Zoo Station: The Story of Christiane F. (3 page)

In the evenings, I always asked my dad (as sweetly as I could) if he had any plans for the night. He went out a lot, and the first thing we did after he left was breathe a very deep sigh of relief. Those evenings were wonderfully peaceful. But when he got back later on, there was always the threat of another disaster. Usually he was drunk by then, so just one small thing could cause him to go totally apeshit. It could be toys or even just a piece of clothing that was lying around because no one had put it away. My dad always said that nothing was more important than tidiness. And if he saw something that hadn't been cleaned up when he came home, he'd drag me out of bed and beat me. After he was done with me, my little sister would also get a beating. Then my dad would throw all our stuff onto the floor and demand that we pick it up and put everything away in just five minutes. Of course we could almost never get it done, so we'd get another spanking.

My mom would usually just stand in the doorway and cry while all this was going on. She didn't dare defend us because then he would beat her, too. Only Ajax, my Great Dane, would intervene. While my dad was beating us, he would whimper in a really high voice and stare at us with his big, sad eyes. Ajax was the only one who could bring my dad to his senses because he loved dogs as much as we all did. He once yelled at Ajax, but never beat him.

Despite all that, I still loved and respected my dad. I thought he was way better than other kids' dads, but I was still terrified of him—despite the fact that I thought it was completely normal when he would smash things or hit whoever happened to be around him. It wasn't any different at the other kids' homes in the projects. Sometimes they even got black eyes, and so would their moms. There were some dads who even passed out drunk in the street or woke up in the playground. Sometimes furniture came flying out of the windows from the apartments above us, and women would yell for help so that the police would have to come. It wasn't anywhere near that bad with our family. My dad never got that drunk.

My dad constantly nagged my mom about spending too much money—even though she worked and he didn't. Sometimes she would tell him that most of it financed his drinking escapades, his women, and his car. Then their fights would get physical.

His car, the Porsche, was the one thing in this world that my dad loved most. He buffed and polished it every day (or at least every day it wasn't in the repair shop). There couldn't have been another Porsche in all of Gropiusstadt—and certainly not owned by somebody who didn't have a job.

Back then, I didn't have a clue about what was really bugging my dad—why he was constantly going berserk on us. It didn't dawn on me until later, once I started talking with my mom a little bit more often. Little by little, I began to see things for what they really were. He just couldn't make it, didn't have it in him to hold down a job and support a whole family. He always wanted to make it big, aimed high, and fell back down again. His dad despised him for that. Grandpa had warned my mom before the wedding that his son was a “good-for-nothing son of a bitch.” My grandpa used to have big plans for my dad: The family was supposed to regain the wealth and status that it had in the old days, before the DDR seized all of its possessions.

If he hadn't met my mom, he might have become a farm manager or certified dog breeder, in which case he would have probably bred Great Danes. He was studying farm management when he met my mom. She got pregnant, so he quit his studies and married her. At some point, the idea got lodged in his mind that my mom and I were to blame for his misery. All that he had left of his grandiose dreams was his Porsche—that, and a few snobby, cocky friends.

He didn't just hate his family, he completely rejected us. He didn't want anything to do with us. He even went so far as to deny our existence to his friends. They weren't supposed to know that he was married and had kids. When we met his friends, or when someone picked him up from home, I always had to call him “Uncle Richard.” Because of the regular beatings, I'd learned to keep things straight, and I never made a mistake. As soon as other people were around, he was my “uncle.”

It wasn't any different with my mom. She was never allowed to tell his friends that she was his wife, and she wasn't allowed to act like his wife either. I think he always said that she was his sister.

My dad's friends were younger than him. They still had their lives ahead of them, or so they said. My dad wanted to be one of them—he wanted to be young again and not have to worry about providing for a family (or failing to do so). That just about sums up my dad. As far as he was concerned, we were just deadweight, holding him back and dragging him down.

But back then—when I was six, seven, eight years old—I didn't have a clue, of course. My dad simply reinforced the code of conduct that I'd learned at school and in the street: It was a dog-eat-dog world—eat or be eaten. My mom, who'd received enough beatings in her life, had arrived at the same conclusion. “Never start anything,” she drilled into me. “But if someone hurts you, then you hurt them back. Punch, and keep punching— as long and as hard as you can.”

It took me a while to completely absorb that lesson. At school I started with the weakest teachers. I kept interrupting class with my own running commentary. It made the others laugh, at least, but I didn't start to win any respect from my classmates until I started doing the same thing with the stricter teachers.

I'd learned how you got your way in Berlin: You had to show no fear, and always be ready with something quick and cutting. No one got anywhere without a big mouth. The bigger the better. After I learned how to intimidate people with my insults, I started to back it up with muscle. I wasn't really that strong, but when I got angry, I got angry. I learned that a big mouth combined with a bit of well-timed fury could win out over someone much stronger than me. It got to the point where I would even look forward to pissing people off because then I'd get a chance to prove myself again after school. Often, I didn't even have to get physical. The kids just respected me.

In the meantime, I turned eight. All I wanted was to just grow up already, to be an adult, like my dad, and to have real power over others. Whatever power I already had, I experimented with and used as much as possible.

At one point, my dad actually found a job. It didn't make him happy, but it at least paid for his Porsche and for his alcohol. And so now that he had a job, my younger sister and I got to stay home alone in the afternoons. I'd also become friends with a girl who was a couple years older than me. Being friends with her made me proud and gave me even more credibility at school.

Almost every day after school, we played this game with my little sister: We collected cigarette butts out of garbage cans and ashtrays; then we straightened them out, held them between pinched lips, and puffed away. When my sister tried to get a piece of the action, though, she got a slap on the fingers. We ordered her to do the housework—to wash the dishes, dust, and do whatever else our parents had asked us to do. Then we grabbed our doll carriages, locked the apartment, and headed out for a walk. We kept my sister locked up until she'd finished all of the chores.

AT AROUND THIS SAME TIME
, when I was about eight or nine, a riding stable opened up in Rudow. At first, we were really pissed off, because it meant that we were going to lose the last bit of wilderness and nature in the area—the one place where we could escape with our dogs. It was going to be fenced in and cleared of trees. But then I started talking with the owners, and we got along really well. I helped them with cleaning stables and taking care of the horses, and in exchange I was allowed to ride for fifteen minutes or so in down times during the week. I thought that was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

I loved the horses and also the donkey they had there. But there was something else that I thought was incredible about riding: the feeling of power that it gave me. The horse I was riding was much stronger than me, but I could force it to bend to my will. When I fell off, I had to get back on. I had to get back up again and again, until the horse finally obeyed me.

They didn't always need help at the stables, and when they didn't, I'd need to find another way of getting money for my fifteen-minute ride. We hardly ever got an allowance at home, so I began to pull little scams. I cashed in discount coupons and collected redemption money by returning my dad's beer bottles.

When I was about ten, I started shoplifting, too. I'd try to grab stuff that we couldn't get from our parents—usually from local supermarkets. Stuff like candy. Almost all the other kids were allowed to eat candy. But my dad said that it caused your teeth to rot.

In the projects, we all eventually learned the same lesson: You couldn't have fun without breaking some rule. All of our best games were forbidden in one way or another. Actually, pretty much everything was forbidden—whether it was fun or not. There was a sign at every corner in Gropiusstadt. The “recreational parks” between the high-rises were really just sign parks. And most of the signs were directed at kids, prohibiting one thing or another.

I liked to copy the strangely contradictory language from the signs into my diary. The first sign that I noticed was right next to our front door. Kids were basically only allowed to tiptoe around the apartment and the staircase: playing, running, roller-skating, or bicycling—everything else was prohibited. Then when you walked outside to the lawn, you'd see more signs, at every corner with even a bit of green: Keep off the grass. We weren't even allowed to sit on the grass with our dolls. Next, there was an anemic rose garden and again a big sign in front of it: Protected public gardens. Right below this bit of advice there was a paragraph that pointed out that punishment would follow should anyone get too close to the pathetic little roses.

So we were only allowed onto the playground. Every few high-rise apartment buildings were allotted one playground, usually consisting of some sand (which was also used as a urinal), a few broken climbing structures, and of course a huge sign. The sign was installed inside an iron box, under glass, and the glass was protected by an iron grate, in case we got the crazy idea to smash that piece of nonsense. The sign was titled “Playground Rules,” and it instructed kids to use the playground exclusively for “fun and relaxation.” That simple goal was actually made pretty difficult, though, since we weren't allowed to “relax” at our convenience. In bold, underlined letters, we were also told that the park was only open “from 8 a.m. until 1 p.m., and from 3 p.m. until 7 p.m.” So by the time we got home from school, we could forget about any fun and relaxation.

Technically speaking, my sister and I weren't even allowed on the playground, since the sign declared that kids could play there “only with permission from and under supervision of their legal guardians.” And even if our parents had been with us, we
would still have broken the rules, since “the community's need for quiet should be especially respected.” According to these rules, we could only really just play catch—silently, of course, and under supervision. But the fun stopped there, because even then, “Any ballgames of athletic nature are not allowed.” So no dodge-ball, no soccer. This was especially hard on the boys, who had to release their extra energy (and pent-up frustration) on the climbing structures, benches, and, of course, all those signs. It must have cost a lot of money to keep replacing the signs over and over again.

The property manager kept watch and made sure that everyone followed the rules, so I wound up on his shit list pretty quickly. Pretty soon after our move to the housing projects, the playground (which was basically concrete, sand, and a slide) bored me to the point of insanity. But then I found something interesting: the storm drains. They were supposed to divert all the rainwater from the concrete area, but back then you could still lift off the grate that covered the drain. (Later on, of course, they corrected that mistake.) So my sister and I lifted off the grate and tossed all sorts of junk down into the drain hole. The property manager came, grabbed us by the collar, and dragged us into his office. We were only five or six years old, but once he had us in there, he treated us like criminals and made us give him all our personal information (or as much as we could provide at the time). Our parents were notified, and my dad had another good reason to beat us.

I didn't understand what was so bad about plugging up the drain. In the town where I came from, we did all sorts of things like that near the stream, without any adults ever complaining. But I did understand that in the projects, the kids were supposed to obey the grown-ups' rules, above all else. You were supposed to slide down that one slide they'd given us and play around in the urine-soaked sandbox. It was dangerous to make your own rules or be at all creative.

The next run-in with the property manager was about something more serious. It happened like this: I was walking Ajax, my Great Dane, and got the idea to pick some flowers for my mom. Back in our hometown, I would pick flowers all the time and make beautiful bouquets. But here in between the high-rises, there were only these pathetic roses. My fingers were getting all bloody trying to pick just a couple of blossoms off of the rosebushes. Either I couldn't read the sign, Protected public gardens., or I didn't understand what it meant.

But I knew I'd done something wrong when I saw the property manager running toward me (he broke the rule about not stepping on the grass), screaming something and flailing his arms like a crazy person. Overcome with fear and panic, I said, “Ajax, attention!” My big dog's ears went up, his body went rigid, his hackles went up, and he stared down the property manager. The guy stopped dead in his tracks and started retreating back over the lawn. He didn't dare start yelling again until he was within range of the building's entrance. I was relieved but hid the roses behind me, as by that time, I definitely knew that I'd broken the rules again.

When I got home, the property management office had already called to say that I'd threatened the manager with my dog. Instead of a kiss from my mom, I got a spanking from my dad. No one cared that I'd brought flowers.