KARSTEN KREPINSKY
Berlin 2039
Translated from the German by
KARIN DUFNER
Copyright (c) 2016 by Karsten Krepinsky
English translation in 2021 by Karin Dufner
www.karindufner.de
First published with the title Berlin 2039 – Der Tod nimmt alle mit in 2016 by Karsten Krepinsky/Neuwelt Verlag.
Cover design by Ingo Krepinsky, Die TYPONAUTEN
www.typonauten.de/eng
Published by Karsten Krepinsky
Berlin, March 2021
All rights reserved.
No part of this e-book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.
www.theworldbehindthewindow.com
About the Book
Berlin 2039 – The Reign Of Anarchy
Population has doubled within the last twenty years, leading to a living hell where poverty, crime, and claustrophobia rule. Those who can afford it, have withdrawn to the well-protected gated communities, while the police have left entire neighborhoods to their own devices. In these lawless blank spots, the authorities use so-called pushers to maintain a level of constant unrest between Arab clans, Turkish gangs, and Chechen brotherhoods. They are mavericks, men and women outside the law, who only answer to their supervisors based in the LKA, which is short for Landeskriminalamt, the State Office of Criminal Investigation. This is the story of Hauke the Pusher and Detective Natasha…
Dedicated to the freedom of thought
Berlin Locations:
Prenzlauer Berg
Today: a white middle and upper class neighborhood
2039: now P’berg, a gated community behind barbed wire, seemingly a safe haven for civil servants and government officials
Kreuzberg
Today: a bohemian neighborhood, inhabited by students, hipsters, and immigrants with touches of gentrification
2039: now X’berg, a place with a great view of the Ghetto where bored young “Globals” live in expensive penthouses
Friedrichshain
Today: a bohemian neighborhood with a lively nightclub scene
2039: now F’hain, dubbed The Ghetto.
Wedding
Today: a working class and immigrant neighborhood with a few students tossed in the mix
2039: the puffer zone between the rich and the poor population
Wannsee
Today: a very upscale neighborhood
2039: ditto

“We won’t stand idly by while this human trash gnaws its way through the city of Berlin like a cancerous growth. Therefore, I have given order to immediately seal off those areas of the city forever lost to us...”
From the press statement of Chancellor Vasily Schmidt on the National Emergency Act of August 23, 2036.
Three years later...
Prologue
The dead man’s cap has come off, his white caftan is soaked with blood. Slumped forward on a chair, his head lies on the kitchen table in a pool of blood. The skull has been smashed, more blood is oozing from a deep wound. Remains of his last meal cling to his full beard. The killer wipes his cudgel on his victim’s robe, kisses the wooden crucifix he is wearing around his neck on a leather thong, and pulls his hood down deeper into his face. He is an apparition, dressed in worn-out shabby clothes. All in gray and covered in the dirt of the streets. His face hidden in the half-shadow of his hood, he pulls a playing card from a fabric pouch secured with a length of rope and crams it between the murdered man’s index and middle fingers. He sits down next to him at the table, pulls the soup plate closer, tears off a piece of pita bread, dunks it into the soup, and starts eating. Rivulets of arterial blood mingle with meat broth. The killer reaches for the glass of black tea, empties it, gets up, and places plate and glass in the sink, which he then stops up and opens the faucet. With a wordless nod he takes one last look at the dead Salafist, as if a score had just been settled. Before he leaves the kitchen, he turns off the light.
1
The Lemons call all Germans potatoes. Or Jews, if they happen to be in a bad mood. Which they usually are. Especially because F’hain is surrounded by a fence with checkpoints now, effectively blocking their access to the better-off citizens of Berlin. Concrete steles and soldiers, sporting assault rifles. MG nests, sheltered behind walls of sandbags. Those obstacles can really be a challenge, even for a testosterone-controlled kid of the Ghetto. Barriers and checkups remind me of the Holy Land somehow, if you know what I mean. In some places the fence is already being replaced with a wall. An installation that seems to be meant for eternity. Thus, leaving F’hain has become difficult. The high-rises of Alexanderplatz, the posh shopping malls of Potsdamer Platz, or the fancy boutiques of Friedrichstrasse are now out of reach for most people here. And the future doesn’t look rosy. Now and then I can see those poor devils at their windows. The losers of this world, you know what I mean. With all their dreams of happiness and wealth. Them, who spend their evenings standing at the drafty windows of the run-down dumps they live in, because all the violence around stops them from venturing out in the streets. Pasty faces pressed against the glass and eyes filled with yearning, they gaze into the far distance. They breathe the same air as the Globals at Alexanderplatz. They look up to the same sky. But fate has dumped them on the wrong side of the fence. Once Ghetto, always Ghetto.
Once upon a time we had another wall in Berlin—this was fifty years ago. Almost ten years before I was born. Nobody knows about it anymore, because in the Ghetto book-learning doesn’t mean shit. The Quran is the only book that counts. In many areas of F’hain life is ruled by Sharia, Islamic law. The version favored by the Imam, that is. The Quran leaves lots of room for interpretation, you’d better take my word for it, my friends. Even the Lemons themselves constantly bicker about it. Other than the big-shots living in the Wannsee neighborhood would like to believe, they don’t form a monolithic bloc. Far from it: the Turks hate the Arabs, the Kurds hate the Turks, and everyone hates the Chechens. And the Arabs? Who cares who the Arabs hate? I also have no idea why the Muslims are called Lemons. Maybe because of their typically dour faces, as if they’d just bitten down on a lemon. Don’t get me wrong. Germans or Muslims, it doesn’t mean a thing to me. I don’t even look like an Aryan myself. An ex-girlfriend once told me that my features were those of a generic immigrant. Mediterranean type, anything from Turk to Arab, a light-skinned one, that is. Maybe that’s why they picked me for this job. Because, with my dark hair and my Middle-Eastern complexion I almost pass as a Lemon.
I’m not ashamed to say that there also might be a little Jewish blood flowing in my veins. My swarthy looks have to come from somewhere, right? As cute as the idea might sound, it’s not very likely that my great-great-grandmother succumbed to the charms of an Italian migrant laborer, working at the railway tracks in early nineteenth-century Germany. You all know how people tend to romanticize their family backgrounds. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry likes to think of himself as the heir to some blue-blooded name. No, I’m serious. I’m convinced that there must be some Semitic influence. Just regular Jewish blood, coursing through my body. Even though my eyes are blue. That’s something that means a lot to me. I don’t need to resort to colored contact lenses like many Lemons are doing it now. Some of these jokers even dye their hair blond. I guess they hope that it will further their careers. But it’s not easy to get the Ghetto out of your system.
One more thing you need to know about me is, that I’m no fan of organized religion. Opium for the masses, that’s what it is to me. And
, God knows, I’m not alone with this view. Plus, I also prefer to be in charge of my own drug supply. I work as a Pusher for the LKA and my job is to adjust the “balance of power” in the neighborhood. This involves evening the scales between the different Godfathers by making sure that the bosses will continue their war against each other: the Tsar, the Imam, the Babo, and the Emperor. If one of them shows signs of getting too much ahead in the game, he needs to be cut down a notch to prevent violence from spilling over Ghetto limits. Human trash is supposed to fight among themselves, right? As the LKA doesn’t like to get their hands dirty they use drug dealers like us. Off the record, of course. When one of the Godfathers gains too much power, it’s our job to give the competition a leg-up with the help of well-placed donations. As you can probably guess pushers aren’t the most popular of people. When we supply his competitors with merchandise, the Imam is sure to hear about it. Still, this system works remarkably well. In the realm of organized crime bosses tend to think like politicians. They, too, form new alliances every day. And an offer of friendship that comes in the guise of a suitcase full of free drugs often has a healing effect.
My name is Hauke, by the way. The nuns in the Catholic orphanage who raised me were great fans of the novel The Dykemaster by Theodor Storm. Maybe you’ve heard of the story about the mad dike warden, who’s my namesake. And my background? Does it really make a difference? They plucked me from a baby flap at Urban Hospital, that’s what I always claim, at least. Dropped off anonymously. Family unknown. Not an ounce of blue blood, this much can be assumed. And surely no Baby Moses. If you could see me now, odds are that you wouldn’t take me for the toughest guy in the ’hood. Rather the opposite. I’m clean shaven and neat, wear a black suit, and even carry a briefcase at all times to look respectable. Stuffed with dope, of course. It’s also equipped with a hidden compartment with an Uzi in it for self-defense, an absolute must-have. I also pack a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster. One of the best handguns I know. Reliable and precise. Nineteen rounds. My special trick is to always load it up with a rubber round first. Underneath, there is a regular 9mm cartridge, followed by a dum-dum bullet that will burst open upon impact, virtually shredding the opponent to bits. I call this my three steps of escalation. Step one: the warning. Step two: the chastisement. Step three? Game over, player one. Not a beautiful thing to behold, I can tell you. I’m not a gun-toting weapons fanatic, I swear. And not one of these army types either who give their rifles names. I also don’t like using my fists. I never once had my nose broken. It’s something to be proud of, I tell you.
Things just don’t seem to improve. Not in the Ghetto. Once you’ve reached your early forties, you start seeing things clearer while abandoning your illusions. Just the other day I was held up by a little kid. Maybe eight years old, I guess. The tyke pointed a knife at my crotch and demanded my money. When I explained that I only had dope, he happily toddled off with five units of coke. What can I tell you? It can get a little trying to adhere to one’s principles out here. Human values and such. At least I’ve managed to remain one of the few Pushers who don’t sample their own merchandise. Okay, I pop psycho meds. But only those which need a prescription. So don’t get any wrong ideas. Plus, I went off these pills a while ago, because I want to be myself again. The name of the stuff, I’m using? None of your business, I think. We don’t know each other that well yet. But, hey, things can always change. Follow me or leave me alone. It’s the same to me. But there’s one thing I promise you: I won’t lie. This is something you can count on.
2
Natasha sounded rather worried on the phone. Have I told you about her yet? She’s my supervisor at the LKA. She coordinates my jobs with me, procures the drugs, and informs me of the latest developments. The LKA has just moved into new headquarters in X’berg across the river. To the spot where the Watergate used to be, if you happen to remember this club. Electronic music on two floors, adjacent to Oberbaumbrücke. This was a lifetime ago. Now, the investigators have a perfect view of the Ghetto from their brand new glass-enclosed high-rise. Maybe they use their roof antennas to listen in on the junkies’ chattering. They might also be watching the traffic of losers on the streets. Or they’re eavesdropping on the constant squabbling among the ultra-orthodox Muslims, while barely able to stifle a yawn.
Natasha. She’s different. A special person, a trait I noticed at once. Not one of these beauties who’re only good as clothes-horses. She also has a good head on her shoulders. And personality. A first-class lady. Well bred. From a good family, I think. Even though I never ask. Certain things are better left to imagination. She’s not married, I believe. But she also might just not be wearing a ring around the Ghetto. There’s a boyfriend now and then, I guess. No one on a permanent basis.
I’m driving down Frankfurter Allee in my Lincoln Continental. A real classic car that guzzles up more than ten gallons per one hundred miles. That’s a lousy gas-mileage, I can hear you say. But who the fuck cares? In F’hain nobody goes long distances anyway. The Ghetto isn’t all that large. It’s all a matter of being seen.
Natasha wants to meet at RAW, the ancient train depot bearing the name “Reichsbahnausbesserungswerk” that was transformed into a cultural center a long time ago. Its compound is located on Warschauer Strasse, a boulevard lined with dead plane trees that everyone started to call “The Warsaw” last year. This name-change is related to an incident in the fall, when a Chechen decided to chop a biker into two halves with a chain saw. A dramatic event, even in the Ghetto. The bloodstains on the tarmac were only covered up with sawdust. Thus, the traces of this gruesome act of violence remained in plain view until a week later, when it finally rained again. Usually, the Chechens don’t tend to do things in halves—pardon my pun. Their signature is to skin their victims, a habit they picked up during the Afghan war in the eighties, when Grandpa Chechen fought against the Mujaheddin side by side with the Red Army. This was when there still was a Soviet Union. Damn. Does this odd construction of states still ring anyone’s bell? Probably for the Communists among you. However, I find it vital to know one’s history, as you must have realized by now. Looking into the past to put the future into perspective. It shows me what we are and what will become of us. Anyway, two years ago the Chechens had the brilliant idea to skin the boss of the Arab clan and to display his body right next to the Märchenbrunnen, the fairy-tale fountain, in Volkspark. The Grimm Brothers’ bedtime stories taken to the extreme. Had they only known who was going to follow the impaled ruler to the throne, as in this case they might have preferred to instead share a pipe of peace. Because Ali Bansuri, the new Imam, retaliated by beheading six Chechens with his own hand. There are rumors around that he still keeps their heads somewhere in his mosque. The result was some back-and-forth traffic that went on for a while. Friendly visits on one, declarations of love on the other side. In the end, a good four hundred people were dead and power structures had been restored to normal. A field day for pushers, I can tell you. I just had to comfortably lean back with a cold beer and watch the activities unfold. But no more reminiscing. You don’t get a new Imam every day. Now, the conflict has to be carefully rekindled. The flickering flame needs to be fanned.
In the Warsaw the new Imam’s word is law, just like that of his predecessor. All the way from RAW up to the former stockyard, today the site of his humongous mosque. The area north of the old Ostbahnhof, the eastern train station, is controlled by Selim, called the Babo. And around Strausberger Platz the Tsar, this wily Chechen bandit, is pulling the strings. The bikers of Aryan Motorcircle with their president Thor, dubbed the Emperor by the Lemons, are at the bottom of the food chain. The Emperor’s realm is limited to a narrow strip of land in the east around Jessnerstrasse. He also is the only one of the bosses who resides outside the Ghetto in the former Stasi headquarters in Ruschestrasse. Stasi? Does it ring a bell? For those of you who were too zoned out during history class in school: it’s short for “Staatssicherheitsdienst,” the former Eastern Germany’s
secret service. The Emperor carries a lot of clout in Lichtenberg, which isn’t part of the Ghetto. Thor’s time in F’hain, however, seems to be up. Therefore, regular deliveries to him by yours truly wouldn’t make much sense. He doesn’t have many minions left anyhow, as the number of native Germans around here is dwindling, most of them having moved to the borough of Wedding. The only ones remaining are the seniors, the indigents, a few Christian missionaries, the junkies, and the hookers. You might think that a Christian missionary’s life expectancy must be pretty short in an out and out Muslim ’hood. But owing to one of the many enigmatic ways of life, these religious zealots usually are left alone. Chances to die a martyr: absolutely zilch. No idea why. Maybe the bosses don’t see them as a threat. Sometimes, the logic of the street is a mystery even to me. But facts are facts. And a fact goes without explaining, as it has a life of its own.
I was lying about the Lincoln, by the way. Well, I do own the car, but the wheels have been removed and the engine has been stolen. I haven’t been able to drive it for a long time. I can’t even sit in it anymore, because someone has taken a shit on the seat. Pardon my French, but I can’t think of a better word to describe this atrocity. Possessions aren’t worth the trouble around here anyway. Things are changing owners much too fast. Property is hugely overestimated. I just take what I need and leave it behind when it’s no longer of service. I wouldn’t exactly call it Communism. Anarchic anti-collectivism would be more like it. Roaming the neighborhood on foot makes more sense anyhow. This way I can pass a baggie here and drop off a pouch there. Do some street-socializing. And always give to the homeless, something I highly recommend. A unit now and then doesn’t hurt anyone, and these guys will be eternally grateful.
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