken a lot of damage as well. Soon we were exhausted from fighting, and each attack took more effort. The alcohol in our blood also contributed to the rapid decline of our condition.

From the comments of the spectators I believed that I was being regarded as the winner, but maybe they just wanted to motivate me. Apparently all but Mig were on my side, but the cheers also had their effect on my opponent. Stidi did not give in, quite the opposite. He continued to fight on. Soon each of my successful punches were rewarded with spontaneous expressions of sympathy and light applause.

In a boxing ring, the gong stops the fight after three minutes, but we were constantly hitting each other on the head for half an hour. It seemed to me we had been beating each other up for a full hour. Slowly, we began to communicate with each other. It was as if we realized that this brawl was pointless.  

I asked,

      "Had enough now? It's no use anymore!"

Stidi was slowing down and I asked,

      "Shall we stop?"

That's when Stidi finally replied to me,

      "Okay, let's stop. I'm not in the mood anymore."

Everyone seemed relieved when we finally separated, and the feeling arose in me that I had achieved something, namely to finally detach myself from the skins. I felt released, even if the price was a cut and bruised face. The skins let me go. I therefore retired from the Kieler skinhead faction, even though the procedure did not happen without bloodshed. I had finally fought my way out. 

      In the school building I washed the blood from my face and bunked off. Afterwards, I dragged myself with my smashed face to the Pfefferminz disco, where I had to wash the blood off my face and hands once more because blood was still running out of my nose. When the bouncers saw me, they wouldn't let me in. I first had to convince them. The Pfefferminz guests who saw me on the way to the toilet stared as if they had seen a ghost.   

From the reactions of the spectators, and later of acquaintances of the clique, I recognized that I had succeeded; since no real winner of the fight was determined, I had been able to distance myself from the clique successfully once and for all. I had been able to reject the opponents and ringleaders. Nevertheless, my reputation remained damaged, and it didn't change much about the paradox that I was still regarded as a leftist to many skins, and as a rightist to some punks. However, I was able to collect a few more sympathy points with punks, wavers, goths and mods at that time, after the news about my brawl with Stidi had spread. A lot of people continued to eye me with extreme skepticism, but also with respect, because I had defied the others. At the same time, I was highly respected by many pupils in my age group in the neighbouring school where the brawl took place. Unfortunately, I was hated by many pupils of my own school.

When my old sports and geography teacher, Eder, the former Holstein Kiel trainer, noticed my smashed face on the first day of school after the brawl, he groaned in dismay, shook his head and said,

      "Well, Shelter-Germany, what have you done again?"

My whole class was worried. My right eye was swollen shut for over a week. In the beginning it looked dark blue, but later it looked greenish. My swollen lip and the swollen bridge of my nose gradually subsided, and finally so did the right cheekbone. I did not go to the doctor, but suspected that I had suffered a slight concussion because my head hurt and was buzzing for days. Inside, however, I was proud that I had strength and endurance.

The fascist piss artist

On a Friday evening I visited a small class party in our classroom, where a couple of pupils appeared in disguise. Probably it was Shrovetide or Carnival – whatever. As usual I was very drunk. After the party we wanted to continue boozing with a few people and first went to the Jahrmarkt at Blücherplatz. There we ate something and continued to carouse heartily. I still remember that Nazi-Gerd was there. Brandy and Vielmann joined us. Later, when we were four, Gerd wanted to take us to his mate Thorben. He tried with some tricks to talk Vielmann, Brandy and me into following him. Nazi-Gerd promised us we could continue drinking for free with his mate. It dawned on me that it could be about their right-wing attitude. We idiots went along with him because we were hoping to get some more beers. I did not know at the time that Thorben, who was at my school two years above my former class, had repeatedly denied the Holocaust during history lessons. This made the history teacher Bonn so upset that, despite his wooden leg, he hurried towards the right-wing radical scholboy in an emotional manner and slapped him fiercely with the flat of his hand in the face. Wouldn't it have been better from a pedagogical point of view to expel him from school and offer him therapy with a youth psychiatrist?

Thorben, the fascist piss artist, lived in Feldstrasse on the ground floor directly by the Waitzstrasse bus stop, across from the funeral parlour. We walked all the way from the Jahrmarkt to that place and took a seat in his room with a window overlooking Feldstrasse. Now we three poor fellows stayed in our boozed state with these two, as it turned out later, trained Nazis in expectation of further beers. We were slowly but surely getting mucked up with fascistoid jabbering. We were served more free beer – some cheap beer, nothing special. Suddenly this Thorben put on an LP with propaganda material about the Third Reich. We should have left this place right away, but instead we asked if the LP was more recent or from the Third Reich. Of course, it was of recent date from a right-wing radical record label. In the following minutes we were played excerpts of Hitler speeches, fascist songs and newsreel insertions from the Nazi era. The two fascists acted like social workers speaking about the Third Reich – it was absolutely disgusting. It was sold to us like a history lesson.

I didn't know whether Nazis were prevalent in their class at school. What was going on in Thorben's class? I couldn't decide how systematic this whole thing was at our school and perhaps at other schools in Kiel. I wanted to check it out secretly.

Gerd, whom we wanted to convert ourselves on the Chaos Days, and his like-minded older friend sang along to the refrain every time it played "Bomben auf Engelland” (Bombs on England), "SA marschiert” (SA marches) or "Russenköpfe rollen” (Russian heads roll). That was somehow ridiculous and frightening at the same time. That's why it seemed oppressive. We three victims were served booze again and again. Brandy, Vielmann and I were not in the mood for all this filth, but Nazi-Gerd continued his devil's work by really intimidating us. The crazy thing about it was that we held back as far as possible with provocative comments in order to get more beers. That was playing with fire. The piss artist showed us booklets glorifying National Socialism, and he played other speeches by Hitler and more Nazi songs on LPs.

On that evening they also praised to us again and again the Bund Heimattreuer Jugend and the Wiking Jugend. Nazi-Gerd told me again,

      "Come with me to the BHJ summer camp in Belgium. There are a lot of women there. You can fuck there, too."

It went on and on in this primitive way. They showed us further propaganda material, mostly some booklets, and did what one would call neurolinguistic programming from today's point of view. The guy who lived there apparently had, besides the furniture, only this fascist filth in his room. Meanwhile, the unreal fear increased inside of us three guests that they would suddenly give us no more beer if we refused the propaganda material. When Thorben tried to put on the next propaganda record to our horror, we finally slowed him down and said that it would really be too much for us now. In the end they had an understanding, but continued to talk our ears off and gave us more beers. My anxiety gave way only when I was allowed to stumble drunkenly out of there. After that I felt somehow different. Fuddled and mucked up, we drove home. Nazi-Gerd and Nazi-Thorben obviously practiced right-wing radical brainwashing in their environment. 

Slowly we understood how it went when young people were baited by the fascists. First they would make somebody submissive with alcohol to fill up with propaganda material, threaten them with punches, drug them if necessary, and in an extreme case urge to join an extreme right-wing party while drunk. They invite you to right-wing youth camps with the promise to gain experiences with women there, and dupe people in discussions with false arguments, and so on.

It dawned on us that the two of them had tried to perform a conversion or a political reversal that evening. Brandy went totally crazy afterwards. He got really manic and obsessive.

Fortunately, I never went to these summer camps, even though Nazi-Gerd tried to manipulate me further times. He was intoxicated with right-wing ideas and loved to talk other young people into following him. As I learned much later, Nazi-Thorben had founded the Bund Heimattreuer Jugend himself, and Nazi-Gerd was the secretary. I cannot understand why the two of them concealed this fact that evening and pretended to be only participants in these neo-Nazi organizations. I never knew how many Hebbelschool pupils and others really were baited by them for the BHJ or the Wiking Jugend. Slowly it dawned on me that this Thorben must have been the one who had distributed the leaflets of the Kieler Liste für Ausländerbegrenzung (Kiel List for the Restriction of Foreigners) by the entrance to the school grounds, without the school management intervening. I recognized him at some point. We didn't know whether they were specially trained in higher places, how to politically convert other people – especially unstable young people – or whether this came out of their own head. Now everyone can say that a steadfast person would resist this, but the fascists were so calculating and penetrating in their environment that they at least managed to intimidate the young people. They tried to exploit alcohol for their own purposes. When you are 16 years old, when you are put under the influence of alcohol and manipulated, the chances that you will be able to resist successfully dwindle away. A compromising cycle was set in motion that could accelerate the collapse. I wasn't even able at the time to clarify whether Gerd had actually imposed LSD on me or just a caffeine tablet at the beginning of the PE class the other day. Or had I been wronged with LSD during a completely different occasion? It was all inexplicable to me. What was that all about? I almost played along with Gerd's game, because he was really persuasive and I was no match for him while drunk. 

Apparently, in order to harass me further, Nazi-Gerd even started smoking at school in order to scrounge cigarettes from me all the time. He stood next to me in the smoker's corner during almost every major school break. Although I had long since stayed down a year, he still mucked me up. I kicked at him with my steel caps in the smoker's corner several times, without hitting. I should have been more resolute. Could I make Gerd responsible for my whole negative development? 

Nazi-Gerd starts infiltrating us

Meanwhile the Error scene was boiling over with rumours. At the entrance to the Error Café, the doorman Artur soon signaled to us that we should stay away in the future. At the same time the rumour spread that one evening a group of Turks stormed the Error Café and, partly armed with baseball bats, beat up all the skinheads. That was a lie, of course, because we were skinheads in 1984, and something like that certainly didn't happen to us. When we appeared in front of the entrance door Artur still pretended for a long time to be our best friend. On the other side, Gerd appeared more and more often on the graffiti-covered Ansgar playground and was soon good friends with the remaining skins. Maybe Gerd just wanted to take revenge for the fact that we had encouraged him to shout punk slogans during the Chaos Days. We didn't recognize what was going on. He soon tried to acquaint us with a World War 2 participant who, however, hummed and hawed. Gerd introduced him by his first name, Helmuth, and wanted to get him to tell us some war stories. Either he was totally ill, stupid or inhibited, or he suddenly felt remorse.

Later, Gerd organized a party at his parents' house in Molfsee. In principle, he tried to manipulate us with every sentence, every statement he made, and to infiltrate us with his radical right-wing thoughts. He also planned to set us up with other people from his right-wing environment. He always wanted to introduce us to a right-wing radical law student who, in his opinion, was a "really great guy." We had no interest at all in these haggard people. Nazi-Gerd remained persistent, and soon the first skins walked straight into the trap, as if they had left their brains in their wardrobe. Through his influences the skins became more and more radical. The booze did the rest. Gerd soon began his battle to head the one-to-one conversations. He left no stone unturned to win people over for his fascist ideals. We didn't want it at all. We just wanted to listen to Oi music and party.

The skinhead scene changes

Several times the Neustädter skins appeared in Kiel. We Kielers agreed that we didn't want to get involved with them, because we knew that they were right-wing extremist Bundeswehr soldiers who met with the Lübecker skins. One evening the Neustädter skins made their way through Kiel and soon appeared at Dreiecksplatz. However, we consistently avoided them. I once saw the little group directly opposite at Dreiecksplatz and simply ignored them.

On another evening Gerd and I ended up together in the Pfefferminz disco for some reason. To make matters worse, he scribbled on the wall of the men's toilet,

      "Long live the Waffen-SS."

He was even caught by the staff and had the insolence to defend it. The Pfefferminz staff then asked him to leave the disco, but did not even give him a house ban. I found this cruel and made it clear to Gerd as well that his behaviour was disgusting. I should have been much more consistent and refused to deal with him at all anymore, but I imagined that I would have to look after him or testify to what he was doing.

It happened more and more frequently that right-wing comments were being made. Some tried to take action against it, even if it was not consistent enough.   

Punks were no longer to be seen in the Bergstrasse and Dreiecksplatz area. Many were simply afraid of what had been concocted there lately. For quite a while the whole situation had been suspicious even to me. Week on week, it became more radical. One evening we were drinking alcoholic beverages again in large quantities near Bergstrasse. On this day there were more of us than usual and we were in the upper area of the Muhliusstrasse between Bergstrasse and Baustrasse. Our group stood there on the cobblestones, when Brandy suddenly began to chant like he was possessed,      

      "Foreigners out!"

The mood completely tilted. The next one joined in.

      "Foreigners, foreigners, foreigners out!"

Many of us, including myself, were shocked. I stopped as if fixed to the ground. It seemed incomprehensible to me. We were suddenly divided into two fractions. How should we deal with this situation? The people looked as if they were ill, as if some mechanism had started inside of them. Gerd's seed of evil seemed to sprout slowly but surely. Suddenly someone shouted "Sieg Heil" and lifted his right arm. More skins lifted their arms. I was shocked, blocked Brandy's path and looked him in the face. He seemed manic, almost as if he had gone mad – totally converted. I had never experienced our Brandy like this before. I don't know if Nazi-Gerd had worked on him again. I tried to calm people down, but the momentum continued. Some participated, while others got upset about it. It was tumultuous and paradoxical.

Suddenly a group of migrants, who had gathered before in front of the Flohmarkt entrance, came running over to us. They mingled with us, scolding us. Fortunately, there were no fisticuffs. The migrants were upset and angry, but at the same time they acted incredibly prudently, as they did not want to let things escalate. They were now standing in the middle of a group of skins or skinhead-like figures, and slowly everyone calmed down again. The crowd dissolved and the skins moved in different directions.

By late evening the point was reached when every righteous skinhead would have had to distance himself. It was like dancing on a razor blade. Everyone wanted to know how the problem continued. Nobody had a real strategy to counteract it.

An idiot until the end

That was almost the end of my skinhead career, but there were two more incidents that happened at that time that should be mentioned. One Saturday evening I set off with two skinheads of the Bundeswehr, both sergeants by profession. At first it was not clear to me that they were right-wing radicals. Only in the course of the evening did I become aware of that fact, because after reaching a certain alcohol level they made no secret of it. The blokes lived somewhere in the direction of Surendorf or Felm (rural districts north of Kiel). They contacted me in an unusual way, via Vielmann. He had lately become acquainted with loads of strange people. He told me about these two Bundeswehr soldiers ("Bundies"), that they were extremely funny, drank a lot of alcohol and were notorious. Vielmann, the former apprentice electrician, literally tried to advertise for these Bundeswehr soldiers and finally arranged the drinking contact. At this point he himself had already fallen into the clutches of the right-wing radicals. Vielmann said to me,

      "You have to have a drink with them, they're good people." 

It wasn't quite clear to me what kind of terrain I was going to enter. In the end I let myself be talked round,

      "All right, if you think so?”

But I decided to pit myself against them if neccessary. The two sergeants, wearing bomber jackets in their spare time, met me, the suburban skinhead, on a Saturday evening on the playground at the Blü (Blücher Platz), which was considered a regular meeting place for young alcoholics. Here we three began to drink terribly. In the course of the evening, senseless binge-drinking evolved. The hard-drinking Bundies in bomber jackets got me sloshed. When it turned out that the two didn't like English-speaking bands, I already suspected what would come next. The mood soon changed. Slowly but surely I realized that I had to get out of the situation as soon as possible. When the Bundies had reached their peak, they started to shout right-wing radical slogans. Suddenly they shouted "Sieg Heil" and sang right-wing radical songs. Meanwhile I was pushed around; seemingly for fun, they tried to fight with me, as is often the case with yobs. I had to be careful that what started out as fun didn't turn serious. They tried to infect me with their right-wing shit. Soon they expected from me my first curse on migrants and my first "Sieg Heil." They expected me to sing my first right-wing radical song, but I didn't let the Bundies mislead me to scream "Sieg Heil" or to sing along to right-wing songs. They sang to the melody of La Paloma,

      "When before Moscow the red fleet sinks into the sea ..." 

and wanted me to sing along. I didn't sing along and just wanted to leave. I was completely drunk and it was pitch dark, about 11pm, when I decided to break away. I had to wait for the right moment so that they could not chase me. In the course of the evening, my concerns and fears grew that lurking youths or residents would be able to record the shouting of the Bundies, and I just walked away. In the background I heard the laughter of the two idiots. Strangely enough, I never saw them again, but I was told that one of them was dealing with acid trips, a drug that was supposedly booming at that time at the Bundeswehr. That's not supposed to be an excuse. If I had ever met the two sergeants again, I probably wouldn't have recognized them at all, because I only saw them at dusk – later in the dark – and while intoxicated. 

Nevertheless, the word got around that I met with the Bundeswehr soldiers that evening. At first I didn't see through the whole fucking intrigue. The sheer fact that I was mingling with the two Bundeswehr skins already had a damaging effect on my reputation. Suddenly I was also considered a right-wing radical by some and was outed. At my school even more classmates turned away from me, as well as people in the sports club and among my circle of friends. Only the right-wing radical scene welcomed my alleged development, especially the piss artist as the local BHJ leader, and Gerd, his secretary. Nazi-Gerd bullied me again.

      "Come with me to our tent camp," 

he said, but I didn't want to let myself be dragged further into the mud. Other youths, on the other hand, proved to be much more unstable, were manipulated and went with him to the BHJ camp in Belgium or to the Wiking Jugend. I got the impression that some people suddenly thought it was popular being a right-wing radical, because there was a rumour that I sympathized with the right-wing scene as well. It started a single dirty campaign and the rumours spread. I quickly regretted that I met the two Bundeswehr soldiers on that evening and was once again angry with Vielmann, as he arranged the contact and didn't even show up that evening.

Parts of the punk and wave scene accused me of being right-wing as well.

      "You are a right-wing radical! You raised up your arm, you sang right-wing radical songs!" 

Some of them almost attacked me.

      "You fucking Nazi!" 

      "What the hell, I'm not a Nazi and never will be!"

      "But we see this differently."

      "You are really screwed up!"

These reactions were of course not correct, because people should have questioned the circumstances more vigorously and should not have judged me radically on the basis of rumours. There seemed to be no interest in finding out who were the driving forces behind the incitement of the skinhead scene. Nobody seemed to care about that. To make matters worse, some eccentrics in the scene obviously tried to create an image for themselves by spreading devastating, unproven rumours that could be dwelled upon for years. I realized that when a DJ from Kiel referred to Gonnrad as a radical right-wing, for which there was absolutely no evidence. In this way, the DJ obtained the title of scene expert and collected important merit bonuses, not only in the Bergstrasse. When I questioned the rumour mill, the DJ didn't even know how his judgment came about. There was maximum chaos.

It was a real dilemma, because the youth cultures were confronted with a completely new problem – right-wing extremism – and nobody could deal with it.

Some punks reacted with boundless hate. They pilloried me on behalf of all new and die-hard Nazis, so that I constantly had to justify myself. I found that absurd. At the same time there were still plenty of people alive who had personally murdered human beings in the Third Reich, and who obviously could still do as they liked even in 1984 and sometimes held high office. Still nobody dared to report ex-Gestapo in the public services or elsewhere. We lived at a time when many were indoctrinated by right-wing radicals and also by die-hard Nazis, in schools, in apprenticeships, at the Bundeswehr and in football clubs. Some football clubs were even taken care of by die-hard Nazis in a kind of old boys' network. In other clubs there was a mixture of die-hard Nazis, neo-Nazis and right-wing football fans. I failed to warn others in time who were in danger of being taken in by this right-wing epidemic. The political conversion always had the same blueprint; there was always a lot of alcohol involved, propaganda material was spread (especially in the schools), there were threats of violence and use of force, Führer speeches and Nazi songs were played from records, and they repeatedly suggested to the alleged victims how important they were for the movement, and that it would be important to appear at any meetings. They also spread false arguments and lies.

I felt stigmatized for life by the fact that I drank with the two Bundeswehr soldiers on the Blü. This left me feeling like an idiot for a long time. That was the worst moment in my career so far. I don't know how it got that far. I was quite ill-disposed towards Vielmann, but more objectionable events were to follow.

Trouble during Kiel Week

Until it broke apart, our skinhead clique continued to meet regularly at the large children's playground behind the church. We were still a ragtag bunch of people; the vast majority were typical skinheads, including some street punks, a few mods without scooters, and occasionally members of the street club, Mad Boys. We were between the ages of 16 and 20. Many still went to school or were in apprenticeships. We met, drank beer, wine or muscato and thought about what we would do in the evening. Directly on the other side of the block of houses, beside the church, was Error on Holtenauer Strasse, the music café and discotheque. Here, the dark wave scene became more and more established. We insultingly referred to the visitors as "depri-plastics" (Depri-Poppers), even if we sometimes had to protect them from rockers. At Error there were still the problems with the bouncer and the staff. Some of our group had already received a house ban. Now the Kiel Week – supposedly the biggest sailing event in the world – was approaching, and above all in the Orwellian year 1984. There were no sailors among us, but we wanted to start something together during this festival, which became more and more commercial.

Stidi wrote letters to skins in other northern German cities in advance. He wanted to organize a meeting on the day of the Kiel Week Opening Stroll, the opening day of Kiel Week that is called "Holstenbummel". He planned something like the Chaos Days for skins. Some of us made it unmistakably clear quite early that they wouldn't be available for such a meeting. We were faced with another ordeal. With great foresight Gonnrad, Radke and Ringo did not even show up at the playground on the Saturday, on which all skinheads should have gathered. I went there out of curiosity because I wanted to check out what was going on. When I arrived at the Ansgar playground, I immediately saw a bad scene that was unfolding. It was teeming with super-radical skins, all of which were quite a bit older than me. Stidi obviously seemed to have invited the wrong people. The scenery on the playground looked as if everyone was permanently keeping each other in check. I didn't hear about Stidi's letter until I talked to him on the platform of the climbing tower, where several right-wing radical skins from Bremen stood next to us. Damned Stidi continued to heat up the already strained atmosphere by shouting several times,

      "35-hour week for the police!"

I still found that funny to some extent, but the atmosphere quickly became spooky again. Some of the people from Bremen wore camouflage jackets. A particularly primitive guy among the skinheads from Bremen was called KL-Meier. That left a nasty taste in my mouth. I should have fucked off immediately. I stayed, because I wanted to see how things would develop. In retrospect it would have been better to have saved myself this visit to the playground and avoided that which followed. Stidi had not invited the Lübeckers and their sympathizers from Neustadt, because they were both hated in Kiel as a result of the rivalry between the football clubs VFB Lübeck and Holstein Kiel. Frictions would have been unavoidable. At that time Lübeck had the biggest and hardest skinhead scene in Schleswig-Holstein. 

The plan for this first Saturday of Kiel Week was that all the skins would meet behind the Ansgar church with booze and later drive to the town centre together. The skinheads from the other cities received a detailed route description from Stidi in advance, showing how they could best get from the central station to the playground. Altogether over 40 skinheads appeared, most of them from Bremen. Right from the beginning these people from Bremen seemed suspicious and disagreeable to me. It had already started badly at the playground. There was a rampage, slogans were cheered, some fraternized with each other and the first right-wing radical views were expressed. That disturbed the majority of the Kieler skinhead clique. Of course, most of us could not and did not get used to these radical right-wing beliefs.

Out of pure curiosity I wanted to check out what was going on, but was whisked further into the whirl of events. I was forced to talk to right-wing radicals, even though I didn't like it at all. I went through all of this bullshit without knowing exactly where it was supposed to end. I was already ashamed of the Bremen skins. It was a real moral dilemma.  

One half of the group now consisted of real Nazis, who did not know exactly with whom they would meet here or whether there were any informers amongst them. The other half of the group consisted of left-wingers in disguise; people pretending to be right-wing in order to find out what was going on, honest but confused skinheads interested in Kiel Week and in the course of events, weekend skinheads, followers, proles and acers with short haircuts – a dangerous mixture. Who was fascist and who was not?

To make matters worse, the Wiker Punk, Maxi, had the courage to walk alone on the pavement of Waitzstrasse past the playground to take a look at what was happening. Maxi was in his best punk days when the skinhead meeting during Kiel Week took place. The hardcore punks had long since noticed that something was brewing and that skinheads from all over Northern Germany had announced their visit. News must have spread like wildfire. The bunch of skins were just about to leave the playground for the Kiel Week Stroll when suddenly the Maxi passed by. Maxi was the only one of the Kiel punks who dared to walk past the infamous playground at the time in question to face the truth, to see with his own eyes what was brewing there. Coming from Holtenauer Strasse he walked along Waitzstrasse, with his heavy leather jacket studded with rivets and lettering of the English punk band Discharge on his back, and his four-row pyramid studded belt. When he had just passed the parish hall next to the church building, he looked at the playground for maybe 15 or 20 seconds and got scared. He ran the risk that the pack started moving in order to chase him. Some of them already began to roar,

      "There's a punk running!"

and 

      "Hey, you fucking punk!" 

Maxi tried to put on a brave face. Nobody followed him, fortunately. After he had passed the corner of the next house, he couldn't see the scene on the playground anymore and wasn't visible to the skins either. He could not be sure whether anyone was chasing him. At the sight of so many skinheads Maxi must have been glad that he was safe. I was glad that the whole situation didn't escalate at that point. 

      When the whole group of skinheads finally set off in the direction of Kiel city centre, the first of us had already walked away in disgust. They did not want to get involved with the radical Bremeners. Beer was constantly swilled when the pack took a bendy bus into the city centre close to Nikolai Church, where the buses were detoured to the original route via Holstenbrücke (Holsten Bridge). It was closed for traffic every year during Kiel Week. The Kiel Week Stroll of the skins started at Nikolai Church. Many people got lost, either because they lacked the orientation in Kiel with all the crowds or because they wanted to avoid the skins from Bremen. We went with less than 20 skins, most with bomber jackets, some in jeans and camouflage jackets. Through the crowd of people I moved far to the rear; perhaps I was even the last in the queue. The situation began to get out of hand. The peer pressure grew stronger, until our conscience got the better of us and fell silent. Suddenly one of them began to chant, 

      "Out, out, foreigners out!” 

Other skins shamelessly joined in. It was no stupid, boyish prank anymore and things got out of hand. I ran through the pedestrian zone following the Bremeners, who were screaming subversive and anti-migrant slogans. I don't know who ran ahead. The queue was simply too long. I couldn't tell if it was Stidi who got us into that mess, but I strongly assume that it was a local Kieler.

A skinhead screamed,

      "We are totally right-wing and radical!"

Others joined in. The Kiel Week visitors seemed visibly shocked, some couldn't believe it and averted their eyes in horror. Stupidly, just at this moment a classmate from my new class saw me in my bomber jacket running after the assholes from Bremen. That was really embarrassing for me, but I wanted to stay tuned to see what was going on. I continued to run with them. It was just arrogance; I should have simply taken the next side street to leave. The fascists threatened to drag me with them into the abyss. Fully aware that it was bullshit, that I was running with the radicals, I continued to move through the crowd, following the queue. It was not clear to me that this was a mistake. The situation was terrible. Some people from Bremen turned around several times and looked at me. Maybe they just wanted to check how many skinheads were still walking behind them? Or were they surprised that I didn't shout with them? In the event that one of the skins from Bremen had confronted me, I had planned to lie if necessary and claim that I was a right-wing radical as well. In this way I wanted to protect myself from further suspicions and avoid a possible conflict. However, I was already strongly affected by the alcohol and the adrenaline kicks. Suddenly, I got scared...

The HB-skins (HB stands for Hanse City Bremen) behaved like children, and like an idiot I kept on running after them. It seemed like a nightmare. I was given several angry looks by Kieler Week visitors. I really should have avoided all of this.

The horror was still not over. We ran one after the other through the crowds of people, accompanied by outraged looks from Kiel Week guests, who did not dare to oppose us. The behaviour of the skins was in no way acceptable, nor was the fact that I followed them in spite of my different attitude. I continued to feel ashamed. It was insane. The nightmare lasted less than ten minutes until the people of Bremen suddenly stopped screaming and decided to return to the central station, the direction of which we were heading anyway. They had lost too many people in the crowd. It had been internally agreed beforehand that they would meet again at the railway station if anyone got lost. Some went by bus to the station, some went on foot. They gathered there and decided to take the next train back to Bremen and other cities. Several times I showed skins the exact way to the central station and brought a small group of fascists to the upper platform of the ZOB, from where they could reach the station via a connecting bridge.

The punks and the squatters still seemed to be well-informed about where the horde of skinheads were, because they had gathered in a group near the main station at the ZOB to take action against the skins. Or was it chance that led them there? Perhaps they had logically concluded that the skinheads had to return to their cities of origin sooner or later. There was almost a clash, when some of the skinheads in the nearer catchment area of the main station at the ZOB suddenly faced a group of punks and squatters, who had a clear numerical advantage. The skins had already suspected that there could be such an incident. They became outrageously arrogant, and several skins ran towards the left-wing scene. Again, it was not clear to these adversaries how many violent skinheads were at the ZOB in total. More and more skinheads approached from the direction of the station, and the first of them, who had almost reached the squatters and punks, wanted to give the impression that they were in the majority. Why else would they sprint at their adversaries with just a handful of people? The skins screamed frighteningly loudly to scare their opponents. Finally, the crowd of squatters and punks took flight. The squatter named Long Jock was part of the crowd as well. During the turning movement, which took place on the connecting bridge between the ZOB and Hertie, several squatters stumbled, most of whom were much older than the accompanying punks, who in turn were more reluctant to take part in this counter-action. Some remained on the ground for a moment when the first skins reached them. One of the squatters held his hands over his head, protecting himself, but luckily nothing else happened to him.

I watched the scenery for a moment and headed to the same place. Now I found myself close to the punks and squatters who, instead of taking to their heels, continued to crouch on the ground. They were probably sloshed. Further doubts arose in me as to what the skinhead scene was doing here and whether it was really acceptable. I saw some punks that had stumbled. They were somehow my folks as well, and after the recent incidents they became much closer than these fucking skins from Bremen. I began to ask myself what I was looking for in this mess. About four to five skinheads, including me, were now standing with the crouched people who slowly rose and made their way in the direction of Hertie shopping centre before there could be a real exchange of blows. None of the skinheads attacked the ones who had stumbled. The skinheads went back slowly over the connecting bridge towards the bus station, and over the bridge to the station hall. The skins would presumably have been roughed up if all the squatters and young punks had stuck together and taken on the radicals.

The remaining skins gathered at the station, with a few Kielers also present. Shortly before the train left for Hamburg, one of the skinheads from Bremen gave me a Molotov cocktail in a 0.5 litre bottle and said,

      "Maybe you still have use for that?" 

Before the train left, I threw the Molotov cocktail into the next garbage can in the station hall and disappeared. The Kiel Week Stroll continued, but without the skinheads from Bremen. As a result of this skinhead meeting the Kiel Week was spoiled for everyone – not only for the skinheads, the punk and squatter scene, but for the whole city. I cursed the day when this meeting took place. In the end, Stidi's plan to create maximum trouble and confusion succeeded once again.

During the remaining days of Kiel Week, we Kiel skins were together in a small group most of the time. We even danced pogo at the Kiellinie promenade to the song "Lookin' Out My Back Door" and drank huge amounts of alcohol, but there was a need for clarification.

Meanwhile, I became afraid of going further downhill and unintentionally adopting right-wing tendencies. With all the manipulation attempts by certain right-wing teachers and after the conversion attempts by Gerd and his associates, I was no longer sure that I could withstand the increasing pressure. I developed the unreal fear that some kind of mechanism might suddenly be released in me. The weight became heavier than I could handle. My nerves were all on edge.

Hard times began for us all. There were arguments between us again because of the invitations to skinheads from other cities and the resulting consequences. The group's reputation was irreparably damaged. Some of us fell from grace in the scene with full justification. The exposed dispute went so far that members of the clique became hostile towards each other and started to fight among themselves. Some recognized their part in the misconduct. Only a hard core was left over now, which preferred to meet at other spots than Ansgar playground, so the Mad Boys took possession of the area for good including the sandbox and playground equipment. How would the punks react to the incidents? Should the spoiling of Kiel Week have consequences for the whole skinhead scene?

The Punks' Revenge

Kiel Week had not long passed when the hardcore punks decided to take revenge on us skinheads, as we had seemed to show a new face. Also within the skinhead scene in Kiel, there was still need for clarification. It was a mystery to me how Stidi got the contact addresses of the skins from other cities. Nobody can tell me that he didn't know he was inviting radical right-wing skinheads. Why did he keep that to himself until the end?

We hadn't completely dissolved yet, but shifted our sphere of influence further towards the city centre and met again regularly in the laundrette near the discotheque area. The angry punks soon realized that if they wanted to risk a punch-up with us skinheads, they had to catch us somewhere near the discos.

I met the punk Kammkatz opposite the launderette, where he was leaning against a house entrance. Either he had got lost or he wanted to take a look at the laundrette. I went over to him and asked if he had seen Gonnrad and the Konz brothers. He said no, and seemed visibly groggy from the booze and disinterested in me. A real conversation did not arise between us.

But one day, the strongest and most fearsome of the punks gathered and searched for us. There were several martial artists among them. Here, Kammkatz played a special role. He carried a long broomstick with him, which he turned like a windmill as a fighting technique. While doing this he had to be careful that he didn't hit himself or the other punks with the long stick or even frighten passers-by. Eight of us were walking down Bergstrasse when we saw the horde of punks in front of the lower entrance to the Golden Gate amusement arcade. Right at the front was Kammkatz with the broomstick. We didn't know how to react as a group. Until now we thought that we, as Kiel skins, were invincible. Six of us sat down on the balustrade on the street beside the upper entrance to the Golden Gate and waited. Two of us crossed to the other side of the street. The punks were clearly in the majority. They rushed at us, screaming, and soon there were the first blows. When it escalated and the situation seemed hopeless for us, Steff and I fled through Wilhelminenstrasse, which we had passed on our way a few minutes earlier. The punks continued to yell battle cries. Some followed us immediately into the side street. Throughout the evening we had drunk huge amounts of Lambrusco. Now we sprinted in mortal fear to the overcrowded L'Etage night club in Legienstrasse. We ran to one of the tables, crawled underneath and held our arms over our heads until the guests at the table asked in horror,

      "What's the matter with you?" 

      "There are people after us, we have to hide!"

The patrons of the restaurant bar thought they had seen an apparition because we huddled under the table for several minutes. When none of the punks showed up at the L'Etage, we regained courage, stood up and cautiously walked to the door. When we stepped outside, we saw Troy, the Wiker Punk and "Mad Boy", who we still knew from our own punk days. He was sitting on the stairs with other punks. When he saw us, he confronted us. 

      "What was that about during Kiel Week, all that Nazi trouble?" 

      "We ain't Nazis!" 

I replied to him, determined. 

He was sitting on the right side of the banister and I sat down directly opposite him on the steps to the terrace.

      "Guys, that's enough, what you did during Kiel Week!" 

      "We have nothing to do with it, we are not Nazis,"

I repeated. Suddenly, I had to throw up. I puked right in front of Troy's boots. The Lambrusco I'd consumed in the evening now flowed as a blood-red puddle over the stone floor, towards the stairs. I puked my soul out of my body. After vomiting, and still completely out of breath from sprinting, I repeated insistently,

      "We have nothing to do with it, we are not Nazis,"

and puked one last time. Afterwards, the punks let us move on. Later I learned that Stidi got bashed up by Kammkatz directly in front of the Golden Gate, because of the invitation letter for the Saturday of Kiel Week to skins from other cities. The hardcore punks had taken revenge for the ruining of Kiel Week. But was there even more to follow?

I give the fascist salute

When we met the Mad Boys more and more often at Ansgar Church playground, we developed a kind of contact language. This was a new language code with which we defined our spheres of interest and revealed joint features. The Mad Boys for their part jumped in, so that soon a new scene language emerged in Kiel. Our language tended strongly to ellipses and elisions,

      "Comes thereof!"

      "Coming over?"

Sometimes the e was simply omitted in all words containing an e at the end. Thus

      "Give me my 'Jacke' (jacket)!"

became

      "Give me my 'Jack'[1]!".

Instead of

      "Put it in your 'Tasche' (bag)!"

it became

      "Put it in your 'Tasch'!"

      "You have a Mütze (hat)!"

became

      "You've got a 'Mütz'!"

and instead of

      "Your bare 'Glatze' (bald head)!"

it was

      "Your bare 'Glatz'!"

The second person singular was also lost more and more often. Instead

      "Do you know what I mean?"

we said

      "Knowst what mean?"

Of

      "Is that what you mean?"

became

      "Is that what mean?"

And out

      "Do you mean it that way?"

was

      "Mean it that way?"

And of

      "Let's go to disco Pfefferminz!"

became

      "Let's go 'Minz'!"

Things got more and more colourful. Gonnrad was especially the driving force concerning verbal acrobatics. He had no choice. We got along quite well with the Mad Boys at times. One evening I was sitting in a public bus on a bench before the last row when I was berated by a hyperaggressive former World War participant who obviously seemed to hate everything that moved. He was sitting behind me in the back row with his wife besides him, and he didn't like the way I was sitting on the bench.

      "Sit down properly! Don't you all have any manners these days?”

he barked at me.

      "I sit here as I like it!"

I hissed back.

      "We'll still get rid of people like you,"

he shouted down my neck and tapped me on the shoulder. That's when my fuse blew. Because I was fed up with this disgusting old Nazi, I got up, raised up my right arm without thinking and provocatively showed him the Hitler salute to hold up his mirror. That was a mistake, of course. This was also registered by passengers other than the guy with his wife in the back row. I don't know what had dragged me that far. I should not have been carried away with this, even though this reaction was seen as a way to keep cursing, aggressive, former SS henchmen and Wehrmacht members at a distance, especially when they tried to hide something. I was fed up at the moment and I felt compelled by the bastard. Encouraged by his wife, the guy continued to grumble and insult in a highly aggressive manner.

To show the Hilter salute was and is a mistake if you are not a comedian like Charlie Chaplin standing in front of the camera in "The Great Dictator". I promptly received the come-uppance. At first, the situation threatened to escalate further on the bus. Luckily I managed to control myself again and got off at Waitzstrasse a short time later, but the incident was observed by a "Mad Boy" standing on the bus platform in the centre of the bus, and the Mad Boys obviously had an interest in escalating things further. When I wanted to buy beer at the Shell-station alone on the same evening, several members of the Mad Boys blocked my way and confronted me. Here at the petrol station I had to defend myself against the Mad Boys. They rebelled in front of me, and I should answer whether I really had shown the Hitler salute on the bus,

      "Did you scream 'Sieg Heil' on the bus?"

They seemed extremely belligerent.

I immediately admitted that I tore up my arm in the direction of the pensioner, but said clearly,

      "I'm not a Nazi! I did this only to hold up the mirror to the pensioner!"

      "What was that about, mate?"

      "Yes, that was silly of me, but he tried to grind me out for a trifle,"

I tried to justify myself.

      "Mate, we don't want to see that again!"

      "Sorry, it's usually not my way. I was simply trying to defend myself. I'm tired of being harassed by people like that."

      "So it won't happen again?"

      "Of course not, it was stupid of me. That was the last straw."

      "All right!"

      "I can't stand everything that World War II pensioners do, but that was the wrong reaction, I know that."

      "Knowst now?"

In the end I managed to make clear to the Mad Boys that this theatre was certainly not meant politically. After the hot-headed verbal pogo with my arduous justifications, they finally let up on me. I was allowed to move on. The other skinheads took note of my report with great interest and concern.

The skins arrange themselves with the "Mad Boys"

Our meeting point on the playground behind Ansgar Church belonged to the skins from the early evening. There was also a street club that was interested in the playground: the Mad Boys. Most of them were nothing to us, except Troy, who was one of the founding members, and Tschakko, who came from Friedrichsort like me. Barne even received a friendship patch which he sewed onto a black bomber jacket. Due to their martial arts experience, the Mad Boys radiated a lot of self-confidence. It became more and more frequent that both skins and Mad Boys showed up at the playground at the same time. Sometimes there were fraternization gestures especially if Gonnrad was present. There were sometimes verbal skirmishes. Since they had several punks among the members of the Mad Boys, they wanted to find out what was going on with the skins, and what tendencies prevailed there. Some of the Mad Boys were worried about the skins, as were many guests of the nearby music café, Error. That's why the Mad Boys educated themselves even more consistently with a lot of martial arts and accepted an increasing number of members. Tschakko's favourite word was 'bingo'. He used it in almost every sentence,

      "Then it's bingo!"

      "I'll do bingo!"

      "All bingo!"

He was quite a thug at a young age and had been training Ju-Jutsu for a while. We clashed verbally on the playground several times, because he liked to provoke me. I replied warningly,

      "Wanna box?"

and

      "Shall we fight?"

At first he took this with humour and was happy about the tit-for-tat response. I was playing with fire. He probably didn't attack me because both sides were always in groups. Finally, the inevitable happened. We had all been drinking again when I left the playground with Tschakko. We instigated each other with slogans. At Holtenauer near the Gemind dance school, the bickering unleashed into a struggle that threatened to escalate further, but in which nobody went to the ground. Somebody came in and separated us, otherwise it would have been bingo.

      Of course, word got around immediately that I had fought with Tschakko. At best it was a controlled wrangle in which we checked our readiness to fight. It was foreseeable that there would be further confrontations, because the situation was getting worse and worse. Finally, Lurz, one of the mods who celebrated with us, had a cunning ploy for how to settle the dispute once and for all. We should challenge the Mad Boys to a football match and determine the ultimate winner. The Mad Boys were immediately on fire. Lurz asked the groundskeeper of Union Teutonia Kiel if we could play a friendly match there. When the mod told the groundskeeper the circumstances – that the game would contribute to the reconciliation between skinheads and Mad Boys, we even got permission to play the deciding game on the main pitch. The Mad Boys now consisted of a frightening number of members, so they were able to set up a well-functioning team without any problems. For us skins it was a bit more difficult to organize. Finally, we filled our team with two or three mods and wavers, which we knew from the Bergstrasse, in order to put together a powerful squad. We agreed in advance that the Mad Boys should wear dark shirts and we should wear white shirts. Lurz even managed to get the shirts of The Exit pub team for us skins.

On Saturday, the friendly match – which was the deciding game – had come and the weather conditions were excellent. The sun was burning. We changed outside at the edge of the pitch and discussed our line-up with emotions running high until we could finally start. We appointed the long and thick mod Bolli as referee, who was supposed to ensure law and order on the pitch. After only a few minutes the ball wriggled for the first time in the Mad Boys' net. After our lead we scored more clearly created goals. The Mad Boys soon realized that we were superior in all respects. We repeatedly chopped down single Mad Boys, who in turn reacted with foul play as well. It was feared that one of the players would blow a fuse. The spirits became heated, but prudent referee Bolli kept the game under control as much as possible, as he intervened loudly and authoritatively in disputes. I was one of the few skins who was physically very fit due to regular club training – in my case at SV Friedrichsort. I know self-praise sucks, but I played a lot of games, even after my ankle surgery, where my opponents didn't win a single duel and my passes always reached my teammates. My razorblade tackle was feared. We also had really good players from Suchsdorfer SV and TSV Kronshagen in our ranks.

We delivered an impressive performance. Nevertheless, disputes started after a while. Mig and Gonnrad in particular turned out to be overzealous and quarrelsome, while others continued to play down their match. Shortly before the end we were leading 8:0. For the Mad Boys it was only about the consolation goal, because the defeat was inevitable. Eventually, one of the most experienced martial art practitioners in the Mad Boys' ranks scored the consolation goal, which we provocatively dismissed as worthless. When the game was finally over after 90 minutes, the score was 11:1 and on the whole both sides were happy to have played the game fairly peacefully. We mockingly explained the result: the Mad Boys developed their team spirit only towards the end of the game, and if they had played well together, or had they not trained exclusively in martial arts, the game would have been more balanced. We were all sure that we had written a piece of city history through this decisive friendly game. We skins had underlined our right to the Ansgar playground by beating the Mad Boys.

Immediately after the end of the game we began to drink. Somehow everyone had something alcoholic with them. Before we put on our boots, jeans, bomber jackets or whatever on this midsummer's day, the first beers were ripped open. There was nothing really to discuss with the Mad Boys about the score of the game, even though we showed great respect to each other for taking part in this comparative battle. Soon the paths of the two groups separated again. We skins spent the evening together and later landed as usual at the beer vending machine at Knooper Weg. Mig obtained a bottle of vermouth from the opposite petrol station. The game was of great importance to all of us. In the near future, our competitive match with the Mad Boys would be the main topic of conversation.

Afterwards we enjoyed the peaceful coexistence with the Mad Boys for a while. Later I met Tschakko in the Pries village square, who, like all of us, liked to listen to Toy Dolls. He was pretty angry, went at me and pricked me in the left eye with his right hand's outstretched forefinger. After that, it was bingo for me. Something had him upset with me again. I held my hands in front of the "glazzies" in pain and was defenseless for the moment. Luckily, he left me be.

The "Mad Fighters'" crate box mountain

When I was with Vielmann, full of zest for action on a booze tour to Falckenstein Beach on a wonderful summer evening, we were astonished to find that on the barbecue area beside the fireplace an oversized pile of cheap beer crates had been erected. Not even a forklift could have transported it. It was taller than a man and the base was over four square metres in size. Apparently, there was a party going on. That was at the exact beach section near the steam boat bridge by the kiosk "Mutter Ramm", where I had my very first binge-drinking experiences with Steff at the age of 15. I lay cowering and half-awake in the sand, puking my soul and two whole bottles of apple schnapps out of my throat. I was still a real pseudo with KFC (Kriminalitätsförderungsclub, Engl.: Criminality Promotion Club, Ger. punk band from Düsseldorf, 1978 – 1982) on my cloth jacket.

Since Falckenstein had always been territory of the Friedrichsorter, we had to check what was going on there that evening. According to first safe estimates, there were at least a thousand beer bottles on the barbecue site. We looked in amazement through the undergrowth and decided to take a closer look at the crate box mountain. Several figures were huddled by the long extinct, but still smoking, fireplace. Other drunken stiffs were further down towards the beach under the large mountain maple, Latin Acer pseudoplatanus.

      "What's going on here?"

I asked one of the broken figures at the fireplace, whom I recognized as a member of the street gang "Mad Fighters" from the patch on their black bomber jacket.

      "We're Mad Fighters and we're partying here!"

replied the strong, almost overweight bloke.

      "Can we get a beer?"

asked Vielmann mischievously.

      "All right, you can have one!"

We went to the crate box mountain and had to stretch to get a beer down from above.

Peacefully, we sat down with the two Mad Fighters, who were clearly wearing acer haircuts, that were prone to vokuhila (haircut, short hair at the front and long in the nape, mullet). The big bloke was suddenly addressed by his mate by the name Rollant.

      "What, your name is Rollant as well? My name is Rollant too!"

I shouted happily to the powerful Mad Fighter.

      "Funny!"

he replied and shook my hand brotherly.

      "You must be a Mettenhofer, right?"

I asked.

      "Exactly! The Mad Fighters come from Mettenhof"

Rollant number two replied.

We were happy all the time to bear the same first name, so Vielmann and I were allowed to take more beers. Our conversation went further into the depths. They said that their beach party had been going on since last weekend. They planned to continue celebrating until the crate box mountain had finally disappeared.

      "Man, how high must the mountain have been at the beginning?"

Vielmann probed.

      "A bit higher, but much wider. We had to rebuild several times. Fortunately, we had a retail apprentice with us,"

emphasized the Mad Fighter Rollant, who looked very pleased.

On request, I was allowed to look at the patch on his bomber jacket. He stretched out his right upper arm toward me and seemed to tighten his biceps. In addition, he plucked the patch a little higher with his left hand so that it could be seen more clearly. Respect was the top priority, so I didn't dare to subject the patch to a quality check with my fingertips. I just said,

      "Great patch! I only know the Mad Boys' one."

Suddenly Rollant turned around and showed us the oversized patch on his back. We were impressed and couldn't shake out of our amazement. It was made from the same template as his upper arm patch, but it was only now that the lack of graphic quality became clear. It seemed like a bad sketch of a Wickie or Hägar comic. The giant patch and the keyword Mad Boys opened up a whole new topic of conversation, and we continued to treat each other with utmost respect. The Mad Fighters did not want to speak negatively about the Mad Boys, but made it clear how they would react if Mad Boys showed up in Mettenhof unannounced. Almost all Mad Fighters were at home in Mettenhof. I deliberately didn't mention that I didn't like their patch as much as the one of the Mad Boys. It looked more hard rock, while the Mad Boys' patch looked more punk style. Now we went with the big Rollant to the guys who were crouched down under the mountain maple. The folks didn't have any sleeping bags, blankets or towels with them. They just lay there in the sand and dozed half-awake. Except for one person, they were all Mad Fighters. The other person turned out to be a skinhead from the Hamburg scene. We carefully tried to initiate a conversation, but mainly we – the two Rollants – talked. Again and again Mettenhof was brought up for discussion;

      "What's going on in Mettenhof?"

I asked the other Rollant, who was sitting next to me in the sand with his back arched.

      "WE'RE Mettenhof, mate. We have everything under control!"

      "And what do you do when you're around in the group as Mad Fighters?"

      "We are always Mad Fighters, day and night."

      "And what's gonna happen when you go out?"

      "We usually have trouble with the cops."

      "It is the same wherever you go."

The discussion continued at this high level. We exchanged information about our districts for an almost endless amount of time. We had to realize that the kids in Mettenhof didn't have it easy either. From time to time the expression "Küste" (coast) was mentioned. That was the name of the Mettenhofer youth club.

Now two more Friedrichsorters lost their way to the barbecue site, and Krümmel was among them. The party slowly grew bigger, and we were allowed to help ourselves to the Mad Fighters' beer.

      "What do you eat here, or do you only drink?"

I asked curiously.

      "Sometimes someone goes to the snack bar, sometimes we go up to the supermarket or people bring something,"

Rollant replied.

The broken skinhead suddenly started talking and turned out to be Kellinghusener (Kellinghusen: small town in Schleswig-Holstein northerly of Hamburg), who counted himself among the Hamburg scene. He also happened to land at the Mad Fighters' party, but a few days ago. They called him Oi-Puppy. For a while only Hamburg skinhead stories were told. I realized that everything in Hamburg had to be much tougher. When it became dark, Krümmel and the other Friedrichsorter left again. In the meantime it had rained slightly. Vielmann and I stayed even longer. We talked to Oi-Puppy and the Mad Fighters' Rollant. When the point was reached where our conversation partners fell back into their dozy state – Vielmann and I were the last to talk – we also decided to leave. First we walked in the direction of Strandweg (beach path), at which time we had to pass the crate box mountain with a heavy heart. In one corner of the barbecue area there were several stolen shopping trolleys from Mini-Mal supermarket, which we had noticed when it was still light. Even if the Mad Fighters and especially the other Rollant seemed likeable, we had not the heart to leave the barbecue site without taking our share of the crate box mountain. We knew no mercy and took full risk. At first, we brought in one of the wide shopping trolleys and filled it to the brim with beer bottles, without the pile of crate boxes losing any noticeable mass. We pulled it backwards through the sand to the Strandweg.

      "Let's pack another trolley, there's two of us!"

      "Are you mad? Let's get out of here before they catch us!"

      "It'll only take a minute! They're all asleep, mate."

      "That's enough, Shelter. Let's get out of here."

      "We can wheel one each."

      "Are you crazy? Stop it now. We still have to go up the hill."

Thereupon we pushed the overcrowded and heavy-as-lead shopping trolley in the direction of Brauner Berg. Luckily Vielmann had prevented me from stuffing a second trolley. He was also bitingly afraid that the Mad Fighters might notice the beer robbery and take up the chase. However, the Mettenhofer Rollant and his colleagues were already severely drunk and exhausted from their marathon drinking under the mountain maple Acer pseudoplatanus.

Only with the utmost effort did we manage the almost three kilometres to my parents' house, in constant fear of being caught on patrol by the cops. We had to push and pull the trolley in the middle of the road, so the cops would inevitably have had to intervene. As transport mostly went uphill, we were pretty exhausted from the constant balancing of steering errors, because the trolley full to the brim weighed a huge amount. We needed several breaks to gather new strength with a beer. Vielmann and I imagined that the trolley would lose more weight, the more beer we drank during the ride and the breaks. Deep in the night we pushed the booty into my parents' driveway and placed it next to the dustbin. I don't know whether it was the same night or the next day, but what fitted in was stored up in the empty fridge under the roof. The rest was placed on my parents' terrace, including the shopping trolley. Again I came up with some cheap excuse that my parents didn't believe anyway. We lived on the beer haul for several weekends. Vielmann and I were best friends again because of the yield.

On the following days I rode my bike several times past the beach barbecue area and saw from the corner of my eye the crate box mountain slowly shrinking until there was finally nothing left. I never saw the other Rollant or Oi-Puppy again. I couldn't remember the faces of the other Mad Fighters anyway.

      A short time later Vielmann tried to fix me up with a woman from the Error scene. I think she still had some of the precious Mad Fighters' beer. The woman was covered with self-inked tattoos and regularly visited her grandmother, who lived in Joachim-Mähl-Strasse in Friedrichsort. Vielmann knocked on my window one night while the Error woman was waiting nearby on the adventure playground. I came down, Vielmann bunked off, and I made out with the young woman on the Abbi playground, at a hedgerow under one of the big lime trees. She was slightly chubby, wore her black hair in a new wave hairstyle and tasted disgustingly like half-digested alcohol while French kissing. Being sober, I didn't dare to grab her properly and instead played around with her embarrassingly and primitively. After an hour I gave up and sent her back to her grandmother. On the following weekend I first met her at Error and later we went to a party in the holiday village, Falckenstein. When it started to rain, we made out half the night in the shower room downstairs. With her wet hair and smeared make-up, she looked like a zombie. In the long run her tattoos didn't agree with me, so after a few weeks we went our separate ways again. With her tattoos, she would have received a lifetime house ban from my mother anyway, but she wasn't that bad considering her type of woman. At some point she did not show up at Error any more, so I never saw her again. I thought several times about just ringing her granny's bell, but I didn't want to frighten the old woman.

We're checking the ID card of evil Karl Melitz

Ringo and I were out on the steep coast and the beach in Schilksee in the afternoon. On the way back we walked across the meadow at the Ankerplatz (anchorage) and wanted to take the connecting path up to the bus stop at the Schilksee Church. There we saw the evil Karl Melitz sitting alone on the playground. He was known as the leader of the fascist skinheads from Schilksee and Strande. Ringo recognized him immediately and said,

      "Look, there's that stupid Karl Melitz!"

      "No!"

We knew immediately that we had to teach him a lesson. We purposefully approached the overweight fascist skin, and Ringo confronted him. 

      "You are Karl Melitz, aren't you?"

He answered,

      "Yes, I am!"

Melitz was probably hoping that we would associate with him, but Ringo said in a cold-blooded tone,

      "Now, get your ID out!"

The fascist skin looked at us in surprise. Ringo approached him and shouted,

      "Show your ID immediately!"

Melitz was very insecure, stammering something, digging in the pockets of his bomber jacket to fish out his ID card. Ringo tore the card right out of his hand and checked it. He read the data aloud. Meanwhile, Karl Melitz was still sitting on the playground like a big child and was severely browbeaten. The notorious fascist skin, who had already terrorized several comprehensive school pupils and other people in Kiel-North, now endured this identity control without any resistance. Finally, Ringo gave him back his ID card and said,

      "We don't want to see you here anymore!"

Melitz didn't say a word, and we continued on our way. Ringo and I laughed our heads off. Melitz was probably the one from whom Ringo later received the death threats that forced him to move to Altona (district of Hamburg).

The record player at the "Prisma"

Just a short while ago the Prisma discotheque was launched in Bergstrasse, one floor below the Pfefferminz. The Prisma could be reached via a staircase from the anteroom of the Pfefferminz and gave the visitors a real cellar or bunker feeling. When we reached high alcoholic levels in the evening, we liked to stop by this new Kiel new wave, post-punk, new romantic and synthie pop disco to rumble the place in the bar area for a while. In the Pfefferminz, on the other hand, we had spoiled our chances a long time ago, but we were still welcome guests in the Prisma.

Once during the week we stayed right in front of the long bar. Mig sat on a bar stool right in front of the DJ and had a large glass of beer in front of him. The two turntables were located behind an angled glass pane, which rose up approximately 30 centimetres, diagonally. The song "Transmission" by Joy Division was playing. A few figures were moving on the dance floor – probably apprentice bakers, who were up all night until work began. Mig suddenly reached over the glass pane in his drunken state and tapped violently with his index finger on the record rotating on the turntable. The song stopped briefly, it scratched loudly, and the tonearm jumped up, hit again in another place and finally landed next to the turntable. Meanwhile, Mig laughed without restraint. I was standing right next to him and I knew it couldn't end well. Mig drank from his beer again. The whole place was staring in horror at the DJ booth. Everyone wondered what Mig had been up to again. The DJ, cursing, prepared to put the needle back into the right groove. He played the same song again. In the meantime, the older Konz rejoiced like a rascal. The angry barman rushed to Mig, to whom he promptly gave a house ban because of his unsportsmanlike behaviour.

      "I just want to finish my beer,"

Mig replied selfishly, and downed the rest of his beer. We took our bomber jackets and Harringtons and sneaked after Mig. It was a very strange situation. From then on we were no longer welcome at Prisma. It was always the case, if only one of us misbehaved, that we all were made responsible for it.

The punk and wave scene was at times extremely upset with the skins. Even after such comparatively harmless incidents, we poor wretches were often collectively grouped into the right-wing. Some people who let themselves be educated at school by former or current Nazis without rebelling against them, and whose grandparents in many cases certainly belonged to the Nazis, insinuated that we were right-wing. It generally was a trend in the punk and wave scene to call outsiders right-wing as soon as they showed any misconduct. The drunken skins were hated like the plague and cursed for all eternity, so the whole thing escalated more and more. Should the rumours become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Later the trained Nazis finally had a pretty easy game when they tried to infiltrate the Kiel skinhead scene.

Nazi-Gerd, the fucking bastard, wrongs me with a pill

Even today I don't know if Gerd actually wronged me with a real acid trip or whatever kind of pill it was. I had long been aware that caffeine pellets were sometimes consumed in the scene, which they trivially called Coffies. These mini-pellets were inexpensive and available without prescription in all pharmacies. They were regarded as stimulants not only by lorry drivers on night drives but also by many punks, who used them as uppers. These small, round pills looked like tiny white ice hockey pucks and were sold in thin metal tubes. Other people in the scene were crazy about ephedrine. I told myself from the beginning,

      "Don't touch it!"

At that time we had sport as the first lesson on Fridays at school. I hadn't made the grade last summer, but my new class, still the Untersekunda (10^th grade at grammar school), took sports lessons together with parts of my former class. On that day we were supposed to do a long-distance run on the sports field at Feldstrasse; I believe it was five kilometres. The sports field had neither a 400-metre tartan track nor an ash track around the pitch. We had to therefore run close to the bushes around the sports ground to manage the required distance. Our PE teacher was called Eder by everyone. He was a former coach of Holstein Kiel. I accidentally injured his collarbone once when he tried to help with a handstand rollover. I was so sorry. He slapped me once during a geography lesson, because I tore the protective cover of my geography book. Nevertheless, he was my favourite teacher, not least because he had given me fresh courage a few months earlier when I came to class with plaster and crutches after ankle surgery.

Before the long-distance run, we pupils needed to change clothes. I slipped into my blue Adidas silk pants when suddenly Nazi-Gerd stood next to me with a small metal tube of caffeine pills. He kept the tube in his fist and opened his hand so that only I could see it briefly.

      "Come on, now you take one!"

Gerd pressured me.

      "I do not need such a thing!"

I replied firmly.

      "Come on, come on!"

he said again, increasing the pressure. Gerd remained persistent. Before the run I went to the toilet, but Gerd followed me. While I was peeing, he tried to convince me of the benefits of these caffeine tablets.

      "Take that, I have already popped one! This is the last pill in the pack."

But I didn't want to under any circumstance. Gerd wouldn't let up.

      "Take one, you will run much better!"

I refused again.

      "I do not need such stuff!"

I continued defending myself further.

Thereupon Gerd boasted,

      "Your glans gets very small from it!"

I found this interesting. Suddenly I was fired up for the small pill. Gerd passed over the small tube and poured the last pill into the palm of my hand. And I swallowed it. Gerd said,

      "Flush it down with water!"

I was an idiot and swallowed it. I did that immediately. Gerd had fobbed me off. Immediately afterwards, the long-distance run started. I was pretty sure at the time I was just taking a caffeine pill. I felt in great shape. Nevertheless, Gerd ran beside me like a personal trainer and cheered me on. I was usually the much better runner and would have easily outdistanced him, but my body perception changed during this run. I felt kind of white; even my muscles seemed to have a white colour. I survived the long-distance run without any further incidents. During the following lessons I did not notice anything conspicuous either. Only during school breaks Gerd was always by my side, talking to me unusually attentively while I was inhaling my cigarettes, as if he wanted to constantly check my condition. But that wouldn't have surprised me. At 1pm finally came the long-awaited weekend. First I drove home to Pries-Friedrichsort, put down my school bag and ate something. Then I went straight back to town and had an endless party. Only much later it dawned on me that Gerd might have wronged me with something other than a caffeine pill. All hell was let loose.

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