Thoughts Are Free

by Max Hertzberg

  Day 3

  Wednesday 16th March 1994

  Jüterbog: There has been a further arson attack on accommodation used by Jews fleeing persecution in Russia. Last night a firework was thrown through a window of the asylum-seekers hostel in Jüterbog. A woman and two children were taken to hospital after inhaling smoke. According to the Round Table Committee on Extremist Affairs this is the sixth such attack this year.

  Martin

  I finished typing up a report on my lack of progress in the 1987 case and filed away my copy. I took the original and the second carbon into the front office to give to Grit for filing and forwarding to the Ministry of the Interior.

  Returning to my desk I started looking through the files on the fascists that Laura had insisted I look at. But my mind kept sliding off and returning to what the young sergeant had asked me to do. Rico, he’d said his name was: Rico Müller. It didn’t feel like there was much I could do about his problem, and anyway, it wasn’t my responsibility to do anything about it.

  But still, I felt some kind of affinity with the border guard. He was engaged enough to try to come up with alternative solutions, to ask me if I could help. Horizontal links—precisely the kind of thing we needed to encourage if we didn’t want our revolution to run out of steam, if we didn’t want a new elite to appear, organising our society for us, telling us what to do and how to think.

  The obvious option would be simply to have a chat with the people in the wagons and trucks. Had Rico already done that? I hadn’t thought to ask him. But the punks on the site and Rico were worlds apart—I didn’t doubt that both the border guard and the wagoneers had the best interests of our Republic at heart but they would have different ideas of how our nascent utopia should be nursed. Rico saw the world through a filter of orderliness, predictability, clarity. The punks had a more chaotic, spontaneous vision of how society should function.

  I had sympathy with both philosophies of life, but right now I had enough on my plate already. Like these files detailing recent fascist activities in the capital. It was vicious stuff and it made for depressing reading. Apparently random violence was being meted out by the skins—foreigners and punks were the main targets, but muggings and assaults on pensioners had also increased in areas seeing fascist activity. After a while I stopped reading the detailed case files, concentrating instead on gaining an overview from the situation reports and the tabulated statistics. That didn’t make for easy reading either, and I was glad of the distraction when Grit came in.

  “The State Prosecutor’s office rang, they want to meet up tomorrow,” she said as she handed the memo over.

  I scanned the chit. Henschel, the prosecutor in charge of the case against Evelyn. What did he want to speak to me about? As far as I was concerned I was finished with that case, I’d played my part and put her behind bars.

  Karo

  I’d had a bitch of a day, but it looked like Martin was having an even worse time. He was reading some report but kept turning back to the circulation list clipped to the front. He looked like he wanted to stab his eyes out with his pencil.

  “So this is the headquarters of the mysterious Republikschutz,” I said, kicking a screwed up memo out of the way. “Aren’t you going to offer me a coffee, Mr. Bond?”

  Martin put his report on top of a million other identical files on his desk. I tried to work out what it was, but all I could see was a pink stripe across the front and VVS stamped in one corner.

  “Only joking!” I said hastily when Martin got up and started lumbering over to the kettle. “Don’t worry about the coffee, I just came to say hi.”

  He sat down again, looking at me. So far he hadn’t said anything.

  “Aren’t you pleased to see me?” Maybe Katrin was right, maybe the big man was under the weather.

  He grinned at that and I grinned too, just to encourage him a bit. We did that until the smiles wore loose.

  “What are you up to these days?” He managed to squeeze a question out.

  “Well—you’d be dead proud of me! I’m training to be a Neighbourhood Facilitator. I really like the idea of it, but the course is just dragging on and on and on,” I rolled my eyes to show him just how fucking boring it all was.

  He grinned again at that, but I could tell he didn’t have a clue what I was on about, so I told him about the programme.

  “It’s like, now we’ve got all this freedom—we can say what we want and virtually do what we want—well, that means there’s more scope for conflict. People are falling out left right and centre, I dunno, about politics, about what colour they’re gonna paint their houses, about solidarity work, noisy neighbours,” (I made sure to do rabbit ears around noisy because I knew it would wind Martin up). “A million things. You know the score.”

  Martin did know the score, I could see him thinking about it. I always know when he’s thinking about the old days because he looks like he’s got some brain-disease and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking: cops and the Party. Right then he was probably yearning for the days when you couldn’t fart without getting written permission in triplicate.

  “So, we’re setting up a neighbourhood facilitation team. It’s a step before the official arbitration process. We help people resolve their arguments, to talk to each other and understand each other’s points of view. And we mediate if that’s what’s needed.”

  Martin still hadn’t said anything, well, not really. I reckoned Katrin was right about her dad. I leaned over Martin’s desk, trying to avoid the paper stacked everywhere.

  “Listen Martin: you, me—we’re going out tonight. We’re going to have a laugh. You need brightening up—you look like a squad of soldiers on a wet May Day parade.”

  They were giving Martin the cold shoulder, and I felt guilty about that because I was the one who’d brought him here. We’d done a deal: I take him to the see the local Antifa group, and he comes to the gig afterwards.

  “… so he’s trying to find out a bit more,” I was saying to the lads around the table. “Because they’re getting bolder, getting out more, and the demo the other night-”

  Bert had been watching Martin the whole time, really staring at him. And now he interrupted me.

  “And why the sudden interest in the Nazis? Bit late in the day isn’t it? We’ve been dealing with the shites for years. Now the State’s suddenly taking an interest so we’re just meant to let them take over?”

  “You’re right-” Martin tried to answer but Bert cut him off again.

  “I know I’m right, but what I don’t know,” he leaned towards Martin, getting him to lean in too, “is why you’re still here!”

  “Bert, back off. This is Martin. He’s sorted, really.” I put my hand on Bert’s arm. He was being a macho arse as usual. “Just hear him out, yeah?”

  Bert stared at Martin a bit longer, just to get the message across then nodded and leaned back.

  “Look, I know the score,” Martin said. He was looking around the group now, trying to work out who to talk to. It was obvious he didn’t like Bert, and I didn’t blame him. But Bert has his uses.

  “This is a problem we’ve been ignoring for far too long. And you’re right, you’re practically the only ones who have been dealing with it.” Martin had gone into making-a-speech mode, but fair play—the Antifa group were giving him a chance. “Now the police have become involved—I know, I know.” Martin held his hands up, as if he could ward off the sarcastic laughter. “I’m sceptical too. Look—all my cards on the table—I’m with the Republikschutz and if I’m completely honest with you I don’t know whether we can trust the cops to do the job right. They should have done it ten years ago and they didn’t, but this time round they’ve got us breathing down their necks.”

  No-one had told Martin to fuck off yet, so he was doing well.

  “The cops reckon the fascists are gearing up to something big, not just the usual casual violence on the streets or at football matches. They’ve got a plan. And that’s why we’re in
volved-”

  “Hang on a minute!” Bert was back in the game and was stabbing a hole in the table with his finger to make sure we all knew he wanted to make a point. “Why should we trust you? You say you’re from RS, but that’s not a democratic organisation! Nobody’s ever asked me if I think it’s a good idea to have the RS! You know what? I’ve got better things to do than have chats with someone in a slouch hat and trench-coat.” He sat back and crossed his arms.

  “I’m not going to piss you around.” Martin wasn’t ready to give up yet. “I agree, RS isn’t democratic. I could say all the usual stuff, that we answer to parliament and to the Round Tables but if you ask me what I think—I’ll tell you it’s just not enough. Right now, though, it’s what we’ve got. And right now, I need a drink.”

  Martin left us and pushed his way through to the bar. I had to admire him—that was a pretty cool move. It gave the Antifa a chance to think about what he’d said.

  “Can we trust him?” one of them asked eventually.

  “Look, Martin’s a windbag, but you know what, he’s fucking cool. He’s genuine, you know, we’re all on the same side. You gotta give him a chance.”

  The lads all looked at each other and did whatever it is they do when they’re making a decision, and I caught Martin’s eye. He was at the bar, necking a bottle of pilsner. When he came back nobody said anything. They all just looked at him, like it was up to him to make the first move.

  “Can I sit down?” he asked.

  Nobody answered so Martin just plonked his bottle of beer on the table and sat down.

  “Any questions?”

  “Yeah.” Bert was the first in the queue. “What do you want from us?”

  “I need to know how the fash operate. The cops don’t do that kind of thing—they see a criminal offence and detain the suspect, they think that’s all they need to do. But now even they’ve twigged that something bigger is happening. I reckon you’re the only ones who really understand how the fascists are operating.”

  “And what’s in it for us?” Rex demanded. I like Rex, he’s the most human of them all—like he’s not just in it to have a fight with the fash. Thinking about it he’d probably be really useless in a fight, he’s dead skinny. No muscle.

  “Nothing. There’s nothing in it for you,” Martin answered. They didn’t like that, but I had to smile a bit, I could see where Martin was going with this. “Because I reckon you’re like me. I reckon you’re not doing it for yourselves, but for all of us, for the whole of society. We need to deal with these fascists, and you’re the ones who’ve been doing that for, what? Six, seven years? If we work together maybe we can make more headway.”

  That was it, I knew I could relax. Martin had won. He knew it too, and took the initiative.

  “How about we start over? I’m Martin, I work with the RS, and right now, I’m really worried about the fascists here in our country, specifically in Lichtenberg. I’m hoping you can help me out. I’m hoping you can give me some background information about them—how they’re organised, who’s in charge, what they’re up to?”

  “Rex. Just like the beer.” Rex offered Martin his hand to shake. He always had to make a joke of it, and yep, he was holding a bottle of Rex beer from Potsdam, the one with the lanky fusilier on the label. “Who you asking about? The skins? Yeah, well, it’s not actually them you need to be worrying about. It’s the fascist organisations behind them. The skins are just being used by the suits, they’re just the boot boys, out for a laugh and a ruck.” He took a swig of beer and put it down, dead prissy, dead centre on the beer mat.

  “The skins weren’t well organised when they started off, not here in Berlin. They just got together for drinking and fighting. Lichtenberg Front, then there was the Movement of the 30th of January, after that National Alternative—that’s where it all started in this town. And somewhere along the way they got organised. We don’t know when, we didn’t work it out until after the cops stormed their squat back in April 1990. It might have been the Reps who got them organised—we know there’s a group of 800 of them in Marzahn and another 300 members in Lichtenberg. Maybe that’s how they made links with the West, through the Reps.”

  The Reps: the Republikaner party, they were the ones that Katrin was telling me about just yesterday. Martin told me once about how he reckoned they’d been doing counter-revolutionary stuff back in late 1989 and 1990. Now Rex was saying there’s over a thousand members here in East Berlin!

  “So, there’s the skins,” Martin checked in. “And in the background there are party members, some from the West, and they’ve more or less got control of the skinhead scene?”

  “Yeah, except it’s not that clear cut. Not all skins are fashos, some are just nationalist, some are even red-skins. And a few skins want more than just a scrap, they’re into political stuff in a big way. And then you’ve got the hools, having a ruck after football matches.”

  “So if we want to stop this cancer we have to get to the party organisation?”

  “Yeah,” said Rex. “We’ve tried to find out more, but we’ve got our hands full, y’know dealing with the skins and the hooligans. It’s the same story everywhere: Leipzig, Rostock, Dresden, Jena … We can’t do everything!”

  Martin had a think about that while Rex took a swig of beer.

  “If we manage to find a way in to the party organisation, if we find anything out, would you be prepared to help?”

  “Depends on what you need, Martin. Depends on what you need.”

  Martin

  Pulsing lights, endless noise.

  Drums. Somewhere, hiding behind the pounding beat, was a tune, a melody struggling to escape. A voice, screaming into a microphone and out of the loudspeakers. Harsh, hoarse, no idea what the words were. I struggled through the crowds, brusquely pushing people out of the way. Nobody minded. I was just one of the pogo-ing hordes.

  Finally reaching the exit; through the doors, standing on the veranda, looking out into the shadowy gardens of the club. I took a deep breath of fresh night-time air, then, feeling the need for a cigarette I bummed one off a punk slouched by the door. I stared at the packet as he flipped the top open for me: grey and white chequer pattern, below that the stark red typeface, spelling out the name of the brand, Karo. The punk grinned at me, revealing yellow and black teeth, and pushed a box of matches into my chest. A knot of party-goers pushed past me to get through the door and I held my cigarette over my head, out of harm’s way. One of the new arrivals saw me: Schimmel. Despite his ridiculous punk-name he was a nice guy: he had that unwieldy skinniness that often came with youth, and he was quiet, gentle. The kind of person you could easily overlook. Some kind of computer geek, he was one of the many punks who’d helped me out last autumn.

  Before we could greet each other he was being pushed aside. Another punk appeared, raising her hands in the air as she moved round Schimmel and shouted my name. I put the cigarette back between my lips as she came close to give me a big hug. Her arms squeezed my rib cage, making me choke up smoke and nearly lose the cigarette. She stepped back, keeping hold of both my hands as she looked me up and down. A lazy red coloured mohican flopped over one side of her face: Karo.

  “Martin! You’re still here!” she asked. Not waiting for an answer she ploughed on. “Have you heard the band yet? Ab-So-Fucking-Lutely Amazing!” she said it just like that, audibly capitalising random syllables. “Oh God! I can’t believe you actually came to see Feeling B—that is just so cool—I thought you’d probably bunk off!”

  As soon as she let go of my hands I took the cigarette out of my mouth. The smoke was getting in my eyes.

  “Karo, why did you say I had to come?” I asked, shouting to make myself heard over the din leaking through the open doors of the club.

  “Come on, Marty, we’re missing the band!” She grabbed one hand again, turning and pulling me, back into the stochastic turmoil.

  The band was having a break and we were in a scrum around the bar, waiting to get a dri
nk. Karo was already pretty pissed, I wasn’t particularly sober either. I should have chosen another time to tell her about Rico. But I didn’t, I told her then.

  She blew up.

  “For fuck’s sake, Martin!” She shouted over the din. “What’s your problem? Whose side are you on anyway? Why the fuck should they have to show their papers every time they want to cross a bridge? Isn’t that the reason we’re having a fucking revolution? And what is all this borders shite? It’s fucked up! And identity papers? Like, is this still the ’eighties? Borders are shit. Having an ID card is shit. Of course they should fucking jump over the Wall if they want to! If we’re serious about a fucking revolution then we should be getting rid of identity cards! We should get rid of the fucking Wall!”

  “We need the Wall. If there’s no Wall, there’s no GDR!”

  “Maybe, but the ends never justify the means, do they? We have to start as we mean to carry on,” she shouted back.

  “What? Even if it means the end of our revolution?”

  Karo hesitated for a moment, I could see doubt creep into her eyes, just for a second or two, before it was discarded. She swayed a little, then finding her balance again, she waved her hand in my face.

  “Yes,” she bawled at me, with the force of conviction deeply held. “Even then!”

  Day 4

  Thursday 17th March 1994

  Berlin: In a ceremony taking place at midday today, parts of Lenin Allee will be renamed Kropotkin Allee. Local Round Tables in Friedrichshain and Prenzlauer Berg settled on the new name earlier this year, but no agreement could be reached in the district of Lichtenberg where the road will continue to be known by the old name. In a separate ceremony to be held next month Leninplatz at the western end of the road will be renamed Bakuninplatz.