“Oh, Walter!” Mrs. Schroeder spoke, “Don’t you scare Lena like that. Give this nice boy Hans the benefit of the doubt!”
“I agree!” Janet said, “Lena, you deserve some romance—especially with a catch like Hans sounds to be.”
Everyone more-or-less nodded their approval. Even Mr. Müller in his own way, but he still seemed rather pensive as he finished, “I’m happy for you, of course. Just be careful. That’s all I ask.”
At that moment, the voice of Roger Waters cut in on the radio with, “We don’t need no education…” It was the first of likely many Pink Floyd songs of the night. Lena sat back and pretended to listen. In reality, however, she was trying to stave off the seeds of doubt worming their way into her brain. “He couldn’t be…” Lena said to herself, “He wouldn’t be…”
Verräter
The rafters of the church shook. It wasn’t from drunk punkers this time, but from the bass guitar. The pastor from the previous show now appeared to have been correct—the bass really did shake the rafters too much. Lena made note of this and said a tiny prayer in its honor before screaming her bloody guts out.
Any sane individual would have said the guitars were too loud, but these weren’t sane people, and to them the guitars were only too loud once the amps exploded. Thus, the amps were cranked to eleven as the band pummeled its way through the second song of the set. The room filled with the humidity of a legion, losing clothing and inhibitions at an absolutely frightening rate. Lena herself had ripped off her shirt to expose a midriff covered in paint, marker, and otherwise. This revealed various names of animals written all over her chest, arms, and face in a street font suggesting the level of intoxication the artists exhibited.
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.