Berlin 2039: The Reign Of Anarchy

by Karsten Krepinsky

  Living with the two of them can be a little trying at times. They simply don’t stop arguing. As much as I understand that they have valid reasons to hate the Lemons, I don’t want to come home to these bad vibrations after a long day of work. Lemons here, Lemons there. Blah, blah, blah. All the evils of this world, summed up in a book written in the seventh century. The Lemons will, step by step, turn Germany into a replica of Islamic State, the two of them insist. Lord have mercy with me, because their constant nagging wears me out. After thirty minutes I’ve had enough of their tirades. I hide my briefcase in a cavity under the floor-tiles, take off my Glock, and stuff a few units of coke into the pocket of my jacket. Then, I leave the ticket booth. My two roommates keep on bickering and don’t even notice I’m gone. I need a bit of space right now. Alexanderplatz is my first destination. When a train enters the station, I hop on the trailer hitch of the last car. On my way to Schillingstrasse I try to clear my head. Lights are gliding past, the shaft is filled with warm air. The smell of metal, sweat, and urine prevails. At Schillingstrasse station the train is searched for stowaways. The security guy’s Alsatian starts barking at me, but five units of coke are enough to make his master happy. Dope, the only currency immune to inflation.

  I emerge from the stuffy subway station and breathe in the fresh air that’s blowing through the high-rise canyons of Alexanderplatz, where modern times have definitely arrived. Electro cars roll by almost without a sound, so that you don’t hear them coming. It always takes me a while to get used to it. If I don’t watch out, I’ll get myself run over one of these days. Blessed be the roaring combustion engine, that’s all I can say.

  The young crowd can hardly wait for the night to start. The Globals, that’s what the rich are called nowadays, have taken over the most coveted spots of this city and travel to the restaurants in chauffeured limos. Showing off their posh girlfriends, of course. On the weekends, the Suburbians, out for their weekly whiff of the scent of the great wide world, mingle with the party people. During the week they have to stick to a tight budget to be able to afford a night of pretending to belong. Waxing, peeling, tightening. Bodies buffed and smiles frozen in a temporary pretense of worldliness. Giving the friend in their company the stink eye, when he breaks out in a sweat once he realizes that he can’t possibly compete with the trustafarians. Then follows the overwhelming fear, as it dawns on him that it might be the last time he’s taking his arm candy for a stroll, before one of the Globals makes a go for her. And on the street corners homeless people bear silent witness to the luxury problems of others.

  I go to a Shower & Sleep Store, rinse off the dirt and have my suit cleaned. These places also offer snooze cubicles for commuters, all lined up like honeycombs in a beehive. I call Anja and suggest dinner. She is her early twenties and a real looker. It takes her thirty minutes to get here by city train. When we say hello, I have to discipline myself not to be all over her straight away. We go to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, a glassed in terraced café, soaring about 1000 feet up in the air. Premium seating, set on a steep angle. Private booths, too. Your view is drawn down like in a movie theater. The sunset over Grunewald replaces the silver screen, its luxury mansions white dots on the horizon. Most patrons ignore their attractive dates, staring through their data goggles instead. Processed reality. Meanwhile, the women, sunglasses on top of their hair, proceed to ogle the diamond display at the next table the old-fashioned way, which is using their own eyes. Quick, irritated looks are aimed at their not so affluent loser-boyfriends who can’t buy them expensive bling. These women are absolutely convinced that life has dealt them a lousy hand. They’ve much more to offer in the looks department than the lucky ones do, right? Brave new world of post Capitalism.

  Anja is skilled at small talk, while hiding her soul from me. Delicious pretender. In spite of the many times I’ve bedded her, she remains a stranger. Wrapped around each other, we make our way back to the Shower & Sleep, where I book a honeymoon box under the roof. Pure sex with a view of the star-studded sky. The old-fashioned way. That’s how I like it. I hate entering through the back door. All this ass-fucking, which is getting more and more popular. I can very well do without it, thank you, Sir. The box has AC, shutting out the heat of the summer night. Still, we work up a sweat. I enjoy it as long as it lasts. There won’t be anything left tomorrow.

  4

  After breakfast with Anja I call her a taxi, pay the driver in advance, kiss her good-bye, and promise to call her in the near future. “See you soon,” she says when she gets into the car.

  I send her away with a “Take care, little one.”

  Then I walk down Karl-Marx-Allee, until I reach Ghetto limits. The rising sun makes me blink. At checkpoint “Schilling” concrete steles and barriers made from barbed wire line a pot-hole riddled street. Armored cars are parked in front of the lowered stiles. Twitchy fingers on the triggers of their assault guns, the soldiers at the checkpoint don’t let people pass any longer. Permit or no permit, it doesn’t make any difference. The Ghetto has been sealed off. I stop in front of the International Movie Theater, wondering how to get home, when my phone rings. It’s Natasha. She asks what I know of the assault.

  “Assault?” I repeat.

  “In Moabit,” she explains. “Two suicide bombers with Kalashnikovs and explosive belts. Twenty-one people dead.”

  “I haven’t listened to any news.”

  “They’ve attacked a school run by Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “A school? Really? Bastards!”

  “Thank God the guards were able to fend off these pigs. But then they started randomly firing at passers-by, before they finally blew themselves to kingdom come.”

  “Who’s behind it?”

  “We don’t know yet. We’re still busy scraping these guys off the street.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about it. I swear.”

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “Checkpoint Schilling,” I answer. “In front of the movie theater.”

  “Stay where you are. I’ll come get you.”

  Fifteen minutes later Natasha arrives in her armored off-roader and I climb in.

  “Did you have a chance to talk to the Imam yet?” she wants to know.

  “Why? Do you think he ordered the attack?”

  “He’s not in the habit of making empty threats.”

  I nod, but I keep silent. I don’t want her to know how great I feel. Last night’s good sex still in my head and this morning’s caffeine coursing through my veins. During the next hours the sun will travel across a perfectly blue sky. Considering the horrors that took place just a few miles from here, my happiness might seem quite inappropriate. I’m aware of it, after all I’m not a monster. I know that some people will never be able to again enjoy a wonderful day like this. And in many cases it’s simply so damn unfair.

  It’s the first suicide attack we’ve had in years, I think. The situation was much tougher in the Twenties, volatile times, when the Lemons had the unfortunate habit to self-explode. Natasha seems to be convinced that the Imam’s plotting a revival of this questionable tradition. It’s an easy way to spread general fear and terror. Jihad’s not just the name of some dim-witted thug who’s taken a dislike to me, but also the time-honored battle cry of the Lemons.

  Natasha studies me. “What are you doing here, by the way?”

  “Getting fresh air,” I reply.

  She smiles. “A posh hooker again?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Hauke, Hauke, you really need to grow up,” she actually dares chastising me, as if she was my keeper. “Don’t you ever feel like starting a family?”

  “What about you?” I evade her question.

  “When the time is right.”

  I look at Natasha. She has blue shadows under her eyes and seems to be sad, and there is more behind it than just the terrorist attack. She’s carrying heavy baggage around with her, a dark presence, dimming the light of pride in her face. Since we’v
e known each other she’s been keeping a secret from me.

  “We need to find out who sent this Salafist in the whorehouse to meet his maker,” she says. “The Imam demands to know who pulled the strings.”

  “I know,” I slowly say.

  “What’s your plan, then?”

  I promise her to think of something, but she’s not happy with my answer. I need something to offer to Natasha, or she’ll keep pestering me. Goddamn ace of clubs. Poker cards ought to be made illegal. “I could pay a visit to the old Tsar.” I’m groping for straws.

  “The old Tsar? Dimitri Bashir?” My suggestion seems to surprise her.

  I nod, yes. “He knows the Ghetto like the back of his hand.”

  “He’s doing time in Sperenberg prior to being deported.”

  “I know. Could you drive me there?”

  “Do you think it makes sense?”

  “Why not? You’ll never know without trying.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “If there’s something going down in the Ghetto, he’ll know about it. He might be in jail, but he’s still well connected. Maybe he can tell us more about this business with the poker card.”

  “Okay.” Natasha nods, yes, and starts the engine. “Let’s grab a bite on the way. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  “As long as you let me gaze into your beautiful eyes,” I try to flirt.

  Natasha gives a sardonic laugh. But I know that she feels flattered.

  Sperenberg Penitentiary is located south of Berlin. Deep in the woods and cut off from the rest of the world, the Lemons cool their heels here, before military planes based at the nearby airport ship them back to their home countries. It’s a maximum-security prison: double sally ports, steel gates, and very high concrete walls. The guards manning the towers have their grenade launchers pointed at the drive. Getting out of this place is not an easy feat. Natasha stays behind in the waiting area. She wants to keep in the background, because she hates confrontations with the Godfathers. Therefore, I make my way into the visitors’ area by myself. Arms and legs shackled, Bashir is sitting behind a wall of glass. His complexion is as white as a sheet und his lips have a blueish tinge. Lung cancer in the final stage, I’ve been told. He doesn’t seem to have many visitors any more and smiles, when he sees me. I would have never guessed that Bashir’s face could register something like joy. He used to be a real hunk, but now his body is emaciated. A man whose fight will soon be over. A man at the end of his life.

  “Hauke,” he greets me, rubbing the dry skin on his face. He coughs. Then, he gets all teary-eyed and sentimental. “Do you remember how we last met on Strausberger? Back then, when I got married.”

  “To your third wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I delivered a hefty amount of dope that day.”

  “So you did. My old lady must have popped half of it on her own.”

  “How’s she doing these days?”

  Bashir quickly performs a swiveling motion with his head, glancing at the guard standing next to him. “Beata.” He turns back to me, whispering through the holes in the pane that separates us. “I cut up the ugly bitch’s mug.” For a moment his wrinkled face brightens with sadistic glee. Then, Bashir tells me about his ungrateful son who prevents his grandchildren from seeing him. He complains about the lousy conditions in jail and about the fact that Vasily—he calls the Chancellor by his first name—the rat has refused to grant him pardon. Solitary confinement either shuts people up or makes them loquacious. Bashir belongs to the second group. He just wants to see his grandson one last time, he says between bouts of coughing. And then the man actually breaks out in tears right in front of me. I don’t feel sorry for him in the least. Because I’m thinking of all the people he has killed. The fifteen-year-old whose throat he cut in front of my very eyes, even though the kid was desperately pleading for his life. Bitter old man, now you get what you’ve asked for, I think. The little visitors’ area wouldn’t offer enough room to assemble all of the old Tsar’s victims. I can see their ghosts, silently looming behind him. Patiently, they wait for him to take his last breath. And then he’ll burn in hell.

  “Maybe I can help you,” I lie, my face a picture of sympathy as if I gave a shit about him. Even though it’s nothing I’m proud of, I’d always do it again. “I can get you out of here,” I offer. I don’t hate myself for it.

  Bashir’s face lights up. Hope has been kindled.

  “I really want to help you,” I continue my dirty game.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You play poker once in a while?” I ask.

  The old Tsar frowns. “You crazy, man?”

  “I was just thinking. What’s the name of the game, where the ace of clubs is the second highest card?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “About the new player in the Ghetto who operates under the symbol of the crucifix.”

  “Crucifix?” Bashir seems to be confused. “You mean the kuffars from Nigeria? The pigs who finished off Boko Haram?” he shoots back. He then starts ranting about modern times in the Ghetto and how they still had a sense of honor in the old days. Rules. I let him carry on. The usual wisdom of the streets. “You know what these Soul Brothers are like,” he rages. “One moment they cheer, the next they’re yelping like lap dogs because their pretty little noses got broken. You wouldn’t expect it from guys who’re six feet tall and pumped up with anabolic steroids like a man bit by a snake.”

  I realize that Bashir doesn’t know anything.

  “You going already?” he asks confused when I get up.

  “The tip with the Nigerians was good,” I claim. Before I leave I assure him that he’ll be out of there soon. Or see his grandson, at least. Dirty game.

  I don’t tell Natasha that the old Tsar is slowly losing it. “I need more time,” I plead. But I feel her disappointment. As it’s late already we spend the night at a motel on Berliner Ring autobahn. Natasha takes a separate room. When I try to kiss her forehead to tell her goodnight, she shrinks back, keeping me at arm’s length like she always does.

  5

  Natasha drops me off at “Checkpoint Ring” east of the Ghetto. She shows her ID to the guards, ordering them to let me pass. Grudgingly, the uniforms comply. Through the fence, I watch Natasha leave. She backs up her car and drives away. I simply don’t understand this woman. Does she see me as just a subordinate or does she have feelings for me? Soon I’m accosted by a few small-time dealers, wanting to buy dope. “Can’t you see that I don’t have my briefcase on me?” I wave them off, walk away, and continue on for another two blocks until I have reached the “Furuncle”, which is where the bikers of Aryan Motorcircle gather. Eight bikes, guarded by a Member with a shotgun, are parked in front of the bar. His bandana is soaked with sweat and he’s wearing his leather vest with badges even in the heat of the summer. His helmet sits next to the chair he has pushed onto the pavement. The club’s insignia are steel helmets, adorned with white plumes. Once a week, the bikers parade down Jessnerstrasse. Fifty to sixty bikes in a narrow street, led by their blond president, who has a sculpted body and sports a winged helmet. Only the hammer is missing, otherwise he’d be mistaken for Thor from the comic books.

  An old man with a twirled mustache is sitting on the stoop on front of the bar. He takes a sandwich from his pocket, eats a bite, and puts it away again. “You need to enter 222.wellwin.de,” he addresses me. His head is turned in my direction, but he’s staring into space. “Then you’ll get activated,” he expands on his tinfoil-hat theory. “Everything will be visible. And everybody. All that’s hidden.” Crazy old geezer, I think. However, he’s not the only one around here whose synapses aren’t wired properly. A woman grabs me by the arm. “Satan is a cheat!” the drugged-up human wreck warns me, eyes wide. I smile at her. Oh, how I love this crazy atmosphere in the ghetto. Madness, concentrated in an area of 2,000 acres. When I push open the door of Furuncle, the pounding of heavy metal music assaults
my ears. Four booze-heads are sitting at the bar. A woman is gyrating around a pole. She’s overweight and will never see forty again. In her tight latex outfit, she resembles an overstuffed sausage. Some members of the Aryan Motorcircle were already around when there still was an East Germany. Most of them, of course, need an oxygen tank by now or soil their diapers in some nursing home. And it’s definitely not the music that made their bodies go to hell. Tom is at the bar, a whiskey bottle in front of him. He’s in his early thirties and skinny and has been a Prospect for ten years now. A Prospect with the Aryans, that is. Prospects are the rookies, you know. Guys who still have to prove they’re worthy and are bossed around by the regular gang members. Those of you who have served in the army know the hazing rituals of all-male communities. Tom will remain at the bottom rung of the ladder forever, I think, when I now look at him. A permanent rash covers his face. Each time I see him it blooms in yet another place. Today it’s his nose, that’s afflicted. He must be breaking some kind of record, not to have been promoted to Member for such a long time. But he can also be sure that the gang will never send him packing.

  You simply gotta love working with Omegas. They’re grateful for a pat on the shoulder and excellent providers of information. The physically weak make good listeners, I can tell you. They keep their eyes open and their ears to the ground. When Tom notices me, he gets up and shakes my hand. “Great to see you again.” He really seems to be happy. He’s by no means an idiot. His eyes are alert and he’s as sharp as a tack. It’s simply beyond me why he puts up with all the abuse. He’d be able to get a Job in the City, where brains count more than brawn. He’d have a realistic chance to get out of the Ghetto, if he only wanted to. I’m wondering why he doesn’t even try. Why he endures being humiliated by his so-called brothers. Maybe he just gets off on pain. We sit down at the bar and he pours me a whiskey. After we clink glasses, we both empty them in one gulp.