Variant Exchange

by Fox J Wilde

Much like the animals that served to define her performance now, she bayed, bellowed, bleated, and berated the crowd in the tongues of wolves and lions alike. The crowd, fully aware of who was in charge of the situation, hopped in line to try their hand for dominance. Fists flew and elbows dropped as feet fumbled for footing amidst a river of forcefully-ejected puke and saliva. Challengers approached the pit with far more confidence and teeth than they left with. Both became keepsakes for other challengers as proof that the night had indeed occurred.

  “Bist du vorbereitet?!” Lena howled, and the crowd signaled that they were indeed. Despite the ruckus, Lena was far from satisfied with this response. “Ich glaube dir nicht...” she wound them up, “Bist…du…vorbereitet?!?”

  The crowd was deafening in its response as the band launched into the next song. “Marsch…schritt…marcsch…schritt...” Lena chanted, roping the crowd into it.

  Lena had worked the crowd up into a level of frustration that reflected her own. While the show was now going as well as could be hoped, she was still immensely disappointed at the way it had begun. At the last moment, one of the guitarists and the drummer had decided they no longer wished to be a part of the band. They had abruptly canceled their attendance, levied a few insincere apologies and hugs, before walking off into the night without much explanation.

  This left Lena in the uncomfortable position of having to ask one of the other bands if she could borrow their drummer. It wasn’t the biggest deal in the world—musicians wanted to play music, and punks looked out for each other. Still, she was asking them to potentially give a less energetic performance. Once Lebensmüde took the stage no less than 100% was required, and that would make the next band all the worse for it. Thankfully, the drummer for Schweine gefühle had stepped up to the plate feeling confident he could do both shows.

  “Marsch!” The guitars wailed louder.

  “...schritt…!” Boots planted themselves, refusing to give up ground.

  Thankfully, her Hans was here. He was in rarer form than usual, whacking everyone within whacking distance with a bruised paw that treated arms, ankles, and otherwise as equal for the smashing. He had always been the picture of duality—loved for his energy while feared for his moshing prowess. And for sure, tonight was no meaningful exception. Seemingly by will alone, all contenders were pushed, shoved and—if needed—thrown headlong into a veritable cornucopia of un-preferred directions and even less-preferred positions. Yet something was different.

  Unlike his typical demeanor, Hans didn’t seem to be having as much fun as he normally did. He wasn’t smiling all that much, and he seemed to be…well, preoccupied. This was something that was hard to manage when one was practically fighting for their life in a musical maelstrom of mildly mind-blowing magnitude. “He seems frustrated...” Lena noted.

  “Marsch!” The drummer hit even harder.

  “schritt!” A tooth went flying across Lena’s field of view.

  She had seen him before the show. Hans had seemed perfectly fine then. He had greeted her warmly and kissed her before crushing for a brief moment. Then he waited patiently for her at the front of the church until her band had finished setting up (while helping a confused drummer figure out which songs were which). After she concluded setup he had lit her cigarette for her.

  Between now and the last show, they had met several times. Most of the meetings had been brief—a coffee or a beer at a local shop after school, perhaps. Sometimes, she would visit him at his mother’s apartment and they would cuddle for an hour or so, enjoying each other’s company. A precious few times, when the stars truly aligned, they would get to spend most of the evening with each other. Those nights were the most fun, Lena admitted. Their parents were none the wiser, as well.

  “Marsch!” Someone fell underfoot in the throbbing mob.

  “Schritt!” The crowd spread out, helped the poor bastard up, then began moshing again.

  Over the past few weeks, Lena had grown to trust Hans completely. She remembered what Mr. Müller had said, and it had made her wonder at first. When she could, she watched Hans intently for any signs of betrayal—strange body language, slip-ups in answers, distance—anything that would cause her to cue up on any hidden agenda. So far, at least, Hans had been a perfect angel.

  I mean, she couldn’t follow him. Could she? She could of course; but that would put the onus on her. If she did something like that, well, that would be admitting to herself that she didn’t trust him completely. But could anyone have blamed her if she had? These were strange times and the Stasi informers could be anywhere and anyone. Heck, what was stopping Hans from thinking that she was one? “No, no…better to trust.” she resolved to herself.

  It was better to trust, right?

  The show concluded as all of their shows did: with Lena squeezing the air from her lungs in a protracted shriek, standing on the back of one of the larger men in the crowd. Her vision became pinpoint as she applied the cheese-grater of sonic carnage to her vocal folds, finally going blurry. Sound became tastes, tastes became colors, and the flush of hypoxia stole the color from her eyes until she saw in monochrome.

  When she came to, she was laying onstage with her protective admirers fanning and cheering at her. Victorious, she stood weakly and raised her fists in the air like a billboard-plastered boxer accepting the title of World Champion. It was now time for her to claim her prize—the adulation of her adoring public. But first…a cigarette.

  Dodging conversations, meeting fists and high-fives when she was forced to, and avoiding eye-contact altogether, she half-galloped her way inelegantly out of the crowd, hugging the shadows as if her very life depended on it. “Just a few more steps...” she happily proclaimed to herself, “just a few more steps...” Finally, as if it couldn’t have possibly come soon enough, the door swung open and she stepped out into the cold night air.

  She immediately rubbed her hands together quickly—it was much chillier this show than the last. “Maybe I should just pass on the smoke...” Lena thought to herself. As she turned the corner, though, there waiting for her was her Hans. She reconsidered and the prospect of getting some post-show snogging helped her forget the chilly temperature. As a matter of fact, it did seem to be warming ever-so-slightly now that she thought about it.

  Yet Hans seemed…different...somehow. Something about him seemed alien to her—like he was a different person. The Hans she knew was confident, funny, and inviting. The Hans that stood before her now looked skittish, paranoid, and almost cowering; and he had this ‘scent’ about him that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. As she thought about it for a second, she realized precisely what it was. Fear. Hans was genuinely afraid of something. “Oh god...” she thought, “It can’t be…he’s not...” Now Mr. Müller had finally gotten to her. She wanted to hate him for it.

  “Hans?” Lena said cautiously as she approached him.

  “Lena!” Hans said with a hushed bite to his tone, “Come here!”

  Immediately, Lena went on the defensive. She should have trusted Hans more. Yet now, Lena was absolutely sure that something bad was going on and that Hans knew what it was, if he wasn’t part of it himself.

  “H-hans? Wh-what is g-going on?” she stuttered.

  “Shut up, Lena!” Hans said in a hushed, forceful tone that she had never heard before, “Take my hand and follow me. It’s not safe for us here!”

  “What are you talking about?!” Lena whisper-yelled.

  “There’s no time Lena…they are coming!”

  “Who’s coming, Hans?!”

  “The Stasi, Lena! The Stasi are going to raid the church tonight, maybe even right now! We have to get out of here, or they will take the both of us!”

  “They…how do you know that?”

  “Never mind how I know that, Lena. We must get out!”

  “But…I have to know how you know that, Hans.”

  �
��I…Lena, you just have to trust me, ok? Please just trust me.”

  “You work for them, don’t you?” Lena accused.

  “I…I...” was all that Hans could manage.

  Betrayal. What a terrible word it was. And yet, there she had it—all the proof she would ever need. Hans was indeed spying on her. Perhaps he had been spying on her all along...who knew? This must have been why he had taken such an interest in her band, and why he had taken such an interest in her. “Oh god”, she thought, “Mr. Müller was right…what a stupid girl I am! Just a stupid, stupid girl!” And now what? Was she supposed to just follow him now that she couldn’t possibly know who he really was?

  “The Stasi?! You work for the Stasi??” Lena accused.

  “Well…” Hans spoke quickly, “Look, there’s time for that later! I promise…once you are safe I’ll tell you everything. I promise. But right now, we have to get away!”

  “How do I know you’re taking me someplace safe, and not just taking me to them!”

  “Please!” Hans responded, gesturing for her to lower her voice, “Please keep your voice down. If they hear you, I’m a dead man.”

  “If who hears you, Hans? Who’s going to kill you?”

  “The Stasi will kill me if they find out! God, you have to believe me—I’m trying to save you!”

  “But how would…” Lena thought as she tried to work it all out, “how would the Stasi hear us if…if they aren’t already here?”

  “They aren’t here, Lena! They are on their way!”

  “But how do…I’m...”

  “Lena, half your band is informing for the Stasi. Your old drummer and guitarist…your bassist…the drummer you borrowed from Gefühle, and the lead singer of his band? They are all informants.”

  “That…” Lena said, not believing a word of it, “That’s insane. You’re insane!”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, Lena, but half your band has been spying on you as well as each other. Hell, half the crowd is probably spying on the bands they came to see. It’s called zersetzung; they drag everyone into it to create rampant mistrust and decay. The Stasi informants are absolutely everywhere. The ones that were told about the raid got out while they could, but the one’s that haven’t, well...tonight, everyone is going to get thrown in the black cells. Please, God, Lena…you don’t want to go there. You can’t…you won’t survive a week.”

  “But...” Lena whimpered as her eyes watered with the sting newfound reality.

  Her head was spinning with impossible betrayal. It wasn’t just a friend or fan—it was her first real serious love. That was something that should surpass such lies, right? Somehow that made the possibility of it all much harder to believe and much harder to accept. It was all just too unreal. Her band? The other bands? Even her fans…and her beloved Hans…all spying on her and each other? Why, it was just utter madness, pure and simple. For what purpose would this serve? To just create terror and dissent?

  Yet as the implications dawned on her, wiping away her love and trust, so too were several other former thoughts wiped irreplaceably away. Everything was different now—a priceless collection of china shattered on the concrete. Her friends, her classmates, her…hell, even Lena’s satirical caricatures of the Politburo as short, stumpy dwarves, sporting overly-large spectacles and pants pulled high over their rotund guts didn’t seem so real. In an instant, everything had changed.

  “Lena.” Hans interrupted her thoughts, “I know you must hate me…you have every right to. But if we don’t leave right now they will catch you and drag you to prison. And then you will end up an informant!”

  “I’ll never become one of you!” Lena spat at him.

  “That’s what they all said. They all refused, Lena. And then they were threatened with six years in the black cells. They had no choice! None of them could face that! God, Lena, they were tortured! What were they to do?!”

  “Them?” Lena said acridly, “What about you?”

  It was too much to bear. Only a minute into this and her view of not only the GDR had changed, but her beloved scene as well. Gone were her faithful punkers, to be replaced with vile Judases. Gone was her sense of solidarity, to be replaced with a desolate stare from hollow eyes. They were all supposed to be on the same team. They had all bled and cried together, after all. They had fought, cheered, and took solemn oaths as a community. They would never betray each other—certainly not the way that Hans was betraying her now.

  “But…but...” Lena argued as the tears gathered fuller and faster, “The lyrics…we all sang them together…we were all hardcore together...did that mean nothing to them…to you?!”

  “You can’t beat the system, Lena! You can only fight it. And trust me, if you fight too hard they’ll put a stop to you!”

  “Then why even fight it if you are just going to lose?!” Lena screamed, “If you are just going to roll over and give up?!”

  “I’m trying to fight right now, Lena! I’m trying to save you! Come with me, please! I’m begging you!”

  Suddenly there was a bright flash that darkened the world around her momentarily, along with a cracking ‘boom!’ louder than any sound she had ever heard. Her ears immediately began ringing, which was bad enough, but then the gas hit her and the ringing in her ears became the least of her worries.

  The air changed colors. What had previously been a beautifully clear night now became a sort of infected grayish miasma, putrefied with a killing fog. Her eyes fused together as if welded roughly with a glowing torch of fire. They began watering profusely, yet the tears only made the gas sting and burn worse—worse than anything she had ever felt, and it multiplied a thousand-fold every time she opened her eyes. Desperately she tried to wipe away the tears, but then the soaking burn would spike its way further under her eyelids like jagged metal crystals burrowing inside of her parboiled flesh. But this was nothing compared to her throat.

  She couldn’t breathe...oh god she couldn’t breathe! “I can’t…I c-can’t...” she howled inside her skull, “I can’t…my throat doesn’t work anymore. My throat doesn’t fucking work! Oh God...oh god…this is how I’m going to die...my throat doesn’t work!” It wasn’t just that it hurt—it did, of course—but her throat had simply swollen shut, as if welded and stitched at the same time. She gasped, taking painful, desperate little breaths, trying to force air down her esophagus; but it was no use. Within seconds Lena was suffocating and there was nothing she could do about it. “Oh god…I can’t breathe…I can’t breathe…I can’t...”

  As her vision blurred over, she barely saw the boot slamming into her belly. What little she could see through her shredded, dislodging pupils was too full of murky mist to spy anything more than the limbs of her assailants. Immediately she doubled over and hit the dirt hard. What little wind she had managed to force into her lungs by sheer will had now been forced out again, accompanied with no small measure of acid from her pummeled stomach. All this burned, of course—but nowhere near as bad as her lungs.

  The shouting around her was like a scene from a B-rated slasher movie. Harsh male voices muffled by gas-masks hurled commands and insults as younger voices progressed from screams to coughing fits…then back into screaming. Feet stampeded in all directions as booms, kicks and the sound of a door splintering off of its hinges forced Lena underwater into the black of vertigo. She intuitively knew which way was up; yet that knowledge meant nothing to her anymore.

  No matter how hard Lena tried to pass out or die, she couldn’t. Once she tasted blood, however, she really gave it an honest effort. It struck her as odd that she could manage to taste her blood through the overpowering taste of throw up, military-grade pepper, and ruined atmosphere. She could, however, and this provisioned the distinct impression that she had lost something precious—if not an innocence, than certainly the integrity of some important organ she required to live.

  As she writhed
in agony on the ground quivering, throwing up and choking on the air. Every now and then another black boot would kick her, or one of her escaping friends would trip over her only to find a boot of his own. She had never known she could feel this much pain.

  She was helpless as she watched Hans and the beating his face was taking from baton-wielding thugs. “His face was so perfect...” Lena thought to herself as she watched his nose explode from a well-placed punch. Blood spurt everywhere as his eyes lolled uselessly back up into his skull.

  “Leave this one pretty.” Lena heard someone say, and then, she finally and thankfully passed into oblivion.

  Kältewelle

  “Clang clang clang clang clang clang...”

  The machine-gun fire of a heavy metal stick hammering on Lena’s cell door jarred her awake. She had barely fallen asleep, catching precious seconds of sweet relief, before a surge of adrenaline and fear overtook her slumber. She jumped up, did a confused and awkward defensive dance, then fell to the floor covering her face. She couldn’t see yet—she just knew that she was in imminent danger.

  “Sleep time is now over!” a male voice shouted at her through a hole in her door. “Terminate sleeping position! Sit against the back wall! Hands behind your head! Legs crossed! Eyes straight forward! Head at ninety-degree angle! Posture will be...”

  The orders went on and on for almost an entire minute. She never saw the one who shouted. He simply beat on her door with his baton and yelled very specific instructions on how to sit, how to sleep, how to eat, where to look, how fast to breathe—anything you could possibly think of, he had instructions on how it was to be performed. She had tried ignoring the commands once; but after getting sprayed down with a fire-hose for what felt like an eternity she decided against trying that again.

  She had been sleeping in the back-sleeping position today—on her back with her arms crossed over her chest, right arm over left arm, with left ankle crossed over right; her face pointed directly at the ceiling, eyes closed with absolutely no blinking allowed. She dared not lower or raise her chin, lest her very life be forfeit. Perhaps an hour later it would be side-sleeping position. There were two versions of this and if she were lucky, she would be allowed to bend her knees and move herself so that she wasn’t struggling to stay balanced on her arm (which after a few minutes would be getting much more sleep than her). If she wasn’t lucky, well, she would probably earn the fire-hose.