CHAPTER 1
In which our hero receives a bad emanation, a good supper and an odd suggestion

The clouds burst open just before the carriage reached Brandenburg Gate. Dark rain beat down on the street named Unter den Linden, drenching the people and carriage horses, splashing on the stones and flooding the gutters.
Walter Busch looked out of the grubby coach window, at the figures in the dusk, at the villas and the dim lights shimmering in the dark.
Unter den Linden – ‘under the lime trees’ - was one of the most impressive areas of Berlin, a splendid boulevard that led from the Stadtschloss, the Kaiser’s palace, to Thiergarten, the zoo.
The carriage went past fancy shops and expensive restaurants, past advertising columns, past placards for chocolate, cigarettes and beer. Outside people swaggered, stumbled and showed off; they shuffled and hurried, bumping into each other, stepping in puddles.
The petroleum lanterns and the few recently installed gas lamps were lit already. Newspaper vendors shouted out their news. Other trams and horse carriages passed, splashing water over people’s shoes.
Ghosts went past, transparent and silent, whitish-grey shapes in the dark. Everybody knew they existed: pregnant women who had drowned themselves or died during abortions, morphine addicts who had overdosed, starved beggars. Some people could see them more easily than others, but everyone knew that they were there.
A Friday evening in Berlin, dark, crowded, busy November Berlin.
Berlin, Berlin. The capital of Prussia, a state that was well-known for its army, its discipline, its splendid uniforms. Berlin, the capital of the Deutsches Reich

, the German Empire, since 1871.
Berlin, city with one million inhabitants; city of industry and art, science and architecture, sewage and steam and gas. City of writers and doctors, workers and beggars, pageants and funerals, slang and splendour and megalomania. City of palaces and slums and mansions.
Home to so many people: people who starved and people who celebrated, people who rioted, people who marched, people who worked every day in their lives without complaining. Soldiers and policemen, thieves and murderers, sometimes all in one.
Berlin, Berlin. The city where Walter Busch had been born and bred and where he would have expected to die had he been inclined to think about his own death, which he wasn’t.
Walter Busch - bank clerk in Berlin-Friedrichstadt, 28 years old, respectable, bespectacled and reasonably ambitious – led a proper and decent life. He went to work, and he went home. He socialised as much as was appropriate. He kept his head down and his eyes half open and his mouth shut because that was wise.
He read the newspapers sporadically because it was good to be able to make conversation about what went on in the world. There were interesting things in the papers - pleasant stuff that made you feel good, curious news that gave you a nice thrill, things that were shocking and could only be spoken about in whispers. Yes, he kept himself informed. He had read about what was going on.
Earlier this year, a certain Berta Benz had driven an automobile from Pforzheim to Mannheim, both in the southwest of Germany, covering an amazing 40 miles. Slavery had been abolished in Brazil. A madman commonly referred to as Jack the Ripper was on the loose in London, stabbing and mutilating women.
Walter Busch read the papers conscientiously and took it all in with a mixture of shock and fascination. The things people were up to... the things science could do nowadays...
However, he did not usually bother to ruminate about such matters. It was much easier to concentrate on his flat, on his job, on getting on in Berlin - and it was not as if there was not enough happening in his home town.
The new emperor, Kaiser Wigbert II, had been in power for five months now. His two predecessors, Wigbert I and Friedrich II, had died within four months from each other and been mourned appropriately. Friedrich II had been dying of throat cancer even when he got to the throne; he had been unable to speak and died after 99 days.
People had held speeches, worn black armbands, listened to the hymns. Then life had gone on, and the new Kaiser had come to the throne.
And now, in November 1888, he ruled proudly and happily: Friedrich Wigbert II Albrecht of Prussia, famous for an impressively curled grey moustache and highly fanciful uniforms in all colours, uniforms that wouldn’t camouflage anything outside a tropical garden.
However, the best-known fact about the Kaiser was his predilection for even more fanciful, yes, wigs, which, considering his name, was an improbable coincidence, but there it was.
Anyway, he loved his wigs. Some were curly, some wavy and some straight; some were white, some black, some red streaked with silver; some were larger than his head, some were used to store money or drinks; sometimes they had beads and jewels woven into them. There were a few people who found them odd, but then Wigbert was the Kaiser, so he couldn’t be wrong.
The Kaiser ruled because it was God’s will. The Kaiser with his serious, beautiful wife Alberta Ernestine, known as Bela for reasons unknown to the public. With three sons who already looked like soldiers. With a daughter who, one day, would be a beautiful woman, all a princess could be, and with his trustworthy supporter Kanzler Oskar Dagobert von Blistert. The Chancellor had helped to found the German Reich; he had created the social security system; he fought valiantly to eliminate socialism and similarly dubitable tendencies. And he also had an impressive moustache, but a bushy rather than a curly one.
The Iron Chancellor, the Soldier Chancellor, epitome of the military spirit, sometimes disapproved of Wigbert’s showing-off but remained adequately loyal.
Walter Busch didn’t feel particularly intensely about any of these things and people. He was dispassionately patriotic, proud and loyal and obedient without actually thinking about it. It was part of him; it was what you did. He had been in the army when he had to because that was what you did. All men in Prussia had to serve in the army, and it was supposed to be honourable. Walter had found it unpleasant, but he had done it, and in hindsight he was proud.
When the two previous Kaisers had died, of course he had worn a black armband because it was what you did. And of course he had genuinely mourned because that was also what you did. But now? Now those things were over, and his life was going well, and...
I don’t care.
No

(pang of guilt). I do care about the city and about the country, and sometimes I see that some things are quite bad, and I wish I could make everything a bit better. But there’s nothing I can do about anything. What do I know about politics or governments or the law? What should I do to make people better or to make the world friendlier? And terrible though some things are I’m fine. I’m happy and I’ve got a good job.
I’ve got enough money to live on. I’m healthy. And I’m going to see my fiancée.

***

The carriage went through the district of Friedrichstadt with its shops, banks and government offices. It went past the Thiergarten. It went down Kurfürstendamm, the other large boulevard of the city.
The horse plodded on through the rain, its mane and tail hanging limply, its coat glistening with precipitation. The passengers spoke softly, and the raindrops pattered on the roof.
Walter left the carriage in the Wilmersdorf district and walked on down Königsallee where his fiancée’s family lived. The rain was falling a little less heavily now. Walter walked on, head bowed and umbrella raised, but smiling as he got closer to the mansion.
And then a feeling hit him, a sudden stab of despair and rage that was so intense it made him wince. He stopped dead and gasped.
Who had it come from?
Walter looked around trying to make out a figure that looked as if it were so desperate, but the people around him looked just the way people looked: busy, going somewhere.
Who had that been?
He would probably never find out.
Saying that Walter knew how someone else felt wasn’t a figure of speech. He didn’t guess their feelings or empathise with them; he actually knew. Their feelings hit him and flooded his brain, and sometimes he couldn’t even tell if they were his own feelings or somebody else’s.
It had taken him quite a while to work out that most other people couldn’t do it. When he was a child he didn’t realise that other people didn’t just look at somebody and heard (or saw? or felt? He couldn’t explain it) their thoughts, like he did.
There had been misunderstandings and embarrassing moments galore, until Walter realised that this was quite a special thing and he had best not let anyone find out.
His parents had (after persistent questioning) admitted that yes, he had a sort of supernatural ability, and it was nothing to be ashamed of, but could he please pretend it wasn’t the case?
He could. If he shut down deliberately, he could just about ignore the thoughts that whirled around him all the time. Some people thought he was reserved and unemotional because he was quiet – but really he was only busy not letting on that he knew what they thought. The things people worried about! The problems they had! The joy and fear and sadness that radiated from them, washing right over him if he didn’t concentrate!
If he was in a room full of people, their feelings came flooding him from all sides. Sometimes he needed all his energy to talk and smile. He would much rather shout, ‘Shut the hell up!’, but of course you couldn’t do that.
He could probably have made more of it, he knew that. He could have been a businessman who knew his opponents’ next move. He could have been a spy or a great lover. Only he wasn’t like that, and it would have been so difficult anyway. Yes, all right. Sometimes he used his ability in his job or with acquaintances: to know what a customer wanted, to find the right words, to avoid touching any sensitive issues. But he didn’t do it regularly because that would be bad manners.
No, no, much better to suppress the Ability, to forget about it, to pretend it didn’t exist. Walter could do that, and he did.
He managed to shake off the feeling. No, he wouldn’t find out who that emanation had come from, and if he did, what would that mean? It wasn’t as if he could have helped the person, was it?
Of course these things happened to people; everybody knew that there were people with mystical and magical powers. But why did this thing have to happen to him? Why shouldn’t it happen to, well, those people in the slums who were capable of using magic out of despair or malice?
Like Harfenjule, Jule with the harp, the blind woman who was always roaming the streets. Many people assumed that she could see the future, but nobody would admit it. And who knew what happened in the dirty quarters, in those places no respectable person would go to? Yes, he could imagine those people having magical powers. He could imagine it for the wealthy and clever people, professors and generals, those who were wiser than him and knew how to use their powers. That would fit.
But why him? After all, he was just an ordinary person, an upstanding citizen, loyal and proud, hard-working, polite and clean and very much in love. Why did he have to put up with all those feelings?

***

Seeing Charlotte was good. They had been engaged for three months now and would get married next year, presumably in March. And as Walter entered the mansion, as he had his coat removed by an inconspicuously efficient servant, as he saw his fiancée coming down the stairs, he gasped because he was still easily impressed. Charlotte was so damn beautiful with her strangely honey-coloured hair held up with pins, with her big dark brown eyes, with the train of her moss green dress trailing behind her.
They kissed very quickly and smiled at each other.
‘Good you’re here.’
‘Good I’m here.’
And it was. Walter used to feel uneasy here, but not anymore.
Charlotte’s family was rich, and sometimes that was intimidating. Their mansion was vast and decorated lavishly. It had gilded wastepaper baskets, tulle curtains and oriental carpets. The family had servants, who tiptoed through the house elegantly and demurely. There was a tiger fur lying in the entrance hall, glassy eyes staring into space, mouth gaping open to show enormous teeth. It could give an unprepared visitor a major shock.
Walter, on the other hand, lived in a rented flat in the Mitte district in central Berlin, an old-fashioned house with lots of columns and mirrors; a house that smelled of mothballs; a house with statues that could frighten your knitted woollen socks off you if you walked into them in the dark, and a landlady who could do the same even during the day. It was not quite as noble as this place, but it was most respectable. Walter had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. And he had a good job and was moving upwards. No, he didn’t feel awkward any more when he came to see Charlotte’s family.
Glancing at himself in a big gold-framed mirror, Walter was fairly pleased. He was wearing his best sport coat and his new navy-blue cravat; he was well-shaven, and he could honestly say he looked good.
He went to the salon to see his in-laws-to-be. They exchanged greetings and had drinks, and after some conversation with the family, supper was served.
They - that was, the two of them, Charlotte’s parents and her brother - had bouillabaisse, then beef with horseradish and cake; they watched each other over the table, smiling while they made polite conversation. Walter gave the right answers nearly automatically, thinking happy fleeting thoughts and feeling pleased with the world in general.
Things were going to be good, he just knew it. Charlotte was very lovable, and she loved him, and he knew he did well. He had a good job, and he would find an even better one. They would get married; they would have children; they would have a good reputation and live up to it. They would have a beautiful house; they would have servants; they would have lace curtains. They would have, therefore they would be. And they would be happy.
Walter had never told Charlotte about his Ability because that wasn’t anything to talk about. Charlotte wasn’t easy to see through.
Her father - Leopold Schaefer, 52, successful manufacturer of china dolls - was not a problem. He was pleased with himself and his life, his wife, his daughter and son, with his house. Some worries about his health. Some dirty thoughts, but nothing like what Walter had received from others until he learnt to block them off. He had involuntarily seen things the thought of which still made him wince. Herr Schaefer was not even remotely as shocking as that.
Charlotte’s mother - Erika Schaefer, 46, wife - was not difficult either. Melancholic, a bit sorry for herself, loving and caring, worried about too many things. Wistful but not sure what for. Friendly, polite, a bit more intelligent than a woman should be, but clever enough not to show it.
And Charlotte’s brother Martin, 29 years old and working as an administrator in the china doll factory, was growing up to be just the same as his father. He was confident, ambitious and well-educated, and throughout his life he would certainly be loyal to the Kaiser and the country, a good citizen, a pillar of the state. He wanted his parents to be respected and his sister to behave well.
Oh, yes, they were easy. Walter could say the things they wanted to hear and avoid what was inappropriate. He could please them. Perhaps that wasn’t morally right, but it was easy to do, and everybody wanted to make a good impression, didn’t they?
It was not the same with Charlotte, though. Walter could read some of her mind; catch some thoughts; feel some of her feelings, but he couldn’t get to the core of her mind even if he tried, and he never just caught her emotions without trying like he had done with that person in the crowd.
Sometimes it worked, though; sometimes he caught a glimpse of her feelings - rage or joy or sadness. Sometimes he could tell why she was upset, and could do the right thing. And sometimes she would look at him with a faraway expression, and nobody else would have known that in those moments she nearly choked with love.
Walter did know.
He wouldn’t let Charlotte know he knew, and it did not feel quite fair to read her mind. Even if he were able to read her like a book, he wouldn’t do it, or at least he liked to think he wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be on, would it? But it was good to know a little bit more, to have that extra certainty. He badly wanted everything to go well. He wanted her, and he wanted to be sure of her.
She loved him as much as he loved her, he knew that. He was unsure about many things in his life and the world and often didn’t care to judge or make a statement because he might be wrong. The world was quite confusing, and there were always people who knew more. It was usually safest to do what they said, wasn’t it? Don’t stick your neck out.
But there was one thing he knew: Charlotte was The One, and that she loved him, too.

***

When Walter walked back, the night was pitch-black. It was still raining, and he had forgotten his umbrella at the Schaefers’, but he didn’t mind. And since nobody would see him, he grinned to himself with shameless happiness.
Then a voice spoke behind him.
‘Excuse me?’
Walter turned around. A woman had just caught up with him. He couldn’t see a lot of her except for a cloak, a hooded face and an umbrella.
He shook his head. ‘No, thank you.’
‘I’ve got something for you, and it’s much better than you think.’
‘I’m not interested in anything you would offer me.’
The woman quickened her pace and walked next to him. ‘You should listen to me first,’ she said. ‘There’s quite a bit of money in it for you.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Never mind my name. Think of me as a recruiter. My employers want your help, and they’re willing to pay.’
‘Help with what?’
‘I know you can read minds.’
Walter winced. ‘How do - I mean, what makes you think so?’
‘Don’t deny it, please.’
As usual, The Ability kicked in when he didn’t call for it, and he could perceive the woman’s feelings clearly. Confidence and irritation, impatience, some elation. And certainty. She wasn’t guessing or bluffing.
She knows. She really knows.
‘How?’ Walter couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘I can feel it.’
‘You can?’
‘I can. In a way I can do the same as you, feel what other people feel, know what they think. I know whether other people have - well, let’s say special powers. It’s clear as daylight to me. I used to deny it, but it’s a good thing.’
She pushed her hood back a bit and looked at him fully for the first time. As the street lamp lit up her face, Walter saw her eyes glisten, the raindrops in her hair, a confident and slightly cruel smile.
‘Being able to read minds is a good thing, I can guarantee that. But you don’t think so, do you?’
‘How is that your business?’ He was getting irritated now.
‘Well, I’ve got an interesting offer for you. You could make money out of it, you know.’
‘I’m not interested in...’
‘For a good cause. Without any difficulty.’
He knew he shouldn’t even ask, not be intrigued, not risk finding out something that might tempt him, but he couldn’t stop himself.
‘How? Who?’
The recruiter smiled very beautifully. ‘Meet me at Alexanderplatz at noon tomorrow. I’ll tell you.’


CHAPTER 2
In which Walter gives up some things and presumably gains much more

Of course Walter didn’t intend to go. And of course he went all the same. He had thought about it, procrastinated, pretended to himself that he wouldn’t really do it, but he was too curious. And by 11:55 he found himself at the meeting point.
Alexanderplatz...
the big square in Mitte, commonly referred to as ‘Alex’; the square where Kaiser Friedrich Wigbert III of Prussia had met Tsar Alexander of Russia in 1805; the square with the huge luxuriant ‘Grand Hotel’, with the redbrick city hall Rotes Rathaus

and with a giant construction site where the new police headquarters was being built...
was crowded, as usual. People hurried by; fishwives and ragmen tried to sell their goods; horse carriages and automobiles passed; people went in and out of restaurants and pubs.
The recruiter was already sitting on a bench waiting for Walter. He might not even have recognised her in the bright winter sunshine because it made her look different from the way she had looked in the rainy night, but she saw him as soon as he got off the carriage and beckoned him to come over. He did; he sat down beside her and looked at her.
The woman was of medium height, slender and dark blonde, middle-aged. Her eyes were big, green and shiny.
‘I knew you’d come,’ she said, and he assumed that she meant it literally - that she had actually known. He could feel her doing to him what he did to others; she read his feelings and thus knew his intentions and wishes. It was the first time he felt somebody scrutinising his brain. He could tell she was sharper and faster than he was, and, unlike him, she did it intentionally. It was not a pleasant sensation, but strangely exciting.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘I told you I won’t give you my name, but if you want to call me anything, you can use the word Mindhunter. That’s what I am.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I hunt minds. I find people with special mental abilities. There are quite a few of them in this city - mind readers, telepaths, telekinetic people. And some are like you: they have those abilities, but they don’t want them or don’t know how to use them. Those are the people I’m looking for.’
‘Why?’
The Mindhunter smiled. ‘It is my job, that’s all I can tell you now. You’ll learn about that later. I’m employed by somebody else, and he’ll let you know when it’s time. He can’t tell who has the special skills we need to find, but I can. I look out for the people who have them but don’t want them, and when I find such people, I offer them a deal.’
‘A deal?’
‘You’ll learn about that later.’
‘And how did you find me?’
‘Yesterday I was at Königsallee at the same time as you. I felt you react to the despair of that guy. It practically oozed out of him, didn’t it?’
‘Who was it? What was the matter with him?’
The Mindhunter shrugged. ‘He was some young guy. I guess it was about a girl or something, as usual. Anyway - I could feel that you felt it, too. I followed you and waited outside the house.’
‘I see.’ Walter lit a cigarette. ‘You waited in the dark for three hours?’
She nodded. ‘It’s part of my job, and it’s worth it.’
‘And what do you want from me?’
‘Well, I’ve already told you that it’s not up to me to explain things. I only make the first contact, and my boss will do the explaining – provided that you agree to come with me, of course. That is all you need to know for now. Apart from the fact that we want you to use your power for something good and offer you 1,000 gold marks for it.’
Walter just managed to stop himself from gasping. He desperately tried to read her mind, tried to find out who she was and what she planned or at least what her name was, but she was a block. Feelings of power, confidence and impatience, he could sense that. Everybody could have sensed that. But he couldn’t find anything else. She shut him off.
‘But... no...,’ he said feebly, ‘I know I could use that power for many things. I could play cheap tricks on people, or I could take advantage of them. If it’s anything like that, I don’t want to be involved. That’s not what I want to do. I’m honest. I’m not like that.’
‘I never said you were,’ said the Mindhunter, clearly not impressed by Walter’s remark. ‘Neither are we. Do you want to find out what we’re offering you, or not?’ She stood up and nodded at him. ‘Follow me.’

They walked across the square. They walked through the Bahnhof Alexanderplatz train station, a brick building with arches. Trains rumbled through it, puffing out steam.
Walter and Alexandra went through alleyways and underpasses and crossed a bridge over the Spree river.
Eventually they reached an office block, a big, grey building in a side street.
Walter followed the Mindhunter through a gate, across a big, empty yard and then up some stairs.
She knocked on a metal door.
‘Yes?’ answered a deep voice inside.
‘The Prussian winter has begun,’ said the Mindhunter.
‘The autumn was long and colourless,’ the voice answered.
‘But spring is on its way.’
The door opened, and a bulky man in a black uniform looked out. He nodded at the Mindhunter, then looked – his expression nearly justified the word glared - at Walter.
‘Who’s he?’ he said to the Mindhunter.
‘Walter Busch. He’s one of them

. I vouch for him.’
The guard gave Walter another look of deep suspicion. ‘Are you sure?’ he said to her.
‘I am.’
‘Date of birth, address and occupation, please,’ the guard demanded, speaking to Walter for the first time.
Walter gave him the required information.
‘And now let us pass, Herr Springer is waiting for us,’ the woman said sharply. ‘Does he like to be kept waiting, do you think?’
The guard stepped aside without a word and waved them past. His glance could have melted rocks.
The two walked through the door and down some corridors, then up a narrow flight of stairs. The Mindhunter knocked on more doors. She gave code words and showed an official-looking card. From time to time she glanced impatiently at Walter as he followed her.
Then they reached the office they wanted to get to. A man in a green uniform opened the door, ushered them in and stood in the doorway with the slightly threatening expression that is generally so useful for guards.
Behind him there was a large room that was dominated by a desk with a man sitting at it. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Walter couldn’t really place him. He looked around sixty years old, stocky, grey-haired.
‘Good afternoon, Herr Springer,’ said the Mindhunter with a surprisingly deferential note in her voice. ‘This is the man I told you about yesterday.’
‘Well done, thank you.’ The man nodded at Walter. ‘Pray take a seat.’
Walter did.
‘Thank you,’ the man at the desk repeated to the Mindhunter, ‘You can leave us now.’
The woman smiled, nodded and left the room.
‘Glad to see you,’ said the man. ‘What is your name?’
Walter told him.
‘Sehr erfreut

, pleased to meet you.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’
At that point something in the corner of the room caught Walter’s eye. The other man followed his gaze and nodded.
‘So you’ve noticed her?’
‘Is that an eagle?’ Walter asked, unable to bite back the question. He couldn’t help glancing at the silver cage with the bronze-coloured animal inside it. The bird sat quietly in a space that was far too small, head cocked, apparently listening.
‘Yes, it is.’ The man regarded the cage affectionately. ‘This is Aquila, the only tame eagle in Berlin. She’ll do anything I tell her.’
Tame eagle... wait, where had he heard that...
‘My name is Springer,’ the man added. ‘Gustav Springer. As in Springer Aufzüge & Compagnie.’
Of course, yes. That was how Walter knew him. A man who had made a fortune selling lifts. He owned a big factory in the northwest of the city; he was known for his wealth; he had founded a few hospitals after his son had died of a tumour or something like that; he was a philanthropist and a pillar of the community; and, of course, he had his very own tame eagle.
‘You would like to work for me, Herr Busch?’ said Springer.
Walter didn’t know what to say. ‘I...’
‘Let me assure you that it is for a very worthy cause and you won’t have any reason to regret it. I am a - you might call me a private benefactor. I work to achieve more stability for the Reich; I want to save our values and protect our interests.’
Walter nodded. There was certainly nothing wrong with that.
‘And that is not easy,’ Springer continued. ‘There is insurgence throughout the land. Do you know what happened during the past years? Have you heard of the books that have been written? Do you know the things people claim? Do you know about their demands?’
The question was slightly too general. ‘Uh... not really. I mean, you hear strange things, but do you mean anything in particular?’
‘Well, let me tell you, we are in danger. Disobedience and instability are rife, and dangerous ideas spread in this country. Do you know what happened in 1848?’
Walter hesitated and then ventured, ‘You mean the revolution?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Springer.
Walter hadn’t been alive when the revolution took place; he had been born twelve years later - but yes, everybody knew about the revolution, didn’t they? It had been like an outbreak of collective madness – not only here, but more or less all over Europe. People had rebelled and demanded constitutions; they had refused to work and generally caused chaos.
There had been fights in Prussia, in Austria, in Hungary, Italy, France. There had been fights here in Berlin, on the Alex and on the Schlossplatz, the big square in the heart of Berlin close to the Kaiser’s palace. The army had fought back, and hundreds of people had been killed.
Well, but that was all over now, wasn’t it? The rebels had had some of their demands fulfilled. They had wanted a united country of German-speaking states rather than the federation of independent states that existed at the time. This had not happened then and not to that extent, but after all, the German Reich (though without Austria) had been founded in 1871.
Some European kings had abdicated; there had been changes to the right to vote so a few more people were entitled; the first parliament for the whole of Germany had been established in free elections. Now all the unrest was over, and Walter couldn’t see why people would worry anymore.
‘Of course I mean the revolution,’ Springer repeated impatiently.
‘What about it?’ said Walter uncertainly.
‘Something like that might happen again. Have you heard of Karl Marx and Charles Darwin, for example?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Who hadn’t?
Marx was, of course, the founding father of Communism, and everybody – at least everybo- dy Walter had anything to do with - knew that Communists were up to no good. They would toss the world upside down with their ideas about taking land, factories, the money and the means of production from the rich or whatever they wanted. They complained about everything, and in the end they would cause nothing but mess.
As for Charles Darwin... he mainly seemed to say that humans were really a different type of ape and not really God’s creation at all. That was as much as Walter knew, and as much as he wanted to know about people like that.
Yes, of course these teachings were crazy and dangerous, but they had never bothered Walter very much. Certainly everybody knew those people and their followers were mad, didn’t they? And they were dead anyway, and they hadn’t even lived in Germany (well, certainly not Darwin, and Marx had left the country a long time ago), had they? How could some strange people in another country matter that much? Were they really a threat?
They were, according to Springer.
‘People like that give the normal citizens ideas. They may be dead, but their teachings are still around causing trouble. People are angry. They don’t understand what freedom and prosperity really mean. They want more money; they refuse to work; they don’t have any morals; all the wrong people demand the right to vote. People doubt everything and will start to complain and sulk and fight. Haven’t you noticed that?’
He seemed to have a point; Walter couldn’t deny that there seemed to be a lot of political unrest, crime and complaints.
‘Too many people don’t understand that what’s good for the Kaiser is good for the country and what’s good for the country is good for its people. They rise against the rulers of the world, they rise against the Kaiser. In most cases it is not even their fault – it is because they have been misled, because there is no one to take proper care of them and protect them. And that’s something I won’t allow to happen.’
‘I don’t really know a lot about politics...’ Walter began diffidently.
‘This is not about politics. I am not a politician, I am a businessman. Everybody knows industry and politics don’t belong together, right? It’s about charity, about keeping peace and saving the world from chaos. That’s what I want to do. Some months ago I founded the Berliner Wohlthaetigkeits-Gesellschaft

, the Charitable Society of Berlin. The woman who brought you here is one of my most important helpers, and the guards are trustworthy supporters. We intend to make this city a safer, richer and cleaner place. New Berlin will be a true utopia.’
‘And... and what do you want from me?’
‘I am collecting certain powers most people don’t have. Once I’ve got enough of them, I’ll be able to stop fights. I’ll be able to make people happy. You’ve got the power to read minds, but you don’t know what to do with it, do you?’
Walter kept silent because it was true.
‘I do,’ said Gustav Springer. ‘If I had your power, I would learn to control it properly, and I’d use it to fight for the strength of our country. I’d be able to see what our enemies are up to. I’d know if someone was planning a crime, and I would prevent it. Give me that power. You won’t regret it.’
Springer’s voice was strong and commanding. He was the man in charge, sure of his authority.
He meant it, Walter could feel that much. There was genuine hope and benevolence coming from the man opposite him; Springer really wanted to do what was best.
You’ve got that power. You can’t use it. You don’t need it. You don’t want it. It makes you stand out, and you don’t want that, do you? You want to be happy. Springer would use the Ability for the best, and he’d pay you for it (and 1,000 marks is a fortune for you). He’s serious; you can feel that he’s not lying, can’t you?

‘But... well, even if I wanted to give you my power,’ Walter said hesitantly, ‘how could I technically do that?’
Springer smiled.
‘Does that mean you do want to?’
It was difficult to resist, and Walter did not try very hard. ‘Well...’ he said, and that was enough to tell Springer that he meant yes.
‘Wonderful. The answer to your question is only a short journey away.’

***

A bit later they were on the Pfaueninsel, Peacock Island, an islet in the Havel river in the south-western Wannsee district. Pfaueninsel was a picturesque and important part of Berlin.
It was where Friedrich Wigbert I, Elector of Brandenburg, had hunted rabbits in the 17th century.
It was here that Friedrich Wigbert II had used to meet his mistress, the trumpeter’s daughter Gräfin von Lichtenau, who had his child when she was fifteen years old. Here she had had a snow-white, dream-like castle built for her.
It was where Friedrich Wigbert III had had a garden with roses and palm trees, rice and sugar cane; where he had kept a menagerie with birds and bears, llamas, kangaroos and monkeys - animals which his son, Friedrich Wigbert IV gave to Berlin Zoo later.
It was where, during the revolution of 1848, Kaiser Wigbert I had hidden before he fled to England.
Peacock Island was also where (and this was the fact that was most prominent to Walter at the moment) the alchemist Johannes Kunckel had produced glass in the 17th century – presumably performing black magic, experimenting with fire and potions, creating smoke and stench.
Walter had vaguely heard the rumours about all those things, but never worried too much. Of course, there were people who would do black magic, and it was probably reasonable to be careful when you went to Peacock Island - but that was all over now. Johannes Kunckel’s laboratory had burnt down, and the alchemist had moved to Sweden and died a long, long time ago.
And now it turned out that one of the small pavilions was still being used as a laboratory and that alchemy was not as far away as Walter had thought.
The laboratory was immaculately clean and neat. If it exuded anything, then it wasn’t sorcery, but efficiency. There were cages with monkeys and dogs that stared blankly into space. There were thousands of bottles, from the standard to the unusual: belladonna and holly, opium, camomile, laughing gas, æther, powder made from toadstools, bags of cocaine. There were drugs that could make you happy, numb or wild, that could make you sit contentedly watching your hands for the rest of your life.
There were scalpels, needles and wires, and there was something in a bottle that might have been a homunculus. There was a big picture on the wall that explained the basics of phrenology: the art of telling from the shape of your head whether you’re a born criminal, an imbecile, a natural leader, a good citizen, a genius... or something else.
Walter looked at the rows of shelves that lined the white-tiled walls, stacked with bottles and little pots, with test tubes and Petri dishes, with candles, coins and amulets.
‘Could you please tell me what’s your role in this?’ he said to the middle-aged, contented-looking man opposite him.
Springer had introduced the man as Doctor Cornelius Hermann before wishing them good luck, putting 500 marks in cash on the table (the other half was to be paid afterwards) and leaving. Now Walter was alone with this man and his obscure devices and medicines. They were sitting at a well-scrubbed metal table looking at each other.
‘Well,’ said Dr Hermann, ‘I am the person who’s responsible for the medical and magical side of things. I extract special powers and transfer them to the right persons.’ He seemed to be getting into the swing.
‘I mesmerise and magnetise,’ he continued, ‘I know who’s good and bad and stupid, because I can tell from their outlooks. I have pills and powders, wires and cables, spells and symbols and lotions and potions. One day I’ll cleanse the world from all of the things that don’t fit in. I saw bones, I slash skin...’
He checked himself, smiled happily, and saw Walter’s expression. ‘But only if it is necessary. That’s not what I will do to you.’
‘And what will you do? What happens if I say yes?’
‘I thought you had said yes already?’ Dr Hermann pointed to the money on the table.
Walter nodded. ‘Well...’
‘There we are, then. You agreed to give us your ability to read minds, and that’s what will happen. The whole operation is easy. First you must understand that thoughts, feelings and mental abilities are just another form of matter, and I know how to gain access to this matter.’
‘I see...’
‘Now, Herr Busch, your brain possesses a certain sensitivity for thoughts and emotions. We will extract this sensitivity and transfer it into one of these bottles...’ - the doctor pointed to three grey bottles lined up on a bottom shelf - ‘by means of certain substances and conductors. I have done similar operations on other people with powers different from yours, so I know that it is possible. It is a quick procedure, you’ll feel barely anything, and afterwards you’ll be immensely relieved.’
Walter had spotted the operative word. ‘Barely?’
‘Well, I cannot guarantee that it will be completely painless. But we will do our best. And it will be far less painful than - well - what other people feel and will continue to pass on to you, less painful than the constant emotions of others affecting you. A few hours of discomfort are better than a lifetime of being crushed under strangers’ feelings. Can’t you imagine that?’
Once again, Walter remained silent. He could.
‘Your ability is nothing to be afraid of,’ said Dr Hermann, ‘but it is nothing that is necessary or helpful for you, either. I have considered it for a long time, and I think that it is simply a highly developed form of telepathy. But you are not happy with it, are you?’
And that was the main point. Oh God, it sounded like a good plan to get some peace and quiet and not to have to feel what others felt and not to be different all the time.
‘What is going to happen now?’ said Walter weakly.
‘Nothing you need to worry about. First of all we will need to make a few examinations to ensure that you are fit and well enough for the operation and to make arrangements so that everything will go as smoothly as possible. You will sit down over there’ - he pointed to a leather chair in the middle of the laboratory - ‘and I will give you something to stop you from feeling pain. If all the tests go satisfactorily, we will start the operation itself. We will put some wires on you to take out your power. You need to be awake at that time, but as soon as we can, we will make you sleep. And when you wake up, it will all be over. Are you ready?’

***

The afternoon was a mass of blurred images. Walter had his eyes examined and the shape of his head checked, his arms measured and his fingers scrubbed with carbolic. He was washed and had iodine put on him. Spells were spoken and herbs were burnt.
Then he sat down on the chair and put his arms on the arm rests, so the doctor could fix the leather straps. This he did promptly, and the actual operation began.
Walter sat silently while sounds vibrated and echoed between the white tiles. He was given a copper helmet that made his head ache. A blue bottle and a wire were attached to him. There were injections: anaesthetics against the pain, something that made him numb, something that was like ice in his veins. Then things became odd and confusing; he didn’t understand what was happening. All he felt was the spinning and shaking of the room, a dull ache in his whole body, piercing voices far away.
And at some point he woke up with a curious pain in his forehead. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
He was still strapped to the chair, but the helmet was gone, and there didn’t seem to be any tubes or needles anywhere.
‘It has really happened, hasn’t it?’ he mumbled.
‘It certainly has.’ The doctor stood stooping over him, grinning widely and displaying an uncanny amount of teeth.
‘Congratulations, boy. You’ve done splendidly. It’s all over now.’

***

Later on Walter met Charlotte again. They went to a café in Wilmersdorf and drank coffee; she gave him back his umbrella; they talked; she looked more beautiful than ever.
There was something different about him, she thought as they went out for a short walk, decently and without any bad intentions. However, she couldn’t say what was different, and she didn’t ask.
Walter talked with her and said what you were supposed to say. He was polite and courteous. He tried to find out what she felt, but he was not sure. It was true: his Ability was gone. He still received emanations from her, the way apparently all humans did, but they were not as clear as they used to be, not by far - not even if he used all the concentration he could muster. It was frightening not to sense her feelings anymore, but at the same time it was an incredible relief.
After the operation Dr Hermann had given him the rest of the money, which Springer must have left before, and had rowed him back from Peacock Island. Walter had walked home through south Berlin. He had walked on and on and finally taken a carriage. He had sat there, the horse’s steps shaking him; his temples throbbing and his hands trembling, mercifully free from anybody else’s thoughts and feelings. Alone in his head at last.
His mind-reading power had been transferred to a glass bottle from which somebody else would take it at some point. They would use it to control criminals, use it to know about their next moves and forestall them. That was something good; Walter was proud of it.
It hadn’t been about the money. Well, in a way it had, and anyone who criticised that should try living in poverty - but that hadn’t been the main cause because Walter wasn’t like that. It had been because they had promised him peace and quiet, a mind of his own, without all those hopes and fears of other people confusing him. A life of his own. That was what he had been promised; that was what he had signed up for, and that was what he had received.
Why shouldn’t he have done it? Springer was a good man, a God-fearing man, loyal, reliable. He would use his new powers to do what was good for everybody. He would make more money, and the city would prosper; there would be less crime and less insurgence, and people would be happier. What Springer wanted was charitable, wasn’t it? He didn’t interfere with politics; he was just a businessman, and he was respectable and intelligent. Anyway, the Ability was just a strange power Walter didn’t need. He hadn’t given up anything important.
As he watched his fiancée’s dark eyes, smelled her perfume and let her voice caress him, he realised that he was happy. Dizzy though he was, his arms prickling from the needles, the punctures slightly swollen and dark, his head reeling, he was happy and relieved.
Anxiously and slightly elated - hung over from the drugs - feeling a bit guilty without any discernible reason. Expectant without knowing what it was he expected. Free from the other people’s thoughts, free from any kind of mind-reading. All of those things, but mainly relieved.
Content.


Want to know more? The book 'Berlintoxication' will shortly be published. In the meantime, more information can be found on www.berlintoxication.weebly.com. I would love to hear from you!

Impressum

Texte: Stephanie Laimer
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 21.07.2012

Alle Rechte vorbehalten