By Dirk C. Fleck.
There were three of us in the compartment, a woman, a man and me. The woman looked at me constantly, her lips moving as if she was praying. The man opened his briefcase on his knees and searched through his papers with his head hanging low. Behind him, the discreet sound of a funeral institute was apparent. The man raised his head, his eyes, which held me in place through thick glasses, drilled his dead salute into me. I found no antidote.
The neon light covered me like caustic acid; soon the connection between brain and limbs was broken. The upright posture I displayed was the result of a tremendous effort. A roughly chiseled, oblique grin grew in the face of my counterpart. I had lost my identity, I did not know my name, nor did I know where we were going or where I lived. I leaned my temple against the window pane, its cool stamp giving me support. Do not think! Stop thinking …!
With my eyes closed I listened to the driving noise, the images of a city whirled up in my head. Children crouched apathetically between gigantic piles of broken glass. Torn cardboard boxes whirled through the streets. People with handcarts passed each other silently, not paying attention to the corpses lying on the bloodstained sidewalks. Suddenly the inhabitants ran away from each other, hiding in entrances, behind rubble or in the sewers. Shortly afterwards, two blond men in black uniforms strolled down the street, joking with each other as if on a Sunday walk.
They stopped in front of the undressed corpse of a young girl. While one of them bumped her chest with the tip of his boot, the other pulled out his pistol and fired at the last intact window in this city. Bored, they continued on their way. Behind them, the manhole covers lifted …
I opened my eyes. THIS IS THE SOLUTION! was written on a poster.
My name is Dirk Fleck, I am a child of hell. Here you wear the filter of forgetting on your face, that’s a obligation. The man with the briefcase had disappeared, the woman too. Instead, two elderly gentlemen were now sitting opposite of me. They were reading the same newspaper. “Kunze ist frei,” said one of them and put on his sunglasses.
PS: Forget the stupid game of the elites, let’s stay with ourselves. Let’s tell ourselves more stories again instead of sitting on the narratives that have their origin in politics. This story refers to an experience during a train ride in 1963, when I was on my way to Munich to start my civil alternative service. At that time, it lasted 18 months, whereas Bundeswehr soldiers only had 12 months to serve. Conscientious objectors had to undergo a “test of conscience” in order to be recognized. So there you sat in front of a squad of old nazis as an 18-year-old and had to justify yourself. Well. Those who did alternative service were punished. The first months I worked in the burn cellar of the Red Cross hospital in Nymphenburg. When I finally refused to continue to shovel the surgical waste into the incinerators there, I was transferred to the Red Cross Nurses’ Home in Grünwald. The estate had formerly belonged to Hitler’s Reich Minister of Economics, Hjalmar Schacht. I was allowed to work in the nursery there, which was fun.
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Thanks to the author for the right to publish the article.
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Picture source: Vilgun / shutterstock
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