Life goes on
In spite of all the events and experiences in my life, drinking continued to play a decisive role. After a senselessly drunken night, I wandered through Friedrichsort on a Saturday morning, styled in a slightly punk fashion and with black 8-hole Docs. There I met the Friedrichsorter St. Pauli-Bole and during our conversation I had the crazy idea to steal a pack of vitamin E pills from a supermarket to fight my headache. I actually went with my Friedrichsorter friend to the nearest supermarket opposite the church and searched for the shelf with nutritional supplements. While St. Pauli-Bole was standing next to me, I grabbed the vitamin E tablets as planned. Single-mindedly we walked past the cash register to the exit. It came as a horror when a strong guy with a pornstache stood in our way at the exit door. It was the shop detective who ordered me bluntly to follow him into the office, though I hadn't even left the shop yet. I thought for a moment to simply throw the pills away, push the shop detective aside and run away, but refrained from doing so, since almost every damn soul in Friedrichsort knew me anyway. Most likely, the detective would have compromised St. Pauli-Bole and arrested him. I dropped the pills anyway on my way to the office. A saleswoman observed this and silently carried the tablets behind me. In the back office of the supermarket I had to wait until the cops arrived. Meanwhile, the store detective urged me to confess to the store manager. I realized that it was pointless to deny the shop lifting and hoped to be off the hook as soon as I had paid the 50 Deutschmark shoplifting fine. Far from it.
Since I didn't carry an ID card with me, the cops chauffeured me home. They didn't charge me for this ride. At home I unlocked the front door, and the boys in blue followed me into the entrance hall as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Here they stopped for the moment without a word and waited for me, while I fetched the ID card from my room upstairs. Meanwhile, my parents were sitting in the living room and – thank God – were not aware of the small crowd of people in the entrance hall: two men in uniform with handcuffs and pistols and the son who was in big trouble.
It would have been my end if my parents had left the living room at that moment. One of the cops took down my personal data. They said,
"You will hear from us soon!"
I was relieved that they didn't want to talk to my parents as well. Also, nobody in the neighbourhood noticed that a police car briefly parked in the garage entrance. When the coast was clear again, I sat on my bicycle and rode back to the district centre, where I met St. Pauli-Bole again in the big amusement arcade. Together with other Friedrichsorters, we laughed heartily about the incident.
Things seemed to happen so fast. I received a summons to the 7th police station and was intensively interrogated and criminalized by a young, zealous cop in a way that made me wonder what a dangerous criminal I was. He obviously enjoyed being in a position to interrogate a grammar school pupil; he wanted to know all the details and asked me about sports and school. At the end I had to read my statement again, but it contained words and syntax which I would never have used on my own. I felt so powerless that I didn't realize the police were including small hidden messages to the legal authorities. I signed the paper obliviously. Later, I received the transfer form for the penalty fees. As if that wasn't already punishment enough, a summoning for a court trial for this case was thrown through the mail slot into the house. My parents once again opened my letters and there was a horrible quarrel. The judge sentenced me to several working hours, which I did as usual in the house for the elderly at Andersenweg. But the main punishment was yet to come: the policeman, who questioned me so energetically and typed the statement, was suddenly in a relationship with my sister. That was the absolute maximum punishment for me. I got incredibly upset inside every time I saw the guy, when he was passing by in a car or on a bicycle, or when he walked or jogged along. Even after he had separated from my sister, the sight of him made me feel uncomfortable.
Die Toten Hosen at Plünschli
There were positive moments in life again. Through different channels we learned that the band Die Toten Hosen (Dead Trousers) were to play at the Plünschli venue in Husbyries near Husby, a small village east of Flensburg. In the run-up to the concert I came into possession of a poster of the Unter Falscher Flagge (Under False Colours) tour, which was supposed to officially start in Hamburg. Hecker got the second Toten Hosen LP with its later forbidden original cover, on which an EMI flag was shown on the ship, which the record company did not tolerate. We learned that the concert in Husbyries was supposed to be a dress rehearsal for the tour kick-off. After we had checked that the concert really would take place, we met in a small group on Saturday to go to Husby together. We searched out the bus connection from Kiel-ZOB to Flensburg beforehand and took the bus to the north. On the bus we were obviously tipsy, with various alcoholic drinks. Measure was of importance, because it was difficult to use the toilet during the ride. We had occupied the rear area of the bus and enjoyed the ride, with much anticipation which lasted for approximately one hour and forty minutes, with much anticipation.
After we arrived safely in Flensburg, we first drank a few beers in the pedestrian zone in the city centre and took the bus to Husby, from where we trotted off on foot to Husbyries in the best mood; there was glorious sunshine. Rumours were afloat that the Toten Hosen organized a football match against selected punks wherever they performed. When we passed a small field, we realized that such a game could be played on it, but we were already too drunk to be able to play football properly. Soon we reached Plünschli in bright sunshine. Various punks from both sides of the Danish-German border were already drinking together in the backyard of the venue. We joined in and drank beer with the same enthusiasm, until finally the first soundcheck took place inside. Suddenly a punk came out of Plünschli, and who was immediately identified as a member of the Toten Hosen. He carried two crates of beer in his arms, which he just slammed down at the feet of the punks sitting there. He shouted,
"Here, we bought you something to drink!"
before he disappeared into Plünschli again. The shouting and cheering was raucous and the punks pounced on the beer like predators on their prey. Unfortunately, we got nothing out of it. The popularity of the Toten Hosen rose sky-high. It became more and more lively and crowded in the backyard of Plünschli. Suddenly several punks appeared, wearing sombreros and leather jackets with the inscription "Amigos" on them. Some wore their sombreros casually folded on their backs. It was said that the Amigos were another band that were to perform tonight as a support act. When the tension was bursting, someone opened the gates of Plünschli for the punks that were, for the most part, already heavily drunk. They stormed into the venue like the Troops of Tomorrow. We learned that next to the Toten Hosen the Goldene Zitronen (Golden Lemons) were supposed to play, along with the said Amigos, which many thought to be a rumour because nobody had heard of them. Also, Der wahre Heino (the true Heino)[1] was mentioned again and again. Due to a blackout, I couldn't recall whether the Amigos actually played or even if the popular "true Heino" entered the stage. Ringo, on the other hand, claimed to have seen "the true Heino" on stage. Before the Goldene Zitronen appeared on stage, Ringo and I ordered a La Flute salami and ham in the Plünschli restaurant area to temporarily satisfy our hunger. Since it took ages for the La Flutes to be served, we missed half of the performance by the Goldene Zitronen, but heard it through the open connecting door. Again and again, we went in the direction of the event hall and looked through the door to see what was going on. At some point the ordered La Flutes were finally served. As somebody reported that the Goldene Zitronen were throwing lemons at the audience, we stuffed the rest of the food into our mouths and sprinted into the event hall, where the fun had been raging for a long time.
When the Toten Hosen later entered the stage, we shot like hornets through the hall. The concert was breathtaking.
I had my Sham 69 school bag with me, in which a bottle of corn brandy was hidden, which I had saved especially for the performance of the Toten Hosen. I had succeeded in smuggling my schoolbag completely unnoticed past the cash register. The corn brandy gave us the last kick. After all, you are only young once. We drank the swill unhindered during the concert, directly in front of the stage, without being reprimanded for it. It was a unique punk buzz with like-minded people, cheerful pogoing with hugs and fraternization gestures. Plünschli went berserk. I don't know how many people were already puking in the toilets or whether I was among them temporarily. Anyway, after the concert I tried to steal one of the monitor loudspeakers from Plünschli without considering how I could have ever transported it to Kiel. I carried the box straight towards the exit, while the staff stood in a cluster around the pinball machine in the passage to the restaurant area, enjoying themselves. Before I could leave the venue with the heavy box, a staff member caught me, took the box away from me without much of a moral lecture and took it back to the vacant stage. Immediately afterwards, I met my mates again. We wandered around the area for hours and talked to like-minded people. We were still intoxicated in the morning. At dawn we set off on our way back to Flensburg. Since there were apparently no busses that morning, we had to walk all the way back to Flensburg city centre. On the way along the country road it got explosive again. After an arduous first leg we were so exhausted that we simply lay down across the country road to take a nap. We only wanted a short break before continuing our walk. We were sure we could recognize approaching cars in time. The last of us on the road was Hecker. Only a few minutes had passed when Hecker suddenly cried out. A cyclist loomed over him, who, lost in thoughts or daydreams, had cycled his front wheel over Hecker's abdomen. Hecker doubled up in pain. We jumped up and made the most serious accusations against the young cyclist, but when he told us that he was going to Flensburg to play football that morning, there was immediately a common basis for discussion and our minds calmed down. It turned out that he played in the youth section of TSB Flensburg and in the coming season would probably be in the same league as us. Everyone was happy and we hoped to play against each other in the near future. After we briefly checked whether the bike had been damaged, we wished the cyclist good luck in the football match. This little interruption made us feel more or less sober again. After the strains of the previous walk, we could laugh again. A few kilometres further on the almost endless country road, we saw a pair of tattered corduroy trousers directly by the roadside, hanging on the barbed wire. Laughing nervously, we agreed that it had to be the legendary dead trousers, pulled out our lighters and set the good piece on fire. When the pants were in flames, we continued on our way, but turned around again and again to check whether the smoke clouds from the dead trousers could still be seen. We finally reached Flensburg, glad that we had overcome the drudgery of the way back. First of all, I had to get something alcohol-free for my dehydration. Totally exhausted, we took the bus back to Kiel. It was an absolutely outstanding tour.
Another useless New Year’s party
This year, I wanted to celebrate New Year's Eve together with Ringo and Hecker. Since I was still a much sought-after drinking partner in many places, I had already met Arnt and Rob, both Friedrichsorters, in the early afternoon. They were themselves wearing bomber jackets a while ago, but they soon left the skinhead scene again. Around 2pm we went to the Köm Deel pub at Fritz-Reuter-Strasse to sip the first beers. Rob was a bit smaller than me, but much stronger because he regularly did dumbbell training. His brother was a bouncer at the Hinterhof disco. Although I had promised to meet Ringo and Hecker in the evening, I did not express myself clearly enough to Arnt and Rob that I already had plans for the turn of the year. After the drink at the Köm Deel, I went back home to take a nap for an hour – in other words I was plastered. When I got up again, it was pitch dark outside. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I knew it could only be Arnt and Rob. That's why I didn't answer the door. There was nobody but me in the house. When Arnt and Rob noticed that there was light in my room, they got angry because they felt betrayed. Immediately afterwards, they waltzed off and decided to take revenge. They had only one goal on New Year's Eve: to catch me and pay me back for ignoring them.
Later in the evening, I met Ringo and Hecker as planned. We had no real plans for New Year's Eve and just wandered around in Kiel-North. We knew about a celebration at Dreikronen Village. A woman from the athletics department of my sports club wanted to throw a big New Year's Eve party there, but none of us were invited. Nevertheless, we trudged to the house in Heischer Tal valley and were promptly turned away at the front door. That was quite frustrating, because we knew that women would be celebrating at that party. It was necessary to go back along Friedrichsruher Weg and all the way to Pries Village, because we assumed there would be another party with people of our age. Suddenly, Ringo didn't want to continue any further and screamed,
"It's all pointless, I'm going home!"
"Ey mate, we'll find a party for sure,"
Hecker shouted after Ringo in a last attempt to convince him, but Ringo had already turned right in the direction of the crossroads, in wise foresight of what would happen next. Hecker and I turned left onto the Uhlenhorster Weg. About 50 metres before the bakery we suddenly heard screams,
"There's the bastard!"
It was Arnt and Rob, who ran towards me in a rage. Hecker was a good five metres behind me when the two of them attacked. They didn't want anything from him. Rob and Arnt grabbed me at the same time and gave me a grilling. While one of them held me tight from behind, the other hit me hard. Even though I played football with them – I'd played with Arnt for five straight years – they attacked me like I was their worst enemy. It didn't stop after the "goose egg" and "jaw punch" they had promised. Arnt held me tightly and Rob kicked me in the face with his knee while I was bent over. They changed positions briefly so that Arnt could also kick me with his knee. They did not only strike once or twice, but with a whole series of punches and kicks. They became more and more brutal. I stood bent over with my face down, and had already given up all resistance as the blood ran out of my nose like a thick thread. I thought I was bleeding to death. Hecker stood silently next to us. When he recognized the blood flowing out of my nose, he was afraid that the two ruffians could attack him as well and ran away in the direction of the Pries crossroads. Arnt didn't need to hold me at all anymore.
"Pull through properly,"
Arnt continued to incite his colleague.
"Yes, really give him one."
My nasal bone made two frightening cracking noises. A puddle-like pool of blood had already formed on the street. I tried again and again to keep my arms in front of my face, but instead they kicked me in the stomach. A little later Rob grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me even harder kicks with his right knee. Finally, Arnt said,
"That's enough now, Rob. Stop it. He's had his punishment!"
Rob gave me a farewell kick that was harder than all the others. It felt like he kicked all the way through. Satisfied, but still cursing, they went back towards Friedrichsort. I straightened up and had to get a grip on myself. I was glad that I had no missing teeth and apparently neither my nose nor cheekbone were broken. At first I staggered a few metres, dazed, and thought,
Just do not go to Friedrichsort, or you'll probably meet the two madmen again.
So I walked further north along Uhlenhorster Weg until I saw a light burning under the roof where a childhood friend of mine lived, who was in the rocker scene. I went upstairs and knocked at the door with my smashed face and bloodstains.
"Can I wash my face in here?"
"Oh, what happened to you?"
the young rockers asked, when they saw me standing on the threshold.
"I've just been hit by Rob and Arnt."
The rockers gave me refuge. Normally, I didn't like Acers, but they really helped me now. One of the young rockers was the son of a tank and engine construction worker who is said to have uncovered the first corruption scandal of his company in the mid-1980s, where the balance sheets of engine sales in Indonesia proved to be manipulated. However, the scandal did not go through the media and was kept largely secret. I was allowed to wash my face in the bathroom and was expected to join the New Year's Eve sit-in where the young rockers shot their heads off with dope. Here I told the story of Rob and Arnt in detail, how Rob kept pulling his knee through and Arnt continued to spur him on. The young rockers listened attentively. A giant joint was rolled and passed around clockwise. I was so frustrated and broken that I accepted the joint without comment when it was handed to me and pulled at it as a matter of course. That was the first joint I smoked in my life – out of pure frustration – even though I never inhaled. The rockers managed to give me new courage with a few calming words and several joints. Soon we could laugh together. Nevertheless, the start to the new year was very frustrating because of my smashed face.
A new squatted house?
In the course of time several occupied houses were demolished in Kiel: at Sophienblatt, in Lerchenstrasse and at Lehmberg. At least one cat is said to have died.
In the meantime, a completely new punk generation grew up in Kiel, which liked to hang around and rebel in front of Error on Friday or Saturday evenings. At some point the first Kiel punks dared to occupy a house on their own. The selected property was a four-storey building at Sophienblatt, about 50 metres from Alte Lübecker Chaussee. The house, which had stood empty for a long time, was number 77. When the group of punks moved into the building, the city authorities did not evaluate the squat as a squat, but rather called the process a tolerated condition in order to keep the term "squat" out of the media. Among the tolerated squatters was Barne, who just had a really good time. He told us that he was now hanging out with a punk band called Agitare Bene and was involved with a pretty punk girl called Ann-Kristjanne. He even wore a colourful orange Rasta punk hairstyle.
The punks' interlude at "77", as the supposedly squatted house was affectionately called, didn't last long. Typically, these alternative housing projects were a thorn in the side of the city authorities in the long run, and they exerted pressure so that the punks had to leave the house again. Whether an eviction took place is not known to me. The punks were on the street again. Afterwards the city superiors had their peace. As far as I know, this incident at 77 was the last squat in Kiel, even if it was not officially declared as such.
At that time there were still other houses uninhabited in Kiel. Klas, the football coach, had to be professional with the municipal building committee. He told me on occasion that in Kiel, houses were unjustifiably vacant for an indefinite time and were not used appropriately, but I did not pass on this information consistently enough in the scene.
Above the roofs of Kiel
It was the final phase of the beer vending machines, which were being banned from the beginning of October, 1985. A whole era came to an end. By far the best and most popular beer vending machine in Kiel was located at the beverage market, Dudda, at the corner of Holtenauer Strasse and Kämpenstrasse. If somebody shouted,
"Let's go to Dudda!"
"Off to Dudda!"
or
"Tonight a party at Dudda's?"
you knew immediately what was on the agenda. At Dudda the punks and pseudos, and sometimes even rockers without motorcycles, stood comfortably together. Sometimes they sat on the pavement and gave the impression of being on a sit-down strike. To the left and right of the entrance door to the beverage market, identical but differently stocked cigarette vending machines were installed. There was never trouble or stress here. This beer vending machine was unique by Kiel's standards. You wouldn't find a better or similar type anywhere else. The device was man-high, orange-coloured and had transparent, 10 cm square buttons for selecting the different types of beer, behind which the label of the type of beer could be seen. Even a drunk could not miss the large buttons. After inserting the coins and pressing the corresponding button, the selected beer slid into the output tray at knee height with an unforgettable rumble. The unique thing about this beer vending machine was that Mr. Dudda, the owner, mostly equipped it with the very popular Einbecker beer, sometimes even with the more popular Einbecker Maibock beer with its bright green labels – and at very fair, almost charitable prices. It was regarded as something quite posh to be able to stock yourself up with beer here. Accordingly, you often heard the saying here,
"The world will die in luxury!"
Mr. Dudda didn't care much if he had to sweep away a few pieces of broken glass in the morning after the excessive drinking or if a single bottle landed on the street. During the final phase of the beer vending machine era, Kiel was covered with the most varied types of these machines. They became the pilgrimage sites of our street drinker generation – until suddenly everything was gone.
I still had the chance to experience how a special type of Holsten vending machine, which was frequently represented in Kiel, was manipulated and emptied completely. Tank construction apprentice Mannek showed us this violent trick. You only had to purchase a single beer from this machine and leave the compartment open. This type of machine was purely mechanical. All you had to do was close one of the small flaps of a beer compartment two-thirds of the way, hit it powerfully with the heel of your hand, while at the same time an accomplice opened another compartment with full force. The rumour spread that we had emptied both beer vending machines opposite the main entrance of the tank and engine construction company, and sold the bottles to the workers at a reduced price after the late shift at ten past midnight. This technique was not possible at Dudda, since the automat had electronic shift keys.
One day, a scaffold was erected near the beer vending machine at Dudda, on the front of one of the four-storey houses on the opposite side of the street. When we sat in front of Dudda on a Saturday afternoon with over ten punks and pseudos – a few people were leaning against the wall next to the machine – someone came up with the crazy idea of climbing the scaffolding as a test of courage. Since the good Einbecker beer was already having an effect on many people's minds, this action was much more risky at this very moment than in a sober state. The day continued. Hecker even had his pocket camera with him and took some photographic proof. One of the photos showed several punks and followers sitting on a wooden crate box, which someone had picked up at a construction site earlier. Others crouched in front of the crate box, others leaned next to the windows on the outer wall into which the beer vending machine was anchored. In that photo I could be seen sitting on the wooden crate box and, strangely enough, I look like a goth with a high undercut and a fringe down to my chin. I was totally smashed and listened to records like Acid Bath by Alien Sex Fiend and Concert – The Cure Live.
Later in the afternoon, we incited each other until the first drunken punk, Töle, crossed Holtenauer Strasse to explore the condition of the scaffolding. Since the lowest ladder, which should have led from the pavement to the first level, was missing (it had apparently been dismantled by the scaffolding company after work), Töle tried to climb the first level via a diagonal and vertical pole. Thus, the scaffolding instantly became a climbing frame. Our cheers and yells were frenetic and drove Töle on until he waved at us from level one. We had already made bets on how far he would make it. Töle seemed to have already made the decision to climb to the top.
It was a great spectacle, which, unfortunately, did not go unnoticed by the residents, who stood like shop dummies at the windows. The first voyeurs appeared next to the curtains pulled aside – mostly former World War II participants who, as is well known, did not agree with the behaviour of our generation. What happened next seemed like a real Hitchcock movie. When Töle was almost at the top, our escalation expert Barne and another person crossed the street to follow Töle on the way up. Töle made it. He stood at the very top of the old building, ran a bit to the right and lifted both arms up into a winning pose, accompanied by unrestrained applause. While Töle remained up on the roof of 246 Holtenauer Strasse in a jubilant pose and enjoyed the applause, Hecker pulled out his pocket camera and took a photo for eternity. In the photo, a tiny Töle can be seen in a daring position at the very front of the roof with his arms diagonally upwards, below him the house façade to the right of the scaffolding. When Barne and the third man, who was unknown to me, finally reached the second level, the cops arrived but without flashlights and sirens. Obviously the voyeurs had denounced the climbing punks. We could see that Barne and the third man had doubts for a moment whether they should climb further up to follow Töle or start their descent.
After loud interventions by the cops, the third man came down again. Barne, however, climbed further, to the shock of all eyewitnesses. It was jaw-dropping. We were breathtaken and reacted like little children at a circus. We were already afraid that Töle could stumble and fall down in his euphoria and with the adrenaline generated by the cops. He climbed down the scaffold floor by floor from the roof. Barne, on the other hand, had no mercy for us, the voyeurs and the cops and, to the horror of all eyewitnesses, climbed higher and higher. Barne and Töle met on the next platform and exchanged briefly. When Barne finally reached the top of the roof, we saw him run to the right, orientate himself briefly, and look around until he finally disappeared on the roofs of Kiel. He wasn't in the mood for the henchmen.
Töle and the third man were now threatened with serious consequences because of their behaviour. The boys in blue rigorously and despotically grilled the manneken and took down the personal details. The coppers were aware that there was still a third person on the roof who made no effort to climb down. They wanted to know his name, but Töle and the third man kept quiet and did not reveal Barne's name. The cops seemed somewhat confused and strained, for they did not really know what to do. Meanwhile, Barne was fleeing over the roofs. The cops briefly explored the possibility of ascending the scaffold. More silent World War pensioners appeared at the windows, staring, petrified and outraged. Barne had made use of the opportunity to disappear up on the roof without them being able to record his personal details. Concerned, we watched the events from the opposite side of the road. A short time later, the cops discussed their course of action. They seemed to be worried that Barne had escaped. In their eyes he had to be caught as quickly as possible to deter any potential imitators, but the cops were powerless. One of the cops finally came to the part of the road opposite us and screamed in the direction of the Dudda beverage market,
"Do you know the person up on the roof?"
Some shook their heads.
"Well, listen, he must be known to you."
We denied it timidly,
"We've never seen him before."
That was of course a lie. This time the henchmen at least addressed us with some respect. We already expected that some lectures were to follow:
"This is not a children's playground,"
and
"That's not a climbing frame either!"
We hummed and hawed a little. A cop finally screamed over to us,
"Couldn't you have stopped that?"
During these discussions several cars whizzed past on the road between us and the henchmen. After this rebuke we decided to take to our heels as well. The cops consulted with their police station on how to proceed further. Who knows how long they waited in total, and whether they were going to call it a day or not. They probably suspected that Barne would soon have to take the same route back. Far from it. The next time we met Barne, we all cheered him. Some had assumed that he had been hiding on the roof for hours, only to descend the same scaffolding again later. Others suspected that he had found an open roof hatch. Soon it leaked out that he actually took another route from the block of houses, which he wanted to keep to himself at all costs, and he may have even made it across the roofs to Seeblick Street or even to Quinckestrasse. We were incredibly proud of his masterpiece.
That was one of our last big beer vending machine parties. Unfortunately, a short time later, without exception, all beer vending machines were radically abolished and dismantled once and for all due to the new "law for the protection of youth in public". Not only the boozing youths were shocked. With much melancholy we enjoyed our last beers there. The Kohl government had hit us hard.
The arrest on the bus
We met Zosch, the "Red One", in Old-Schilksee, where we had a little sit-in and sipped Grasovka. At that time we came up with the weirdest ideas and even drew up a contract, in which we all solemnly promised to meet again in 30 years. Each one of us signed the contract with his own blood, which we performed gruesomely.
That year we were more into the folk punk of the Pogues. They had just released their second LP, on the cover of which the band members were shipwrecked. In no time at all we became lyrically accurate and sang along loudly with the most important of their songs. After the sit-in on that day, we went to the bus stop at Langenfelde to take line 64 towards the city. Equipped with a few beers to maintain our party mood, we increased our alcohol level with each bus stop we passed. As usual, the bus ride became a small party on the back seats of the bus. On our way over the large canal bridge, the Red One started to sing the Pogues' song, "Navigator". Whoever knew the lyrics joined in, and Zosch helped us to get started when a line of text got lost. In Kiel-Wik came the first announcement from the bus driver,
"The singing of songs on the bus is forbidden!"
This caused us and other passengers to laugh loudly. After a short break from singing, which we used to compose ourselves after the laughter, we sang "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda". Zosch helped us loudly as a lead singer whenever we forgot the lyrics. The bus driver boiled with rage and made another desperate attempt to stop the singing.
"Please refrain from singing at the back of the bus immediately. This disturbs the driver and other passengers."
We laughed even more, and we saw the driver's face angrily staring at us through the interior mirror. We were not intimidated by the third announcement and just kept singing. But the anti-war song by The Pogues got the driver so upset that he threatened to call the cops. This caused roaring laughter again which finally made the driver alert the coppers a few moments later. I don't even remember where we originally wanted to get off when the bus suddenly stopped halfway between the streets of Lehmberg and Jägersberg, right in front of the kebab shop. It was directly at that spot, that, years ago, a Friedrichsorter named Spike attacked me with a bread knife because Ringo had pinched his girlfriend.
As if out of nowhere, there were now a huge number of police at this very spot, some in civilian clothes. In addition, apocalyptic-looking vehicles and KVAG task forces were sighted. There were police cars everywhere in front of and behind the bus. We stopped the singing immediately. A giant policeman rushed onto the bus, who didn't speak a word but immediately instilled respect and fear into us because of his resolute action. He wore neither a cap nor police lettering on his leather jacket, nor any emblems. The bus driver forced his way through to the back, while a cluster of hungry police officers formed outside the last entrance. They were clearly in the majority and eagerly awaited us. The bus driver pointed at everyone involved, and the giant policeman silently grabbed the first one by the arm and dragged him to the door. He grasped very firmly and painfully at the upper arm, just above the elbow joint between muscle and bone, and squeezed like a vice. This seemed like a typical police grip. On the pavement the juvenile offender was received by the other drooling henchmen. The giant cop went back and grabbed the next one – again like a vice – until we all finally stood outside. They probably didn't want to enter the bus all at the same time in order to avoid trouble, but why such a large police force was mobilized and why the KVAG troop was involved remained a mystery to us. The bus driver set the bendy bus in motion again and drove into the night. Now we were in the middle of this absurd crowd of people. The masquerade of the police minions became annoying, but the situation did not escalate, although the henchmen were keen on it. We remained peaceful and did not let ourselves be provoked. This was probably due to the fact that we had sung that great song on the bus, which made us feel peaceful inside. In the crowd of minions, every single person on the pavement was interrogated briefly without the right to argue. All personal details were recorded. There were a few words of caution until we were finally allowed to leave. As a goodbye, a top-level cop warned us not to mess around again.
"If you become conspicuous again tonight, we will take you to the police station."
Typically they said "Du" to us, while we strictly referred to them as "Sie"[2]. Neither subpoenas nor summonings were later sent out to us. The henchmen had once again made a mountain out of a molehill. Nevertheless the police had registered us again. A few years later – by chance? – the giant policeman became the brother-in-law of one of the folks registered on that day. That policeman was strict, family-conscious and despotical. His father was a police dog squadron leader whose father was a KL commander.
[1] "The true Heino" (Der wahre Heino) was a punk entertainer who was sued by the real Heino, a German traditional folk singer who sold millions of records at that time. "The true Heino" illegally imitated the official Heino and was therefore sentenced to pay a fine of 10,000 DM.
[2] In German there are different forms of address in conversations and correspondence. If your conversational partner is close to you, a family member or a friend, you can say "Du" (you). If he or she is unknown to you or in a higher rank of society you have to say "Sie" instead of "Du".
Keine Kommentare:
Kommentar veröffentlichen