# Mahler in love with Monroe?

C.-A. Rebaf

What a crazy question as a title! Gustav Mahler died in 1911 and Marilyn Monroe was born in 1926. How could they have met? Well, read this thriller and C.-A. Rebaf will tell you.

First we are confronted with a bleak future scenario: The threatened nuclear bombs of the rogue states were dropped on the Western world. Mankind has to anticipate the complete extinction: children can not be born anymore because of the high level of environmental radioactivity.

C.-A. Rebaf

Mahler in love with Monroe?

Thriller

Dieses ebook wurde erstellt bei

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Titel

Impressum

Dedication

An oven against potatoes

The red Paco-Paco

Wien, St. Marx

A lovestory after

Over the Danube

Grinder plays the organ

A letter from Marietta

You have to be an actor

Mariahilf

Opus 1

Cow dung and Mozart-chocolates

In the yellow sandstone

Again over the Danube

Where is the professor?

D minor and F major in feverish delirium

Marietta in the bunker

Composer

Danube-paco-paco-shipping

To be hammered

Grinder is suddenly a father

,Mulde 1'

Marlene

At the Swiss border

Two geniuses

Baum reappears

Grinder and Blondie

A pregnant corpse

Littel games

Gerstenmayer as 'The Old One'

The clone story

Mourning for Blondie

Marietta and Hannes in Vienna

Alarm!

The SM couple starts a nightly mystery tour

Wanted: Marlene

Suspicion

Change of a relationship

Gerstenmayer combined razor-sharp

The death and the girl

Marlenes few leftovers

Music experts among themselves

High Noon in Vienna

Italian concert tour

Disputed geniuses

Gerstenmayer solves the crime

Thanks

Impressum neobooks

## Impressum


wespen-kontor

Any similarities with living persons in this thriller are purely coincidental. All named persons are fictitious.

Contains clear descriptions of sexual acts and is written for adults only.

The novel describes a fictive Germany, Switzerland and Austria with details of Upper Bavaria south of Munich, Vienna as well as the surrounding of Jena, Leipzig and a Danube-boat trip up to Schaffhausen.

Translation and complement by the author on base of the 3rd German edition May 2018 (ISBN: 978-3-9818629-4-2) ‘Kann Mahler Monroe lieben’ August 2018

Text and book cover: All rights C.-A. Rebaf 2017

Publisher: wespen-kontor@email.de

## Dedication

For Elisabeth my Swiss love

## An oven against potatoes

On a warm late summer's day, I was about to go to the nearby town. The path, which used to be a paved country road, was today just a collection of potholes. I just left my village, passed the last ruined house on the road. Then the open fields , of which only a few were ordered, popped up in front of me. Between them grew conspicuously high bushes, from which a few giant trees stood out. The radioactive fall-out after the disaster is said to have caused such a growth. When these giant trees had first appeared, they had wondered. Today, they are already part of the normal landscape: trees like tropical jungle giants here in Upper Bavaria. In Hiroshima also over-sized flowers are said to have flowered after the bombing. But that was long, long before the catastrophe that few people had survived. Most, however, had died of their consequences, not of themselves. Today after that, we still suffered a lot from the impact. But most of them have arranged like me. My parents survived the disaster. They were among those who had a natural tolerance to radioactive radiation. Only such people survived. But my parents have died in the meantime, too. By contrast, I had been very small when it happened, and I have inherited her resistance genes.

There was something golden metallic glittering next to my way out in the field in the midday sun. A sharp beam of light, a reflection hit my eye. I paused and went to the field: the top of a cylinder sticking out of the ground. Obviously the object had been thrown to the surface by the last plowing, but had not been noticed. Quickly I began to dig with my bare hands and held shortly thereafter a barely a meter long cylinder in his hand. It was made of bronze or copper, and verdigris covered almost the entire surface. Why did a small area of the metal at the top remain exposed, allowing me to see the light phenomenon? The cylinder was divided in half; the middle worked so that you should be able to unscrew it. I tried, but I did not succeed. Without further ado, I put the thing in the backpack and went my way. What would be in it? Gold? Diamonds? Papers?

From afar, a burnt-out bell tower loomed out of a pile of wall fragments. That was it, the nearby small town or better, it used to be. Only a few houses were inhabited. We did not need the other ruins anymore. It lived today, after the disaster, maybe one percent of the people, maybe less. Nobody knew that exactly. We were back in the Middle Ages, living in small groups, without networking. My parents once told me something about traveling. We did not really know that word anymore because you could not travel anymore. There were no means of transport and no roads. It used to be possible to move through the air like a bird. I could not imagine that at all. We only used to walk and put back distances that we could do in one, two hours at the most. Longer you should not stay at one piece outside.

It was quiet here on my walk, and I was able to devote myself completely to my thoughts. Only the birds were twittering. From a distance, behind me, I heard one of my neighbors picking a field with his Paco-Paco. I knew the engine noise. After the disaster, a surviving South American built this type of vehicle out of old junk cars and gave it the name of his native tongue. "Paco-Paco" was as loud as the sound of the diesel again. These monsters consisted of an old engine powered by a wood gasifier. Wood grew in abundance here after the disaster. We needed it for heating and for the little light in the evening. Usually we got up with the sun, and when it went down, life went out and we went to sleep. In my backpack, I felt something hard pressing my ribs. "Oh yes, there is still the enchanted metal cylinder!" I remembered.

Only our neighbor in the village owned a Paco here. Once every family should own a car. They had sold fuel for it at petrol stations. I can not imagine that. Where did the devil stuff that drove the cars come from?


I was carrying potatoes on my back that I wanted to trade in the city. There were traders there, roaming the area, finding useful things from earlier times: a saucepan, a stovepipe, an oven. This stuff lay in abandoned house ruins. The shopkeepers collected everything and offered it in the market for exchange.

I was just about to go to Mr Mayr, the dealer in the neighbor town. He recently bought a Paco as well. His business seemed to be going well - his influence even reached Munich. But that was extremely dangerous, because it was still highly contaminated. This circumstance he had to accept - occupational risk. Besides, it was very difficult to get on these roads with a Paco. More than walking pace was not possible at all.

I strolled, lost in thought, and just passed the first ruined house in the city. Most houses burned to the ground. In former times the so-called ‘Italian quarter’ of Weilheim stood here. Today it looked like the excavated Pompeii. Only the stone walls with the hollow window holes protruded like over-sized skeletons into the landscape. Giant big elderberry bushes with heavy fruit umbels had covered the blackened walls. I remembered the metal cylinder again. What was in it? But I still had to be patient.

I carried potatoes, that had grown in my garden and wanted to exchange them for a oven at Mr. Mayr’s shop. Only a few kilos as a quality test, I wanted to show him. Mayr should then come with his Paco, bring the oven and take the three bags, I intended to invest. Owning a large potato field and I myself needed only a few potatoes for me and my little boy during the winter. So we had a surplus. A second oven for our bedroom would have been a great relief for the cold season.

I dreamed in heavenly silence, when suddenly an unfamiliar rattling startled me: An unknown red Paco-Paco with a body made of plywood around the passenger compartment laboriously made its way out of the city in the direction of my village and came to meet me. As he drove slowly besides me, I saw a driver in the front and an another unknown man on the backseat. He greeted me with an horsewhip in his hand and a inter-penetrating dominant smile. I was instantly thrilled. The glance of his eyes created floating tensions around my belly bottom and deeper south towards my female ‘Y’. I never felt such feelings for the last years.

Immediately the thought flashed through my head, to have seen this face before. But where? The stranger nodded to me and already the vehicle had passed me with the front-two-cylinder diesel engine on which the letters M.A.N. were still clearly visible. At the back, on a kind of loading area, were logs and the behemoth of furnace, under which a fire burned – just a typical wood gasifier. Was there really a traveler here? Here in the ‘Pfaffenwinkel’? What did someone want here in this Upper Bavarian ruin desert? Someone greeting me with his horsewhip?

Many questions! I wandered on my way, wondering how this face, with its round nickel-rimmed glasses and high forehead, seemed so familiar to me. But – with no result. Mr. Mayr - a friendly Upper Bavarian, who would have been called ‘g'wampert’ in the Bavarian dialect meaning potbellied; in the northeastern parts of the Germany around the capital his body would have been called ‘Mollenfriedhof’ in free translation beer-schooner-graveyard. He was never experienced unfriendly. His sunny mind was always brightened by his daily two to five pints. But despite all his optimism and lust for life, he was not easily overcome, because he was a guy with the philosophy "beer is beer and schnapps is schnapps"!

He examined my potatoes in the backpack thoroughly and waited for what I would offer him. "Of that I have stored at home three hundredweight, which I would like to exchange for a sturdy stove." "Ah... ...interesting...", was his terse answer, me still cunningly leaving the speech. After all, I wanted something from him, so he left the conversation to me. "Did you already stock up on supplies?" I tried to lure him out of the reserve. "What do you mean?", it came out of him, and he suddenly did very absent-mindlessly. But even I hardly felt like pushing further into him, because suddenly the stranger and the metal cylinder came to my mind again. The unknown, who had met me with his driver in the red Paco: What did he want? A traveler on the way to polling? I stared into space, and the conversation stopped suddenly. Mayr suddenly became visibly uncomfortable, as I refused to continue. "Very nice, your potatoes." I was very surprised to hear his voice so clearly, which almost tore me out of my brooding. "Isn’t it?", I beamed at him and tried to look at him with my most seductive bedroom view from the side! Did I reached him now? "Yes, what kind of oven would you have thought then, madam?" Aha, my eyes had an effect! It worked again and again, the beautiful game between the sexes! "Well, one of iron for our bedroom. Since it is always so cold in winter. We have enough wood for heating." "I've got something for You. But three hundredweight are not very much! And the stove is still an old quality! "Was not deep enough, my gaze, and I knew it was not much use now; now I had to move. "Unfortunately I do not have potatoes anymore. We need the rest of ourselves." "Well, my dear, more fried mashed potatoes in the next winter would not be bad too… and the after next as well!" "Next year!" I gasped in surprise and swallowed. "Do I know how the crop will be? I can not promise you that in good conscience." Now another seductive smile was announced, and I gave it to him. He gratefully accepted it. "So, well. Six hundredweight until next year! Since I can not move any further!" Aha, now haggling began!

"But, Mr. Mayr," I almost admonished him, "You do not want to cheat me, right?" And I mockingly raised my index finger. In Mayr's face I realized that he was now embarrassed. Well, I had another point for me. "I suggest you show me the stove first, and then we go on talking," I tried to raise the bar to a factual level, which Mayr gratefully accepted, even small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. "Gracious lady, this is a wonderful suggestion." He went ahead to his camp, which was on the opposite side of the courtyard and pulled his huge blue-and-white checked sackcloth out of the battered leather, dabbed his forehead excitedly, and wiped his hand over the bull's neck. The property was probably a very old farm with house, barn and stable, which were arranged around the square courtyard and fenced with a high wall. Due to the disaster, it was completely burned out and with tarpaulins, sheets, electricity pylons as steel girders and all sorts of other improvised material again makeshift. In the barn was his camp, in the stable were again animals, it smelled of pig, sheep and goats. His huge Paco-Paco, a three-axle with a three-cylinder diesel engine and large cargo area, stood in the yard. The wood gasifier took the place of the passenger seat in this vehicle and could be easily heated by the driver. Despite his short legs, Mayr was nimble, so I struggled to follow him. As we passed the vehicle, I rather dropped my approval: "May I ask you to take over the transport of the oven as well? You could take the potatoes with you on the way back." He pretended to ignore it, but I knew he had picked it up very well. We rummaged through the camp. Mayer got even more in a sweat, because he did not find the oven right away and had to constantly put things out of the way, because he thought he would find the oven behind it. As valuable as he did, the monster did not seem to be! He had finally found him. "Well, gracious, did I promise to much?" The stove was rather rusted, but with old cast-iron plates and embellishments. If we would clean it, he would be right. I ran my hand across the outer surface and the dust spun up. Exaggerated, I played the role of the outraged and even brought about a real sneezing. Disdainfully, I looked at the good piece and turned to my companion: "No, Mr. Mayr, you offer this bitch to me?" Mayr jerked a bit.

"And you dare to ask for six hundredweight of potatoes for it?" I looked down at him motherly-reprimanding from above. This change of role from the seducer to the stern mother was now strategically very effective. I was about to turn away when he looked me in the eye and said softly: "Five!" Now I was convinced to be on the winner side. "Four!" Came out sharply from my mouth. He pretended to have been hit and said his standard formula, "Gracious, you will ruin me!" I knew that was his okay, and added, "I'll get another pot of heat-resistant iron paint, that we can put the good piece into the bedroom after editing. "He agreed and added," I'll bring you of the object next week." We said goodbye to each other, and I was pleased internally, but concluded to have settled a good trade. It was not a mistake to have learned a lot from my father as adolescent. In addition to a great deal of knowledge about classical music, this included haggling: He taught me all the tricks, that men have on negotiating deals and cheating each other. My mother always said to him: "My God, she is a girl, you educate her like a boy!" It was getting dark, and I quickly made my way back to my village.

At home I found the metal cylinder in my backpack again and treated the screw cap with some vinegar. It hissed, and then I could open it by turning. Inside was a movie poster from times before the catastrophe. It showed a blond woman with big breasts in a white halter dress. She stood on a mesh shaft, from which a wind blew up and lifted her airy skirt. The woman's face showed that while she was frightened trying to pull her skirt down out of shame, the mischievous component of her smile clearly signaled to the viewer that she was grateful to the breeze from the shaft, which was exposing her beautiful legs and showing their perfect contours. This charms every interested man. In this way, on the one hand, she remained a shy young woman, and only the evil wind was to blame for her wickedness! The seductive arts of women are to master this balancing act between shame and sophistication perfectly. ‘The saint and the whore!’, was the reaction of the male part in me. My feminine side had only one disdainful word for it: ‘Slut!’. On the poster next to the woman was a bold signature: Marilyn Monroe.

I found a blank wall and hung up the poster. Not that I found it particularly nice. But the bare wall with the poster I liked better than without.

But suddenly I remembered the dominant stranger with the horsewhip and my butterflies dandled again down south...

## The red Paco-Paco

It was almost dark, and I could see almost nothing as I walked light-footed through the former monastery village. In the ruins of the monastery yard I recognized the red Paco with the glowing embers under the wood gasifier. Was the stranger staying here? Here in our damned small dump? Somehow I was suddenly scared and in parallel hopefully stimulated. My joy at trading with Mr. Mayr was almost forgotten.

At home, Golie was waiting for me. He had set the dinner table and was pleased when he saw me. We had dinner together, and then I put him to bed. It was already dark outside, and I put wood in the stove in our kitchen and looked through the hearths into the glow. I had Gottlieb, as he was actually called, found a little foundling in Munich. He had just a sign around his neck with the inscription: "My name is Gottlieb, have mercy on me!" Such was the order of the day since the catastrophe. His parents had probably died of the consequences. As entire families were wiped out, there was always the case that help in the familiar environment was no longer possible, so children were simply abandoned by their dying parents. What should they do in a situation where all medical care had completely collapsed? He had been a cute baby with light brown hair and an eternal smile on his face. In any case, I had no one left and decided to follow the call on the sign and take pity on him. It had been love at first sight, and I never regretted taking him to my little flat where I took care of him like my own baby. At first it was very unfamiliar to me, but over time I quickly grew into my role as a mother, especially as I seamlessly fit into the cityscape with my old, three-wheeled stroller, which I had been able to get hold of thanks to my good negotiating skills on the market.

At some point I decided to leave the city and move out into the country. A good friend told me about an old novel and wanted to accompany me. Books were very, very rare, and only those who had survived the fires of disaster were offered on the markets. In her tattered book, the author was probably a certain Thomas Mann and the title is no longer decipherable, she read from a place called Pfeiffering south of Munich, which was described in the most beautiful colors. Inside the name ‘Dr. Faustus’ appeared. Someone in the old rororo paperback edition of my girlfriend with a blue ballpoint pen on the edge remarked:

Pfeiffering = Polling? and Waldshut = Weilheim?

written. We saw this as a hopeful sign and decided to get to the bottom of it and take a look at this area, where the places had both a real and a literary name. We marched in a beautiful summer week always along the ruined tracks of the old railway line to Garmisch along towards the Alps and actually got there. It was dangerous, but we were young, unreasonable, and exposed ourselves to radiation. In the evening we slept in cellars. The lake we reached in Starnberg attracted us very much to a swim, but we did not want to take that radiation risk, and so we enjoyed the view of the water with the mountains in the background and marched a long the bank. My friend had underlined all the places that were important for our touristic trip and abused the novel about an avant-garde composer as a guide à la Baedecker.

Finally we arrived in Weilheim and saw, to our disappointment, what we knew from everywhere: ruins, burned culture and few people who lived there like scared rats and scurried from one hole to the next. It was so bleak that we quickly marched south along a small river, then left it and followed a small stream to get further and further towards the mountains. Soon after, we arrived at a huge complex of ruins, which must have been the old monastery. An outstanding, higher pile of rubbish, which we had seen from afar the whole time, must have been the old tower. Surprisingly, the old Baroque facade with the round rosette window, was still preserved. It looked like the eye of Polyphemus in the landscape from a certain distance.

Towards the former nave, a tent roof was held with beams. Did not someone play an organ? Should this still be intact? We stood rooted, as it were, and the little Golie, whom I had worn over the long distance on my back, made a strange dance there, as if the music in him kindled something very special. I could not hold him anymore and let him slide to the floor. Immediately he crawled on his back to the narrow, exposed entrance from which the music rang out. He could not walk yet. My girlfriend and I did not understand anything anymore. Inside, under the makeshift tent roof, he lay frozen, listening and unable to move from us until the music broke off and the organist, a man of about forty with a few blond hair and a balding head, cut off a wooden ladder from the rest the organ loft climbed. Behind him followed a boy, who immediately ran free. The blond spoke to us kindly, after all strangers rarely got lost here. His nice words pleased us and together with the beautiful music, cheered us up again lifting our mood. Yes, Golie was freaking out, waving his baby arms like a droll little dancing bear so that the blond fell into laughter with us. Golie was in a good mood here. I had never experienced him like this before. Despite his tender age, he used all the means at his disposal to show me, that he was fine here and that he wanted to stay.

We then looked around the village, found few people and many well-preserved and empty living rooms, which I liked much better than my accommodation in Munich. In me, the decision was made to stay here. However my girlfriend did not understand. She then returned to her home after a few days. Anyway, I had everything that was really valuable to me, and I quartered myself in the former monastery village. Over the next few days, the organist, who was not at all unsympathetic, helped us both with the few people in the village. Golie's sunny nature helped a lot. They were all very friendly and even recommended a special ruin, which was adjacent to a large field where it would be good to farm for life. I took the advice, and so we had landed here in the former manor ‘Schweigestill’ at ‘Pfeiffering’, as it was called in the old novel of my girlfriend. This was already some time ago.

Did I dream it all? Was I asleep? My limbs were quite stiff, and I lay down in the room next door to Golie in our bed. We lived only in these two rooms. Mostly we were outside when the weather allowed it. It may be dangerous, but we both seemed to have enough resistance to radiation, as we had lived that way for several years and enjoyed great health.

The next morning, I woke up and was dizzy with a dream. It was one of those that was so realistic that I could not distinguish between dream and reality, so it took me some time to sort out my thoughts:

My dad played the lead role in my nightly drama. He told me about a music teacher as a little girl. He had been so obsessed with his favorite composer that he had changed his appearance to be quite similar: he had worn glasses, although he actually did not need any, and had his hair provided with light gray tears and combed straight back, so that his high forehead emphasized his face and that he was very close to one of the few photographs of his idol. Then the story became dramatic, for the teacher and my father as his young pupil would have been favored by the same woman, a classmate of my father's, into which both men had fallen in love. The woman had then fled from the two in a distant desert, where also everywhere signs with the radioactivity symbol had stood. My father had disappointed me and said in tears that he had lost the first love of his life ... At this point tore the dream.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not remember the name of the musician, the imitator or the composer. One thing was clear to me now: The person my father had described reminded me of the strange traveler in the red Paco yesterday. Did I know him?

Golie opened his eyes and slipped under my blanket for our morning cuddle ritual. We spooned and he enthusiastically asked me if he could go to the organist again today. For some time, the five-year-old spent a lot of time with the friendly blond man.

With Steffen, that was his name, we had become friends. I trusted him completely, because he did not dislike me either. However, he had blocked all my timid approach attempts. He just seemed to be in love with the music, or better with his organ, or better, with what was left of it.

Since there was no electricity supply after the disaster, Steffen always needed a helper who could kick the huge organ bellows. He also proudly told me that he painstakingly rebuilt all electrical mechanisms to control the registers into an original mechanics. Only because of this did the royal instrument work again. Years went by, during which I learned to grow ever more beautiful potatoes, which I could offer to Mr. Mayr for bartering. Steffen, on the other hand, had taught Golie to kick the brat, which the little boy initially had a hard time with, but now it seemed to work well, as he blew the air into his pipes almost every day for hours. What the hell was the genetic background of this boy to be so persistent? Or was it Steffen? Did he miss a father? Was it the music? Anyway, that was fine with me, because there were no kindergartens any more, and I had enough time to take care of my land and small housekeeping. This economy was cumbersome enough in the beginning, when I had to get advice and act as well as necessary seeds and utensils from the neighbors. But thanks to Mr. Mayr and our negotiating skills, I now had everything I needed; and the man with the Paco in the village, so to speak the designated village chief, even plowed my field in the spring, which made my life much easier.

In the meantime, we were even ready to have our own goat, our Selma, to feed our milk supply at night in the barn and during the day in the many forests around our village. Golie and I got up and prepared our breakfast, which consisted of home-grown cereal made and cottage cheese from goat's milk. Golie chattered on me and suddenly showed me a staff on which he had scrawled a melody. I was quite surprised, and he explained to me that Steffen played it yesterday on the organ. Although I was able to read the notes, my father had taught me that, but I could not sing perfectly from the sheet, so that I could only recognize in the beginning that this was probably a D minor melody, he had exactly one 'b'. noted at the beginning. "Did you write all this by yourself?" I asked in disbelief. "I do not believe that! Steffen helped you or he wrote it for you. "

"But mom, I'm not lying to you!" He replied insulted. I considered. In fact, on this point I had to agree with Golie; he was always anxious to be honest and sincere. I suddenly remembered that Steffen had given me a willow flute last spring, which I carelessly kept in the locker. I dug her out. Golie made big eyes! "But mom, can you play the flute?" He asked me excitedly. "Just a little," I answered. "My dad once showed it to me, but I was very small then." "How old were you?" He asked with interest. "Well, four, five or so, ha, just as old as you now! Such a coincidence! ", I replied and was surprised myself. "Let me see, if I can do it." I tried, but at the beginning with the impact trill on the "a" I failed, in the following fast falling D minor sequence my fingers failed. "But mom, maybe you can ask Steffen ... he can play flute ... and bring it to you," he exclaimed enthusiastically and almost poured out his milk. "But I do not have time for that! Who should order the field?" I replied. "Pity." He was very disappointed! "But, you know what? If you can write such beautiful grades, why do not you want to learn it? I give you the flute! Steffen will understand that! "Golie's mouth was left open with joyous fright.

"You ... you give me your flute? Seriously?" Then he flitted off the chair, jumped on my lap and hugged me warmly. I was completely surprised by his violent reaction. He took the flute, and I showed him that the deepest sound came out when all the holes were closed with your fingers. He actually did it after a few tries. Then he pulled himself outside, his breakfast was the same now, and I only heard him whispering twittering from a distance. I cleared the breakfast table and was delighted to have made such a great pleasure.

After a while, I was about to pick up the rake to harvest the last potatoes, Steffen appeared with the stranger from yesterday.

"Hello, Mary Lou!" He greets me. "Where's Golie?" I was a bit strange about his rudeness in not introducing myself to the stranger, which he actually noticed right away. The fascinating sight of the stranger quite in front of me took my breath away.

Steffen was sometimes a bit rude and took me by surprise. But then he made up for it with spontaneous warmth.

"Oh, sorry, that's Mr. Grinder. He came in the red Paco with his driver last night. He is a young musician and had heard that an organ still works here with us. We want to play together now and need Golie to kick our bellows. Where is he?" Steffen was way too fast again, but also Mr. Grinder was just as little sensitive. Having recognized me again, the gray stranger hit his other hand with his riding-stick and gave me a deep look into my eyes without saying a word.

I felt like a real, obsequious woman, being in the picture to fall in a disastrous love with an unknown man. The feeling was not negative. The aura of the stranger turned it positive and more than that super.

I needed some time to get clear.

"I gave him the flute this morning that you gave me last spring, Steffen. I hope that's okay for you. Now he is up and away with it. I do not know where he is."

And with a proud reference to the paper with the staff, I added: "That's what he showed me this morning and claims he wrote that."

The stranger glanced at it and croaked a rough voice: "That's from Bach, the theme of the D minor toccata." "... I had practiced yesterday on the organ" Steffen admitted quickly. "Should the tot have grasped the staff so quickly? He had asked me holes in the stomach, the whole time already, because of the five lines and the points with flags on it. That would be phenomenal!" "A second Mozart" grunted Grinder. Why Steffen introduced me to the stranger as ‘Mr Grinder’ was unclear to me. Did he come from England or even from the USA? Spellbound by him I did not dare to ask for.

Suddenly Grinder saw my poster with the well breasted blond. He was fascinated, could not turn his eyes away, stuck and than I saw, that he read the signatures name. It was like a love on the first climbs.

I was jealous! I hated her! Trying to keep calm I made some remarks about the weather. The two men said goodbye and left my flat.

When I saw them turning the corner, I let my feelings out and cried against the poster: “You bitch, you slut” and some more ugly words. Finally I tore the poster off the wall and burned it in my oven.

## Wien, St. Marx

Herbert Gerstenmayer was angry. He got up very early today to be in the lab for the meeting scheduled 8:00 am with his boss. It was a long way there from the seventh district, where he lived in the Myrthengasse in an old house ruin. Since there was no public transport after the catastrophe here in the Austrian capital, it was tedious every morning to walk to the Ring and then head towards the Rennweg through the ruins. But he had done it in time today, and now the boss was not there yet!

His assistant Christiane was released from these meetings, in which every fortnight the new project steps were defined. Herbert then had to translate these into concrete daily work units for her.

It was spooky in the huge molecular biology laboratory deep underground, which had moved into a ten-story deep, nuclear-safe bunker just before the catastrophe. Only a few people worked here. The supernatural new buildings of the old biocenter had not survived and collapsed completely. But the science in the underground, which had made great progress shortly before the catastrophe by close cooperation of the University of Vienna with some major US investors, could be maintained, though not all projects had survived. The investors saw a particularly strategic location of the old k. u. k. capital as a gateway to Eastern Europe and pumped billions of dollars into ethically disputed cloning projects. To protect against the resistance of groups such as Greenpeace, which crippled more and more aggressively entire research facilities, it was decided therefore to move the research down into the earth in a bunker and secretly continue to work in perfect stealth, while in the supernatural Biocenter to camouflage was switched to harmless green biotechnology. All environmental groups could could be deceived perfectly. The secrecy worked excellently. However, no one had guessed at the time that the nuclear research of some emerging nations had progressed so far that it could have come to disaster. By this way biotechnology survived in Vienna, and research continued to flourish.

Herbert fumbled with his lab notebook and looked at his latest results, which he had recorded in his exact scientific writing. Previously he had written everything with the computer, but today the valuable computer capacity was strictly regulated. The weak electric light that illuminated the lab was already luxury enough in the aftermath. It was only thanks to the extraordinary commitment of Prof. Baum, Herbert's boss, that the emergency generator was coupled with several wood gasifiers and so the necessary energy for the operation of the computers and laboratory equipment in the bunker could be generated. A whole crew of heaters worked there. However, just in the transitional period, a major bottleneck had prevailed, and some projects had to be discontinued. "Why doesn’t come the old man today?", Herbert wondered, as Christiane, his assistant, rushed into the lab with a song on his lips. It was already 9:30 am, and she was surprised that Herbert was not putting his heads together with the old man - as usual on Monday. "What's going on?" She asked in surprise, tying her brunette curls to a hair tie she held between her teeth, which made the words squirt out a little crushed and Herbert did not understand. "What did you mean?" He asked. "Where is the old man today?", She formulated again and put on her clean yellow lab coat.

"No idea," replied Herbert. "I'm pissed off because today, for once, I was punctual. Ironically now the old man seems to be late." "Delayed?" she mocked. "When did you meet?" "At 8 o'clock, as usual," answered Herbert, and his answer sounded mildly worrisome. "Then this is no longer a delay," she added. "I know, but what should we do?" "You used to be able to call in these cases, even with a cell phone! But today, life is just waiting and racing, "she tried a joke. "Well, I've had enough of the 'wait' now, so I'm going to 'race'," he countered. "Do you know where the old man lives?" "Not exactly, but somewhere in the direction of the Danube Island, I think. Maybe we should wait. He's always so reliable and I'm sure he'll show up soon." "You're welcome to help me feed the new stem cells. Last week you gave me a huge experimental approach, I almost can not do it; and if I do not dilute the cells in time, they go hops, you know that too. What have you dug up again for great genomes that we need so many cells right now?" "You know, the old man does not tell me that either! But before I look after him, I'll help you better. Maybe he will come then too. "Herbert put on his yellow coat and threw on the two sterile benches. These are tables with a plastic case, open at the front, where sterile air is constantly being blown from behind. For the cultivation of cells in appropriate sterile culture vessels, these devices, also called 'flows' in the laboratory chargon, are absolutely necessary, so that the cell culture when opening the vessels can not get through the many small creatures that always fly around in the air into the vessels. The sterility of the tables must be checked regularly with a wipe test, which Gerstenmayer has just carried out to measure the hopelessly non-existent contamination, while Christiane placed the containers with the embryonic stem cells out of the incubators on a thermally insulated cart and slid on the two flows. Herbert fetched the bottles of fresh nutrient media and both scientists began work. It was amazing that such research was "after" still possible. Unfortunately, bottlenecks in reagents or consumables often occurred, and everyone had to improvise. But the bottom line was that they were very successful, even under commercial aspects. If the old investors had survived the catastrophe, they would have rubbed their hands and made huge profits on the stock exchange that no longer existed. Only vaguely, the two guessed what their boss did with the fertilized Humanzellen in times when children really could not be born naturally. Every expert knew how delicate the human act of procreation was from a purely biochemical point of view, and how sensitive he was to radioactivity, not to mention interpersonal complications. Almost every day, the finished cells were picked up and taken away with a special Paco. He had even a kind of freezer in the back to get the cells. At noon, they were just finished feeding the cells, a call came through the in-house telephone network, which also worked. Christiane and Herbert already thought, now the old man came back, but it was not him, but one of the gatekeepers, who informed Herbert that an unknown gentleman wanted to speak to Professor Baum.

"Prof. Baum is not here. We miss him. He wanted to be there by 8:00 this morning, but he did not come. That is very unusual! What does the Lord want?" "He does not tell me. Perhaps you will come to me better and talk to the stranger yourself," answered the porter. "I go quickly to the gate, Christiane." Herbert reported to her, took off his coat and went to the staircase, not without secretly looking at Christiane again. He liked what he saw: her full-bodied, almost baroque body and her full breasts, which were clearly visible even in the waisted, high-necked lab coat. He could not rationalize what he felt for his colleague, but in his stomach he always registered butterflies at their sight, and that indication should actually be a clear statement of his unconscious. He was sure to hold back his feelings because he did not feel he could land with Christiane. Especially lately it was very repellent and at times it smelled strangely ‘fishy’ when it rustled in the morning and they came very close together carrying the heavy containers together. He always had the fantasy that she did not have time to take a shower in the morning or that she did not want to lose that smell as a reminder of the previous night. Actually, he did not know anything about her except that she was a reliable and creative employee. At the top, a man stood in a dark, long leather coat and black hat in the entrance and strolled up and down tense. Gerstenmayer spoke to him, but the stranger behaved extremely strangely and impolitely. He did not give his name and immediately wanted to speak to the professor. It was very important, even vital, he said hectically. He spoke with a British accent. When Gerstenmayer tried to make it clear to him that the boss had not yet appeared in the lab today, and even dropped an agreed appointment, the stranger became white-chested and quickly tried to get rid of Gerstenmayer in order to get away. "If he shows up, please try to contact me as soon as possible. Please tell Café Servus about the Haydn memorial near the former Maria Hilf church and just say that you have a message and tell me where to meet the professor. "He then struck put the coat together in front and let Gerstenmayer stand like a poodle. "Unfriendly contemporary," he growled. Instead of going back to the lab, he asked the porter for the phone and informed Christiane that he wanted to look at Baum now. Gradually Gerstenmayer worried. There was really only one explanation that explained his boss's behavior, except for the one that claimed disaster again. But he wanted to make sure and made his way to Baum's apartment near the former United Nations City.

## A lovestory after

Marietta and Hannes initially lived in a well-preserved ruined house in Maua near Jena. Once upon a time, the A4 motorway was lost and made life unbearable with the constant traffic noise. From time to time, a dull Porsche or even a Ferrari had joined the deep, regular hum of the trucks, and all this had been overshadowed by the high purr of a Ducati or a Kawa. But those times were over! The huge double bridge, one part of yellow Saale sandstone from Hitler's time, while the other was built only a few years after the millennium to allow a six-lane expansion, just this long viaduct was completely destroyed. In the background were huge elongated rubble heaps to see: The old East German prefabricated housing from Lobeda had not survived the disaster and were collapsed like card houses thanks to their always lacking fabric. The two were not Thuringians, but had learned from a secret source that the radiation exposure in Thuringia should be particularly low. That had been the reason for them to settle there. The couple originally came from Upper Bavaria, and after Hannes, as the international manager of a world-famous Bavarian car brand, could not jettify to Spartanburg in the USA or Oxford in England to pass on his knowledge from Munich's headquarters to others after the dissolution So, when suddenly the cultivation of everything edible had become more important, they had decided to leave Bavaria.

They were a dream couple: he was muscular, of normal size and with his heart in the right place, freehand climber, who kept himself in shape through constant exercise; Marietta, however, the female counterpart with long mittelblonden, strong hair and many natural curls. Her face was wide with full lips and strong cheekbones that gave her face a Slavic touch. Her eyes looked feline, reminding of Madame Chauchat's eyes as they were described in the Magic Mountain. Her nature was dominant, but unlike the lung-sick Russian, she did not need to throw doors in to attract attention. She entered a room and immediately filled it with her person. Her beautiful figure drew everyone's attention. When her deep, slightly smoky voice helped with a greeting, she immediately took each one for herself.

She had been my closest friend in Polling, and I had mourned her for a long time when she left with Hannes and our dream couple left the community. Marietta had entrusted to me as her best friend that they both would like to have a child. But, as with almost all couples, the catastrophe had no hope of reproduction. Marietta herself was a non-medical practitioner and knew well in medical matters. She knew that the complex processes of human reproduction by radioactive radiation were disturbed in many places. Even the regular implantation of an egg in the uterus was disturbed in her as in almost all young women, so that could be no more talk of regular cycles. But when, in fact, coincidence helped and a male sperm encountered a fertile egg, the rate of confluent sperm was so low that it almost never came to fertilization.

It was a blessing for me to have found my Golie as a foundling and thus to be able to live up to my purpose as a woman - although I always reckoned and constantly asked myself how this healthy child could even have come into the world. It has always been a mystery to me, a mystery, and or perhaps that's why I was so attached to this kid. In the many conversations that evening with Marietta, I clearly heard her complaint that even with the luxury of being able to rely on a reliable partner, she would also like to have a child. Her grief that it was by no means as easy to conceive a child as it was before time zero made her very desperate, and I was always helpless, holding her in the arms and not comforting. That's how it went for days. One day, however, Hannes came back with a message about a hike from Munich that sounded almost too unbelievable to be true. There should be a kind of clinic somewhere in Thuringia near Jena. Healthy young women could undergo artificial insemination there. This takes place in a large, old bunker system where the radioactivity is lowered to a threshold level due to the depth of the mountain, as it was normal before the disaster. If the eggs were accepted, then the women spend their pregnancy there in the mountain. It all sounded like a fairy tale. In the evening Marietta came running to me and told me with great enthusiasm about it. I knew immediately that I would soon lose a very good friend, because I saw my adventurous girlfriend in the next few days ready to leave with her Hannes marching through the village. The farewell came quickly. Golie, my baby, and I had hugged them for a long time and waved to them. Silently I had allowed both of them to have a child too, as they had been such a beautiful couple!

## Over the Danube

In Vienna, Gerstenmayer laboriously scoured the ruins of the Rennweg in the direction of the northeast. It was a cold autumn day. Luckily it did not rain even though the sky was full of gray clouds. In the rain, it was particularly dangerous to move outdoors. Depending on whether the clouds came from the west from the Atlantic or rather from the south of the heavily contaminated Mediterranean, the precipitation brought strong new amounts of radioactivity. On the following days, the grave-diggers had a lot of work again, because mainly older people died like the flies after the recent fall-out. "In the previous days it was much warmer; the accompanying continuous rain must have come from the south," speculated Gerstenmayer to himself. There used to be hourly weather forecasts, but that was once. Now they had to make their predictions from a few perceptible observations of their own! Why did this Middle East conflict escalate to such an extent and, of all things, completely ruin the eastern Mediterranean? The more Gerstenmayer put together these facts, the more angry he became. Had it caught the boss now? What would become of her jobs when he should not be there anymore? He was the sole bearer of knowledge! He who led her so successfully through this lousy time. How many times had he allowed the workforce to stay in the basement, even to stay for days, when a warm steady rain descended from the deadly southeast wind? Only when the wind turned and came from the west and the still little strained Atlantic rain had flushed the radioactive dirt back into the gullies, they went again into the open air. Even if their homes were looted because they had not guarded them in the evening, they had gained a bit of life again.

Gerstenmayer awoke from a daydream when he came to the Danube. The large, heavy bridge that had once led the subway and the highway across the river was destroyed, hanging in two places into the water and was impassable even for experienced climbers. Instead, there were small barges on the shore that could be rented for something edible. The ferry business was entirely in the hands of the Chinese, and a kind of Chinese mafia dominated the scene. Time and again they heard about protection and murderous slate-eyed ferrymen, though it was not clear that this was an unnatural consequence of the inflexible being forced by the organization to drink contaminated water, or whether it was the normal fall-out after a warm south rain. Who could distinguish this today? A police force in a deserted city like Vienna was written on paper, but the technical highs of forensics had gone down with the catastrophe. Screaming little Chinese with long, tousled beards stormed Gerstenmayer and wanted to offer him their ferry services. Thank God he had not eaten his breakfast sandwich today! One half and one half apple were sufficient for the first river crossing. The rest he needed for the second ferryman behind the Danube Island and the way back. The little, old ferryman wrapped the food down right away, then Gerstenmayer sat down and was stopped over. So he had always imagined ‘Vasudeva’, the ferryman from the Indian world of the inventor of the Glass Bead Game, Hermann Hesse, of which he had once read. This one, however, had slit eyes and was no Indian. Would the contaminated river still tell him something? Daily measurements of radioactivity? For other considerations there was no time in this present time.

Could one trust this ‘Vasudeva’? River crossing was always a risk, as there were cases where dishonest ferrymen robbed their passengers in the middle of the river and threw them overboard, which meant a safe ray death in the face of the existing pollution of the Danube waters. Some ferries were dressed in lead, as was the barge that Gerstenmayer had chosen. This offered the passengers, but also the ferrymen some protection against the radioactive radiation. Otherwise, the life expectancy of these river-Chineese was not very high. Nevertheless, Gerstenmayer was glad to have reached the other bank swiftly and safely. Over there, the high debris dumps of the former UNO City on Wagramer Street awaited him. The high skyscrapers had all been particularly affected by the disaster, especially since Arab suicide terrorist commandos had already blown up the IAEA headquarters, the headquarters of the International Nuclear Control Commission, with a small neutron bomb. It looked devastating. Gerstenmayer followed the narrow paths through the ruins and was now near the spot where he suspected the apartment Prof. Baum. It had to be somewhere between Bernstein Street and Bruno-Kreisky-Square? It had been a long time since Baum had asked him to come home to hand him an article written by a biochemist before the catastrophe.

The area was deserted. Gerstenmayer had the idea to ask someone, but he did not find anyone. Further away, a man in a black leather coat looked over at him. "Have not I seen him before?" He asked himself, walking up to him. But the next moment the man had walked around an advertising pillar. When Gerstenmayer arrived there and stepped behind the column, he saw no one else. "Did I dream?", He asks himself again and started looking for Prof. Baum's apartment where he thought he should remember. The first door to which he knocked was not opened, no one answered. The door was not locked, he pushed it open, and a torrent of corpse smell came to meet him. On a kind of sofa lay two old people, holding each other's hands. The rats had already begun their recycling; especially large specimens with smooth, shiny fur. Gerstenmayer forced himself to take a closer look at the man. Could that be Professor Baum? He visually scanned the dead body, but found no positive matches. Disgusted, he closed the door again and moved to the next. He pushed it open and was astonished: The apartment was completely ransacked. Everywhere leaves were scattered. Cabinets and drawers were not in the apartment, but a lot of boxes that had once been neatly and safely stacked with a system. Everyone was criss-crossing. Obviously someone was looking for something here. Gerstenmayer could not imagine that his boss should live in such a mess. Obviously, Baum had not been in his apartment for a long time. Where was he? To answer this question, Gerstenmayer took off his coat and scarf and took a closer look at the remaining papers lying around. Maybe he found a clue here. But he found nothing. Suddenly he came across a copy of a letter that made him speechless. He sat down, read again, and suddenly a light came on. Could that really be true? He was so fascinated by his discovery that he completely forgot the missing Professor Baum and only followed his discovery. Gradually it was getting dark, and Gerstenmayer found reading in the dark apartment difficult. He looked at his watch and started. "I should be on my way home. You should avoid the ferry-Chineese in the dark," he thought to himself, gathered up the most important papers, put on his clothes and left, still baffled by his extraordinary discovery.


## Grinder plays the organ

"Gooooolie, Goooolie, Golie, where are you?" I shouted towards the village. Nothing moved. It was getting dark and I started to worry. "He'll probably be back with Steffen," I calmed down. However, as the high pressure weather – called ‘Föhn’ in Bavaria – was about to collapse and again heavy rain from the south was expected, I pulled on a cardigan and ran in the direction of the convent ruins, to look for him and get home before the fall-out. From afar I heard the organ. It was a completely different kind of music than I knew Steffen from before. Obviously somebody else was playing today and I did not have to wonder why Golie did not get home in time. The music was beautiful, I had not heard such a thing and I was anything but a complete layman in this field. My father introduced me to classical music. Or maybe everything was a matter of genes. He had recognized my abilities early and showed me how beautiful straight simple melodies could be and how subtle harmonies could be interwoven to dance with the keys. Recently, since Golie approached this art with frantic steps, I suddenly saw myself in the role of the teacher, especially in the sense that I was quite analytically exploring his potential and tried to promote him as optimally as possible. My father had owned a large collection of music: records, CDs and even a few old tapes. I remember that he had liked to sit in a chair with a glass of red wine at the end of the day, just before the Super-GAU, when there was electricity from the socket. Then he had cumbersomely threaded one of his old tapes into his TEAC machine and then completely surrendered to the music. As for the tapes, he had hovered not only in the realm of sounds, but also in the realm of his memories, since he had recorded all the recordings personally from the radio. During his studies, he had started collecting music, now there were some rarities for him: Salzburg or Bayreuth Festivals, which had been back several decades.

Was it this new music that reminded me of old times and made me daydream? Did my father even hear this piece that someone played here on the organ? I could not rule it out, but I could not say yes. Because at those times I was still too small. It did not sound like an organ piece, it was more like a symphony somebody played on the organ, because there were no orchestras anymore. I entered the ruined church under the tarpaulin, looked up, and recognized the stranger with the high forehead at the organ desk and his horsewhip on top. Seeing the stranger and hearing his music a feeling shot between my legs and warmly flooded up to my heart. I had not felt anything like that for years. In my emotional chaos, I noticed that the riding whip played a fascinating role. It was a sort of attraction.

Suddenly I recognized Steffen staying by. "Certainly, Golie kicks the bellows," I thought to myself, after I got my conscious again.

Then I realized that there were no notes on the console. The stranger seemed to know the many notes by heart? "What a genius!", I thought to myself and at the same time remembered how quickly Golie could now record melodies and play them with his little willow flute.

But what was a unanimous melody against three organ and one foot manual? The acoustics under the tarpaulin were already strange: muted as in a dry studio. The resonance box of the organ, which the magnificent baroque church had once represented, was now missing and was replaced by the tarpaulin, which looked like a sound-absorbing element. The organ sounds fizzled out in the air. Nevertheless, this music was not without charm. I climbed the ladder to the gallery. When Steffen saw me, he waved me with his forefinger on the mouth, that I should be quiet as a mouse. I ran around the console, looked through the open door of the organ and saw Golie raptly kicked the bellows vigorously. He did not notice my eyes at all, and I was fascinated by his devotion. So we stood at our positions, remained silent and listened to the stranger, who seemed to play a new music.

Suddenly there was a crash outside at the same time as my eyes met his. A thunderstorm seemed to raise not only outside but in my inner body too. A flash lit up the scene, and again it crackled loudly. Then the radioactive rain pelted down from the south. The stranger finished his play and looked skeptically at the roof construction.

"That's pretty close here, that's what I've taken care of," Steffen told the stranger." By the way, we got visitors. May I introduce? This is Maria-Luise. We call her Mary Lou here. They had seen her once before. She is the mother of the little Golie and has certainly been worried about why he has not come home." "Oh, my mother certainly has understanding ", suddenly remembered Golie, who had emerged from the back of the organ box when the Music had stopped. He beamed all over his face.

Now finally Steffen introduced the stranger officially to me. He should have done this last time, but Steffen was crazy: "This is Mr. Grinder. Imagine that he came here from Vienna. This long distance - and only because of the organ. It has probably already spread in professional circles that we have here in our small Polling still one or, better said, again a functioning organ. Mr. Grinder is a musician." The stranger approached me a bit dominant and shook my hand in an in a noble way. "Nice to make your acquaintance," he said quite and seductive. "You played wonderfully. Could it be that my dad played this music before the disaster? "

He responded with a surprised gesture and gave me a pull up of one of his eyes: "Oh, I just improvised a bit and I'm so happy to be here. This organ is wonderful. But you seem to be a music expert!"

Now it reminded me again: This music was Mahler's Symphony No. 8, my father's favorite piece. That sounded like in the old times but now played on an organ instead of an orchestra. Performed by a fascinating fellow, whom I estimated slightly younger than me, but by far more predominant in all his being. But I did not want to state with my music knowledge to much and said nothing. Do I intended to be obsequious?

"Do you want to stay here for a long time?" I asked, just so as not to break the conversation. I felt very bivalent towards this stranger. On the one hand I was alienated from his dominant behavior and is horsewhip; on the other hand I felt also attracted to his person. Only by his music? I never experienced my feelings to an younger man, who floats above me.

"If it were possible, I would like to stay with this magnificent instrument. As far as I know, there is no better instrument between Vienna and Munich." I saw Steffen smile, and his figure became bigger and bigger. After all, it was his modest merit that he, who had dealt with organs before the catastrophe, especially the tuning of these instruments, had seized the opportunity to restore their playability.

"Where did you find yourself?" I asked in a logical sequence. "My driver, whom I had rented only with his Paco, drove back to Munich this morning and then to Vienna. I stayed with Steffen, but his bed for both of us ... It was already a difficult night. My back is not the best either. You are not angry with me because of my openness, Steffen?"

He slowly came down from ‘Cloud Seven’ of his music. "Can you help us with accommodation for him?" Steffen flinched from embarrassment. "That's difficult here in the village. I would like to have a listen. What could you compensate for?" I asked. Compensate, in former times one had said to "pay", and it had been easy at that time: One gave away his credit card or had a sum of cash, which was accepted in exchange for achievements of all, especially if the money from the USA or came from Europe. But today, when money was worthless, people preferred to rely on real value.

The stranger blushed suddenly, "Yes, I can compensate, but my compensation units are ...", he hesitated and coughed, "... let's say for the moment: ... delicate! But available. I may be able to tell you more about it tomorrow. We should all go home now."

"Home? You are funny! Do you really think we should expose ourselves to the fall-out that is just coming to an end? That's half a death sentence! I'm afraid we'll have to stay together for a while, until we can venture outside again. Please play something else! ", I asked the stranger, and Golie interrupted me immediately: "Oh yes, Mr. Grinder, that would be very nice. I enjoyed your music so much!"

The stranger was surprised, but realized that we better not go outside now. Steffen tried to save the situation, and turned to a pile of notes. "Here, Mr. Grinder, I have something we could possibly play together. I have another edition of Mozart's "Jeunehomme Concerto" here. Let's try it together. I have practiced the piano part, but try to play the orchestral part on the other manuals. "The two musicians made themselves as comfortable as possible on the narrow organ bench, placed the notes on the desk and looked at each other.

Meanwhile, Golie had dutifully crawled into the organ box to the bellows and stepped up vigorously. I followed him unobtrusively and watched him. His reactions to music and especially in connection with Mr. Grinder interested me burning. Golie was quite enchanted. It could not only be the music, it was even more behind it; I felt that. Only dampened, the introductory orchestral beat indicated by an organ tutti came to me.

Steffen in his piano part answered him much quieter, but almost boyish. Everything came in my position also because of the acoustic shifts as from another star. Golie listened attentively, but it was not until the two musicians began the second movement, which began with the long, mysterious orchestral introduction in abysmal C Minor, that Golie's face changed in a way that really scared me. It seemed to me as if he had left the earthly sphere and was now dreaming, but as naturally in a new, spiritual level. Grinder was borne on the set, slowly approached, and Steffen followed him with the piano part. They had tried to imitate the mood of the piano concerto on the organ through a mysterious registration, which they had succeeded in doing.

Suddenly the music broke off abruptly. Golie was so moved by the music that he stopped kicking, and when he saw me, he stormed toward me, hiding his tears in my apron. I took him in my arms, tried to comfort him, and asked him what was wrong with him. As I noticed, he had no right words to describe his condition. He just stammered almost incomprehensibly: "It is so sad!" Then I understood the word "awesome" out of his sobs. I soberly assumed that he, a particularly sensitive young man, had been so overwhelmed by the emotions of the music that he had to give in to his mood and discharge his feelings in a tear-burst. Steffen just came crawling into the organ box from the front to see what was going on. He understood the situation quite well, after I had started an explanation that Golie nodded or shook his head. He had always covered his eyes with his hands.

Suddenly Grinder said: “I would like to play specially for you” and again his eyes disoriented me. I was so ruptured: as a mother, as a women in love, as a lover of music...

## A letter from Marietta

From time to time it happened that communication as in the Middle Ages was possible via letters or, better said, a kind of message in a bottle. There was a mail center in every major city, where the few strangers who had embarked on an arduous journey brought messages with them and left notes with them. Thus, a ruin on the Marienplatz in Weilheim, which had subsequently been equipped with an oblique weather protection, was marked for news. Anyone who happened to be around looked from time to time to see if there was something for themselves or their neighbors there. Anyone who went on a journey took with them what pointed in his direction. So one day I was very surprised that a nice neighbor, just the one with the tractor Paco, brought me a letter from the city. I opened the brown cardboard lid: Marietta had signed it. I sat down at the window, as it gradually became dark in the room, and heard in the spirit of Marietta's deep voice:

Dear Mary Lou, I only hope that my letter reaches you. It's all so different and yet so similar to yours in Polling. The radiation damage is exactly the same here. We found shelter in an old school outbuilding in a beautiful valley, through which flows a stream called "Orla". The Orla is like our Tiefenbach and flows in Orlamünde in the Saale as our brook in the bunting. The school stands on a hill and you can look over the whole valley. It had been a beautiful property before the disaster, and Langenorla was certainly no less sleepy than our poll. But the destruction caused by a bomb attack in Jena is similar to yours around Munich. Jena is only about 30 km north of us. The way here in many stages had been very, very difficult. Everywhere the same need. The impact in Ingolstadt, Nuremberg and Bamberg, we had to migrate widely. We were specifically warned against the lethal radiation dose in these centers. It was a bit easier over the Thuringian Forest. The deep valleys shield the radiation slightly. That's why more people have fled here than elsewhere. I think overpopulation is the right word for it, and the crime rate is immense. We were promptly robbed; and though Hannes bravely resisted, they took away everything we had possessed of value. We are here half starved and arrived quite demolished in our lovely valley. Although it is close to Jena, but also close to Rothenstein, where this maternity clinic is, which actually exists. So it was not a rumor, but a fact, and I'm glad we came here. The hardships are forgotten now, Hannes can work at a neighbor to food, and I already had an initial investigation in the mountain, as we call the clinic. The doctor there was very nice and said that I could soon receive a child as soon as they had a free place in the mountain. Imagine, I am already on the waiting list on number 49! In the next few months, it would be my turn. I look insane, although it even before I shudder to live for nine months in the mountain, without the sun and with little light. That must be to provide the embryos with enough protection from the radiation. Unfortunately, the thing has a catch: Hannes may not be the father! All men seem to be infertile by now. Only artificially fertilized embryos have a chance to grow up healthy. The doctors say that they have a special radiation resistance. A natural conception has only a tiny chance of giving birth to a healthy child. The doctors refuse to take this risk. They say that would be waste of resources here. Hannes was pissed off when he heard about it. You know that it can be hot-tempered, and I was able to stop him with gentle force them to hold a larger riots in the mountain. Now, as a precaution, I always go there alone and do not tell him. That's the way it works best.

I think of you so often and of what luck you have to find such a healthy and gifted child. This thought gives me strength, because I think that even if I were to give birth to a child now, it is still similar to you and your golie. I've resigned myself to that, and Hannes, too, is behind it. That is probably the tragedy of our time. But it hurts! But I just babble in the day and do not even know if you can ever read my lines, not to mention if you understand everything that goes on inside me. But you are and will remain my best friend, and I know that you are sympathetic to me. I am already feeling better with this knowledge! Try to write to me too. I would like to stay in touch with you, especially if I'm in the mountains for so long!

Greetings and kisses

your

Marietta

The paper at the end curled at some points, as if someone had shed tears on it. But all that was already some time ago. It may be that the letter had been on the road for months. I too had the eyes overflowed while reading. I sat quietly for a long time. Instead of answering, I just hugged my now big 'baby' and hugged Golie tightly. "How nice that I have you," was all that I could say to sobbing.

When I read her letter, I sat down at my table and tried to formulate an adequate answer:

Dear Marietta,

I have no one here to whom I can entrust my LORD. But I can not stand my mixed feelings anymore. You will not believe what is going on in this small Polling. A stranger arrived to play Steffens organ and I am afraid to be completely at the mercy of him! You know me in my old times as a self-determined strong woman. But this is gone! I am his slave now! Impossible to think independently. I am totally torn as a mother and loving woman. Where is my way out?

Imagine he played the organ and I kicked the bubble bar, naked, enchained, blindfolded. He plays Chopin and I was not anymore on earth. I forgot all about the catastrophe and in my mind I only saw him, although I was in the organ box, far away.

Before I teased him and played the disagreeable one. He forced me with his horsewhip, he always carries with him, to undress me. I enjoyed the lashes on my skin.

Then I heard the music and was delighted about the beautiful pain. I know I am crazy!...

I could not go on writing. My description of the most intensive moment in my whole live overwhelmed me.

I crumpled the paper and threw it in my oven.

## You have to be an actor

Gerstenmayer felt very uncomfortable and constantly looked around. But no one followed him as he stepped out of Baum's rumpled flat, at least nobody he'd noticed. Nevertheless, he felt watched. Glances met and pierced him from behind; he felt that. To make matters worse, it was also black in the sky, and a downpour announced.

Gerstenmayer considered what he should do now. Go to a public shelter and wait for the rain to stop? Just recently Christiane, his assistant, had told him about a double murder in one of these.

Then it occurred to him that the subway shaft had just been uncovered and that it was possible to walk well down there once you had crossed the Danube. The part of the shaft under the river has been under water since the disaster.

Out of deliberation, he forgot all about the explosive paper he wore in the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Why did not those who looked for something at the Professor hadn’t taken this paper? Did they really know the content? Did they look for something else? ", Gerstenmayer mumbled the sentences to himself.

He liked to do that because he imagined that he would be able to think more focused with acoustic support. He also read the difficult rules loud and clear in the lab, sometimes one, two, even three times before he really understood them.

Christiane liked to laugh at him when she caught him again in his self-explanations.

"Maybe they did not understand the content ever," came an important enlightenment that admittedly came out of his mouth very loudly.

"Why? Do you understand?", He heard clearly a voice next to him.

Where had this man in his black coat with an old-fashioned bowler or a melon on his head and a very British accent in his voice suddenly appeared?

Gerstenmayer was shocked and stopped as if petrified.

"Sir, wha-a-t do you mean? I do not understand your question. Or can you read some thoughts?"

"Not exactly, but I have good ears, and you've just chatted to yourself that 'they did not understand the content’. So I combine razor-sharp that you have strapped it. My clients and I are very interested in the content of writing in your jacket, and you will surely tell me. It should not be to your disadvantage. Otherwise ...", now the stranger's vulgar but still friendly face became rock hard. He grinned meanly and squinted at a hidden object in his pocket.

Gerstenmayer was visibly startled. "Since when do you call me with my first name?" He asked just to gain some time, then added, "How would I trust a stranger to confide in laboratory secrets?" Something better had not occurred to him in the near future.

"So, you work in a lab? Is there something like that anymore? And if so, where? About here in Vienna? You're getting more and more interesting! So I landed a direct hit!" The stranger was suddenly polite and friendly again.

Gerstenmayer realized that he had probably made a big mistake. He had gone to the fickle stranger and could not change it now. Suddenly a thought shot into his head, and he planned to counter the acting of his counterpart with a performance of his own.

Suddenly he dropped and, with painful facial pains and screaming, pretended to have fallen over a steel rod that had slipped over the road and injured himself. In a flash, he moistened his hand with saliva and smeared the reddish-brown rust of the iron down his leg. In the collapsing darkness it really looked something like blood, and the stranger reacted at first dumbfounded, but immediately pulled the gun out of his pocket and threatened his prisoner, that's how Gerstenmayer felt now.

After all, the stranger believed him this film-ready scene without suspicion. He threw his arm behind his back and held his mouth shut with his other hand to suppress the pathetic screaming. By that time they were already on the bank of the Danube, and the Chinese Vasudevas had become aware of their scream and ran to meet them.

The stranger was uncertain for a moment how he should behave now, but evaluated his chances of coming up against such superiority, despite his weapon very bad, let Gerstenmayer go jerky and piled with the annoying hiss between his lips: "Friend "See you again!"

His last look met Gerstenmayer's face, which showed relieved, triumphant features. Barely was the first Chinese at Gerstenmayer, the stranger disappeared already in a near ruin.

"That was close, but well done," said Gerstenmayer clearly audible himself.

The ferry people helped him up, but did not recognize in the dusk, from what danger they had saved their customers, on which they stormed now storming. This hired right at the first best, gave him everything he had with him. The man was very surprised and thought he should hurry, because the rain would start immediately. They hurried to the boat, and the oarsman lay down in the thongs.

Gerstenmayer tried to accept the language of the foreigner and asked: "Tunnel, where? Tunnel, subway? "The Chinese looked at him as if he understood only the station and the departure. Gerstenmayer tried a little louder again: "Where... Tunnel?"

This time he explained the search term with a pantomime insert that indicated a bottom and scurrying fingers underneath. Finally, Gerstenmayer let it rain with his fingers, and his worried look went to heaven. Now the oarsman's face shone like an enlightened lightbulb, and he pointed to the remnants of a steel skeleton whose glazing looked fused. Gerstenmayer also realized that this could have been an elevator to the underground once. On the other bank he ran to the ruin work of art, the first drops fell from the sky. He was saved twice. But where was Prof. Baum? In which criminal machinations was he involved?