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?