Reginald Rosenfeldt - Battlefield Berlin

The colleague from the local-editorial waved with two foam-covered jars and Herold walked to one of the anywhere established beer-tons. With moderate interest he watched, how Seib orbited with an indicated Passé step a heavily flirting couple, while he rolled full of understanding his eyes. The two jars landed with a loud noise on the makeshift table, and Seib licked his lips with relish.

"Cheers, old boy! I didn't think that you appear right on time."

"No jokes that was a hard day!"

"You need not to mock me." Seib beat playfully on Herald's upper arm. "Over there is a pack of thirsty wolves, a fine bunch of real binge drinkers, and you, you know them only too well."

"All right, Harald, the chick from the artists club cannot be overlooked, and then, naturally, the lords and ladies of the town hall."

"Speaking of town hall, by the way, where is our host?"

Michael gestured silently over his shoulder at the front wall of the hall. Almost obscured by a column stands the grumpy politician on a pedestal and checked with hectic finger tapping the operational readiness of the microphone. He had the sleeves of his plaid shirt casually rolled up, and when he just not wiped the sweat from his forehead, he adjusted pedantic his wide suspenders.

"For me, he is the classic image of a whole blood Socialists! As the third child of a hard-working, but poor family, he completed his schooling in night school, while he worked all the time tirelessly for the party."

Amused, Herold took a deep draft and nodded to his colleagues. "Honestly, Bergmüller is the real heart of the town, but his party comrades see that probably not in the same way."

"They have no reason to moan, after all, he found with the brewery a potent sponsor. This is more, than his comrades had did in the last season. And what his future exhibitions will bring... But hello!" Harald Seibs professionally gazed over the long legs of two women that strolled past them. "Too bad, that this blonde double not protects the crowns, because, the criminal energy of most men would just stick in the pants.”

"You know, how much I love your pubescent bon mots."

"And I love this crazy little black dress. But seriously, a better choice than the Palas, Bergmüller really could not meet."

"The security conditions are in fact optimal, and Bergmüller is a cunning old fox. He draws the businessmen the worms with the right arguments from the nose."

"But he is terrible at war with the technology, because as he tortures the micro, the official part of the evening begins at the earliest in an hour. Also, I miss city mayor David and his vassals. Bets, they sits all in the citadel-tavern and sip a well-chilled Riesling.”

"Pinot Grigio! Italian white wine is currently the trendy fashionable drink and not this wash water." Michael Herold pushed the beer contemptuously to the side and looked challengingly to Seib. "Let's go outside. For today, I have inhaled enough stale air."

"No problem, I despise most of the faces." Seib grabbed his almost empty jug and Herold followed him in the cool of the night. The two so dissimilar men stood silently for a moment in front of the palace, and climb then up the steep ramp to the Bastion King. At the end of the narrow way, looms the silhouette of the Julius-tower in the starless sky. Over his illuminated battlements chase rain clouds and Michael glanced involuntarily on the rough stone wall. Then he touched the mighty blocks and knocked on the safe-door, that was the only entrance to the tower.

"That`s real German workmanship! According to the attached table, the monster door weighs 3000 Kg. That's a lot of metal; nobody blows that easily in the air."

“At least, not without the demolition of the entire Tower.” Impressed, Seib leaned against the arch of the building. "Can you still remember how many gold pieces Kaiser Wilhelm had hoarded behind those walls?"

"1871? Not precisely. But I guess the French war indemnity amounted at that time to about 120 million. Together with the Prussian war chest, of course! This is handsome mountain of money and more than enough, for a cozy bathroom like Uncle Scrooge's."

"Let rain down the valleys on your bald head, I know! Better, we drink on the millions that we never will call our own!" Harald Seib turned the pitcher and dripped the last sip on the Brandenburg sugar sand. Sneering, he looked a moment into the puddle between his shoes, and strolled then slowly to the parapet of the bastion.

Leaned against the dirty stones, he stared at the lights of the old town, and his voice sounded strangely thin, when he suddenly asked: "Has our friend Kowalski expressed any suspicion?"

"I beg you, you know, how slowly his boys worked, and besides, I'm the last that he would honored with a scrap of his wisdom. No, at the moment, information arrives only through the official channels."

"Then, radio silence." Seib looked at the sea of houses at the other side of the river. Powerful lighting tore the town hall tower and St. Nicholas-church from the darkness, and high above the two Spandau landmarks flashed now the position lights of a jet. Disgusted, muttered Seib: "Look at that! A handful fragile life on his way to the airport Tegel! Oh God, shitty autumn blues!"

With a soft, for forgiveness pleading laugh Harald Seib put both hands on the damp masonry and came back to topic of the conversation. "For me, Kowalski is a rightmost old sow! If he might mop up the district in his own way..."

„Forget him! We no longer require his information’s; Bronslav showed me this afternoon, what really shakes his heart."

"Lech? I can't believe it! He talks not even under oath before a court!”

“Joseph’s death has his normally stubborn silence more than shaken. Just as the pain raging inside him, he doubts even the sacred solidarity in the Polish community. For him apply not even the old agreements, you know? No confessional secrets among friends, no sealed lips before strangers!"

Thoughtful wandered Herald glance over that part of the dark sea of houses, which hides Bronslavs apartment. "No, if Lech really wants revenge for Charley's death, he must finally talk, and sacrifice the only black sheep in his flock."

"What? Lech know the identity of Charley's business partner?"

"Oblonsky, Leopold Oblonsky."

"Sleazy Leo? Oh my God, the rascal is a member of Lech’s community? Well, then Lech has a real sunshine under his wing. Contraband, stolen goods, prostitution, there is probably no crooked business that his stinky finger has not touched. He operates from the Potsdam-Street; supposedly he is involved there in several bars. Organize fresh women from Russia. Only here in Spandau, he keeps a low profile. No wonder, nobody pours the waste before his own front door."

"Lech mentioned a video store."

"The greasy guy uses the sex shop only as a legal figurehead. You know the dirty little shop in the Kinkel-Street. The newly opened baths-shop is on the other side."

"Sounds really welcoming for me!"

"You will love the shop and if you're already there, maybe you buy me the latest Theresa video." Harald Seib leered and began to stroll along the almost shoulder-high defensive wall. When his shoe collided with a dented cola can, he kicked her playfully away. Rattling hit the tin can against the battlements and Seib threw in an imitation of a successful goal-scorer his arms in the air.

“At last, you’re again the old, familiar sunny boy!" Herold applauded the slender, almost skinny figure in the tight poplin coat. "To keep your good mood for a while, I'll buy you tomorrow a glossy calendar.WET DREAMS, is that right for you?"

Michael Herold means his announcement very seriously; the very next day he visited the bath shop into the Kinkel-Street. With a helpless expression he strolled past the exhibited mirror cabinets and approached the street facing window. Beside the broad windowpane was a shelf with mixer taps and Michael grabbed one of the glittering pieces. Undecided, he turned it between his fingers, as a trained voice asked him from behind: "Good day sir, can I somehow help you?"