Taken by Berlin. Nicolas Scheerbarth
unconsciously into the upholstery.
The Rott-Leader curses, they’re running out of time. They drag Silajev out, five of them, grab him by his arms and legs, dragging him along...
"Damn it, watch his head!"
... drag him up the lane to the tank train. There are now two or three boxes or containers on the road, unfastened from the flanks of the tank, storm pioneers with tools next to them... a rusty frame is folded out from under the tank. Hoarse calls from the SP's Rott-Leader. They place Silajev in the frame, there is a platform, cladding parts, pushing and pulling... the pioneers rush onto the frame and the boxes with metallic scraping, squeaking, and hammering, everything is folded up and down, fastened, screwed and clad. They run around hurriedly, almost the last ones on site. Klin has undressed, gun belt and camouflage suit lie next to him, a flushed, sinewy, naked body in the midst of the bloodbath. He slips into a grey jumpsuit that his Rott-Leader holds out to him. A tank driver's jumpsuit.
He walks quietly between the busy SP men to the driver's cabin. The passenger door, almost one floor above him, swings open. The cabin is dark and cool, full of a cold glow in the green and blue of the scales and indicators.
"You're Klin?"
The driver looks a bit daintier than Klin, small and wiry in his Recytex overall. Klin straightens.
"Rotter Klin, Group-Leader, reporting for duty!"
"Don't do that, Rotter! Come on, climb up so we can finally get going. And I'm just Tom."
The Group-Leader has a rough, worn voice, older than his appearance. Klin takes a last look over his shoulder... his comrades stretch their arms for the German Salute, the vehicle parts have disappeared, their victim stowed away. Klin nods to them, pulls himself up and swings into the passenger seat.
"Let's be about it," – Tom, gravelly and cheerful.
Switches are activated, lights change color, scale pointers tremble. With a drawn-out machine groan, the huge truck starts moving, crunches concrete lumps resting at the edge of the roadway.
"Hold on," Tom creaks, "it will get a little rough now. I have to push it, because we're late, and they want to blow the remains."
Tom receives whispering messages from a tiny earpiece in his ear. The machine accelerates powerfully, the power of the motor is noticeable. They drive. Klin is the second. Young, proud, an elite fighter, a little youthful restlessness in his important role. And Tom, the Group-Leader, the driver.
Not much is said. Klin leans his head against the worn, cracked cushion of the headrest, his eyes half-closed. Scales glow, the machine sings evenly, a whisper from the terminal every now and then...
"How's it going?" he asks.
"Well," – the monosyllabic answer with a rasping sound. In the twilight of displays Tom's face shows a changing expression, angular and delicate, young and old, brutal and soft, with a confusing sparkle in the eyes, sometimes an almost aimless smile behind aimed at the blueish grey Spessart behind the darkened armored windows.
"Did they get away alright?"
"Until now. Yes."
"No pursuit?"
"No."
"And the Renault?"
"Right on schedule."
"How?"
"According to plan. You don't know the drill?"
"No."
"And they still put you with me?"
"Yeae! I know what I need to know. Here, I mean, all the way to Munich. Nothing else."
"Then stop asking." And, with a slightly friendlier growl: "Everything is calculated to the minute. The Renault is being refueled. And there's been a little interruption. Nothing conspicuous, just as long as we need, without them thinking of sending a replacement machine from Rinemain."
Outside... caustic desert hills, dotted with miserable plants, mutated and hardly inflammable, dusky behind the dark glass, brightness and heat only faintly cognizable by the deep, hard shadows. Some little solars come towards them. The truck overtakes a few peasants on old off-road bikes, who stare after them in disapproval. The repair service has set up a toll booth in front of a bridge. Tom pays the toll through a little cash lock next to his left knee. The guards don't know about the robbery yet.
On the elevation at the other end of the bridge grows a crippled forest, dense, waist-high weeds at the edge of the road... behind a curve, a small delivery van between the bushes, beside it a big, muscular figure with deep black, short hair like a cap... shakes his torso... pee break. The truck runs slower, then stops.
"What's the matter?" asks Klin.
The tractor stands right next to the rear of the small transporter. Klin looks out, to Tom, the big black-haired man, a true giant, comes quietly towards the passenger side.
"Mr. Group-Leader, do we have time for breaks? Do we know this man?"
Tom flips a switch.
"End of the line, kid!" – happily hoarse.
Heat flows in as the passenger door hisses open.
"A... but... Group-Leader, what…?" Klin looks back and forth irritated.
"Take care!" a cheerful parting growl.
Klin’s seatbelt is suddenly open. Tom shoves him, the guy at the door grabs him like a feather, casually... Klin uselessly reaching for the weapon under his overalls... hurls him into the open, to the ground, stunned. His opponent... the giant is a woman... grins at him, sets a chunky fighting boot on his neck. The cabin door closed again; the truck starts rumbling again.
"Ciao, little fascist bastard!"
Her voice is like melting gold. The boot lifts a few millimeters. Klin tries unsuccessfully to knock over the monster on his leg. Smiling, she kicks him in the throat. From his shattered larynx comes soft gargling.
Chapter I – 2091
"Joschi!"
It was his mother's voice, clear despite the distance and squeaking of the swing. No, he didn't want to answer, not yet... not to interrupt the momentum, the tingling flying, and buzzing. The air of early summer caressed his naked arms and legs and through his thin shirt also his upper body. Strongly his hands held on, his body drove the swing to new momentum, the squeaking became short, high. He lay far back, legs and upper body almost horizontal, his head in his neck. The blood flowed to the brain. A reversed world swung effortlessly around him, the sky, the apartment blocks, the treetops, the trunks, the lawn, trunks, crowns, houses, sky, houses, trees, lawn, swung in ecstasy, up and down, turning, reversed, forgotten world. He 'upswinged' himself. That's what he called it. Swinging to ecstasy... he didn't understand it, just did it. People's remarks had already made him careful. The more important the ecstasy became to him, the more he took care that nobody noticed.
Although he was too old for the playground being almost fifteen, not only in his parents' opinion, they preferred to see him there rather than with the older ones, who were cavorting in the large parking lot of the supermarket on Electrometalurhiva Street with their skates, bikes, mono flacs... and with girls.
Yeah, Joschi knew he was different. Rather swinging than stand swaggering and attitudinal with his peers. He wasn't a child anymore. Last night at last had shown him that, and Svenja. Svenja with her small, wet hands, her hasty kisses, her awkward touching and exploring. A quiet, secret and yet final farewell to childhood. Was that feeling they called 'love'? It had been very beautiful, but nothing that made him die of longing, nothing like how it was always described. Sky, apartment blocks, trees, lawns, apartment blocks, sky, apartment blocks, trees...
"Joschi!"
That was clearly nearby. Hastily he straightened up. He suspected that his mother would not approve of the dream position with his head hanging down at the back. Curious, he expected her. He had no idea why she came looking for him. There was still time before