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 (10th 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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