Taken by Berlin. Nicolas Scheerbarth
Katja had always defended herself against such ideas.
Riss. Joschi could see them... the precocious young machos from his school and neighborhood, as they would have fallen silent under this look. There was strength and self-confidence in a form that Joschi had never felt before with an adult woman, let alone a teenager, only a little older than he himself... self-confidence up to the tips of the brush haircut, distributed with casual gestures that filled the space like the hero of an action series... yes, like a man... and a subliminal menace. Joschi speculated on the world out there, which made such an attitude possible... or indeed necessary. Suddenly he felt a violent rumbling in his stomach, which certainly didn't come from hunger.
Chapter II – 2139
Flame glow over Berlin. His clothes are soaking wet, in the heat of the night... the bandage on his arm, the T-shirt, the trousers. He no longer has a jacket, not since Würzburg...
***
"Hey, Silajev, are you awake?" a rough scratching voice spoke to him. His coffin opened into the darkness. Before that... he had begged for unconsciousness, endless... in the drone and grinding of the machine and its wheels, in which every sound sank into the noise, into an exclusiveness without sound. Eventually... his watch no longer worked... a miracle that they had left it on him... or no miracle at all, because his kidnappers were Nazis, and they ... he almost smiled at the thought in his coffin... were mostly stupid... eventually, it had actually become night. He looked up from his box past two heads at some glittering stars. That night was so bright, so absurdly light and calm, was life, rebirth.
"He's got his eyes open," said a second voice. A woman.
"He's not moving at all" – another woman.
"Is he gone?"
"Bullshit. He's gasping like an air exchanger. He's so delighted at your nice
face..."
"I'll give you a face."
"Now give him a hand out of there. He must be scared to death. Boy, oh boy, you're really scared shitless!"
He truly had his pants full. Ever since the robbery. The baby was birthed by four eerie mothers. He groaned when one of them lifted him by his right arm. She wasn't rough. She just grasped normally, but he was hurt. Later he understood that this wound, torn open on a sharp edge of his car, had saved his mind... a quiet, seeping pain as the only counterweight to the hell of this ride. Anyone who had ever thought of describing hell as a big cave with bright fires and open boilers was an optimistic dreamer. Carefully they lifted him out of the box. Not surprising. After all, they had hardly kidnapped him to kill him right now.
Despite this reassuring thought... something was wrong with these women in coarse grey pants and black boots, with their naked upper bodies! But the thought wasn't more than a slight hint. For the time being Joschi was losing consciousness with relief...
***
"Where are we?"
"Falkensee" – Toms one-syllable answer.
"Are you sure?"
"Gee, don't be an asshole, Silajev. If I know anything, it's where I'm going!"
"So... I didn't mean it that way. I meant our safety. Is it dangerous over here?"
Bright fire lit the sky before them. Like flames. He pointed forward, through the mosquito-plastered windshield of the van.
"Well, for such a super-politician from Strasbourg, you stutter quite a lot. What would be dangerous for us here?"
"Well, whatever’s making those fires..."
"Fire?"
"Right there. Something's burning."
An unknown country for him. Fantasies. A place at the end of the rainbow. With the reflection of a sea of flames in the sky...
"Silajev, you joker. These are floodlights!"
***
When he regained consciousness for the second time, he was in heaven. A cool, brick room, the walls plastered raw, above his feet a crucifix... dry, clean, almost rested, he lay comfortably on a narrow bed. His angel squatted sideways on an ancient, abraded armchair. The angel looked like a young woman. She had her legs in black trousers and boots hung over her armrests. Her naked, lean torso was adorned with a pair of strong breasts. The face was young, but weathered early, over it wildly stubbly black hair. She read.
Even before he stirred, he remembered the hunch: Nazis didn't read. Nazis did not let women lift their prisoners from a camouflage device, frolicking happily. And Nazi bitches also looked different too... doll-like or brutal, but never like harsh angels, hard and friendly at the same time. He looked over. The angel looked up... with warm, dark eyes in the young and old, heart-shaped face.
"Are you awake?"
He nodded slightly. He couldn't say anything. You just didn't talk to angels. The crucifix, the monastery cell... what was going on here? Gradually his mind, trained in the offices and conference rooms of Strasbourg, began to work again. He saw where he was, but he couldn't make sense of it. Nazis had kidnapped him... a large and well-organized troupe. That was more than anyone else in the region could muster... as far as his people knew, the government of the degenerate backyard that still proudly called itself the European Union. Those weren't just a bunch of dressed-up guys. They had real Woodspeople with them... who did not bow to anybody, but from time to time worked together with the Nazis.
But here was this room, a monastery cell. What did the church... that miserable remainder of an organization that still believed in Judgment Day, even though it had long since occurred a thousand times... stand to gain from an action like his kidnapping... above all with the Nazis as henchmen? That didn't fit... that much they thought they knew in Strasbourg. And these women! Neither the church nor the Nazis had such women. Rumors were heard of combat nuns in the new sects that had emerged shortly after the Great Catastrophe. In South America. The idea was absurd that such a force had seeped into Europe and was now making common cause with the Nazis here. No, there was something wrong! On the other hand,... what was more absurd than his fate, the kidnapping of a European Council member?
"Are you hungry?" And when he didn't react... "Or thirsty?"
"Yes," in hoarse tone.
"Great."
She stood up, took a tin bottle and a cup from the table next to her. Then she leaned over him, straightened him up and supported him so that he could drink. At first, he had wanted to admire her full, round breasts, which swung around so close in front of him. But then he realized he was almost too weak to drink. He drank without any thought of the sight. After all, a woman with a naked upper body was nothing special. He drank and sank back to his pillow.
"Still tired?"
"No, it's alright." – painful.
"It's not a problem. If you don't feel fit, I'll leave you alone."
"What else?"
"Or I'll let them know. That you're awake."
"Know? Let who know?"
At first, he wanted to speak informal to her, use the German "du", but then convention prevailed. In any case, she didn't sound condescending, not like the casual provocation of a kidnapper who was reluctant to humiliate her victim with impunity. That gnarled door over there was probably locked. Yet, he didn't feel like he was with enemies. With strangers perhaps... very strange strangers even... but not with enemies.
"My people. Susie."
"Who's that? Who are you?"
"Ah, you're getting lively!" – suddenly very sharp. "But let it go. It's no use. Nothing's gonna happen to you, but the message... you're gonna have to wait. I can't deliver the message."
"Why?"
"Just because. Susie wants to deliver it herself."
"Who's Susie?"
"Enough