Just a year ago you would have never recognized Lena Schindler. As a gangly, awkward teenager in the throes of acne-apocalypse and hormone waterboarding, she had carved out her place in the world by taking up as little space as possible. She would sit in school, arms pulled inwards and legs close together, fearful of any adverse attention from her schoolmates or teachers. When called upon to answer even simple arithmetic questions, her responses would become a strange toss-up between a stutter or a squeak. Either was met with laughter and the warm spread of embarrassment across her cheeks.
That is, until she discovered the punk rock scene emerging out of Leipzig. That’s when everything changed. She still weighed barely anything. But now she dressed like a thumbtack ruffian, acted like a vagabond wretch, and smelled like the devil’s arse. Also, she was notoriously loud. Maybe at school or in public, she would still stutter or squeak, and well that she should: once she assumed the trimmings and trappings of “Schoolgirl Lena”, she was once again relegated to her not-very-special self—arms and legs pulled inward, and mouth closed for good measure.
But now she had found her alter-ego and she had found a community and her calling to go along with it. Finally, there was an art that spoke up as a rule and sat down never. It was a scene that pushed, shoved, and wildly proclaimed the emotions she had long since felt, since before she even knew she was feeling them. In this shit of a country she was an outsider. But in Punk Rock she was home anywhere it was playing.
Her guitarist snapped a string. He launched into the next song anyway.
Half the crowd looked to be on the verge of collapse. As the final song reached its conclusion, the only one truly left standing in all aspects of the colloquialism was Lena. She stood as a general would at the end of a great battle, towering over the dead and bleeding. She howled into the growing silence, assuring herself of her solitude. Only then did she allow herself to pass out. This is how these affairs always ended, with Lena slipping into unconsciousness from screaming and the recovering crowd lifting her back onstage. It was how these things were supposed to go, after all.
The last thing she smelled before the grey stole her senses was blood and booze. Perhaps ten seconds or five minutes later (it was hard to keep track of these things), as Lena finally came to, the familiar scent of her fans hovering protectively over her informed her that she was safe—perhaps the safest she would ever be, crushed between battered and bleeding bodies that were still ready for a fight if they got the chance. These types were fully prepared to throw down for her music; they’d most certainly throw down for her life. She cherished the moment as sweat and worse dripped off of their faces onto hers.
“Hell yeah!” one called to her.
“Yeah!” another yelled with some additional choice language that needn’t be shared.
As the voices mounted in tandem, Lena knew she had once again done her job for the night; but she had a headache. This was normal for her at the ending of every show. It was the price she happily paid for the reward of a kick-ass performance. With the spectacle now over, the crowd was either leaving or ambling about while congratulating each other on a fine ruckus well-wrought. Now was the time for Lena to sneak outside for a breath, hopefully avoiding any conversation. Like many singers (or most, as she assumed), she was notoriously introverted. With the heart of an artist, the mind of a malcontent and the passions of a provocateur, she was still an introvert first and wasn’t much for conversation at the best of times—and in times like these she needed the peace and solace that only a cigarette could provide.
The church was small. It had been built for a congregation of the older and particularly devout, with glass windows that were equally stained with dust and grime as they were glaze. Splintering wooden pews and lovingly crooked chairs had been shuffled about to rest safely against the walls with far more care than she would expect of her raucous fans. Borrowed carpets and tarps had replaced the far nicer, far holier original carpeting so that the coagulated mess of human goo wouldn’t tarnish Jesus’ house—and more importantly, the chances of them playing here again in a few weeks.
As Lena skulked against the wall hugging the shadows, she was pleasantly surprised to see soiled teenagers carefully restoring everything back to its original setting. Even her band-mates, tired and sore with bleeding thumbs and torn callouses, were taking breaks from stiff and illicit drinks to help push the massive altar back into place. “Good,” she mused. If she timed her smoke just right, then most of it would be done by the time she returned. It was a slightly underhanded consideration, but everyone understood.
“Great show, Lena!”
The voice was hoarse and familiar, yet still Lena winced. Adoration from her public was to be expected, but she was tired now. It had been a long, brutal show and Lena wanted nothing more than to step out of the stinky, sweaty church and into the cold night air for her coveted smoke. Despite this, she turned to acknowledge him, recognizing who he was and… well, damn it.
Hans Schmidt. Hans was a giant of a boy. All seventeen years of his life had been one protracted growth spurt and he hadn’t missed a single meal during the period. He was a talented sportsman, to be sure, and looked every inch the part. Long black hair covered a pair of smoldering black eyes that were set beautifully large in his chiseled face. He had a large nose, but it was a good nose. He had a large chin, but it had a dimple in it that Lena found comforting.
Hans was a relatively new fan of Lena’s band. He had always been friendly with Lena on the occasional meeting at school or otherwise—more so than most people her age who seemed to prefer avoiding her. Hans, however, got along with everyone; it was one of his many great qualities. Still, they hadn’t really connected until he heard through the grapevine that she sang for a band that was surprisingly up-and-coming despite its underground status.
Like many newcomers to the GDR Punk scene, he had been pensive at first, much preferring the comforting and mainstream sounds of Pankow, Rockhaus or City. Once he saw her live, however, he was hooked. He grew his hair out much longer (which his mother apparently hated), purchased clothing he was sure Lena would approve of (or that would rankle his mother even more), and was in the mosh pit nearly every show. He was a true, dedicated fan—a gorgeous, true, dedicated fan. No, Lena could not ignore Hans even if she wanted to.
“Oh, hey Hans!” Lena acknowledged him awkwardly. Realizing that she should probably say something else, she added, “Enjoy the show?”
“It was amazing as usual!” He responded jovially, “Tell me, how is it that you can look even more attractive covered in sweat and blood?”
Lena tried not to smile. Hans and Lena had only really become good friends this last month and had certainly never dated. However, Hans had been a flirt with her since attending her shows—something she would never fully admit to appreciating. She wasn’t very good at flirting back, of course, even if she was in her element here. Thus, she would usually resign herself to staring blankly at him, occasionally punctuated with an awkward, high-pitched laugh that she hoped wasn’t too off-putting. This time, however, she forced herself to say something.
“Ah well,” she said sarcastically, “at least now I look the way I sound—like some sort of dumpster fire.”
“Your voice!” Hans began to playfully mock her, “You sound like a beautiful angel! A sound that truly belongs in this church!”