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Jeden Monat nähern sich unsere Kolumnisten, die Berliner Filmemacher Dominik und Benjamin Reding, dem jeweiligen Heftthema
auf ihre ganz eigene Art und Weise. Geboren wurden die Zwillinge am 3. Januar 1969 in Dortmund. Während Dominik Architektur
in Aachen und Film in Hamburg studierte, absolvierte Benjamin ein Schauspielstudium in Stuttgart. 1997 begann die Arbeit an ihrem
ersten gemeinsamen Kinofilm „Oi! Warning“. Seitdem arbeiten sie für Fernseh- und Kinofilmprojekte zusammen.

Each month our columnists, Berlin-based filmmakers Dominik and Benjamin Reding, approach the respective issue-specific theme
in their very personal way. The twins were born on January 3, 1969 in Dortmund. Whilst Dominik studied architecture in Aachen
and film in Hamburg, Benjamin graduated in acting studies in Stuttgart. They started working on their first joint motion picture “Oi!
Warning“ in 1997. Since then they have tightly collaborated for TV and cinema film projects.

P olitely, the Federal President was asked: “Do you love this state?” And the Federal on the keyboard of a PC, not the keys of an Adler Triumph typewriter. “So, your letter-
President, an elderly gentleman, his grey hair severely combed back, his thick
box was broken into, yes? Or what has happened?” The bearded, plump man in his
horn-rimmed glasses accurately put on, his facial expression edgy-small-lipped-con- late fifties stares at the screen. Yes, what happened ...? A scaffolding crew outside the
trolled, deliberated for a short while. Then a mischievous smile flitted across what house, ex-cons, bad-tempered, there was trouble over the last two plants on my bal-
had previously been a mask-like, dour face: “I don’t love states, I love my wife.” It cony. Maybe it was revenge, the letterbox incident. “It was broken into at about 1
was a scandal. A federal president who does not love his state! It happened in a TV p.m.” Mr Fernbeck listens, types. I look around his office: filing cabinets with wooden
interview, prime time, ARD public-service broadcasting, November 1968. In a police blinds, Ficus Benjamini in a planter, a wall calendar with dog pictures, a high "Gothic"
station. Spring 2023: My letterbox in the hallway had been broken open, the metal window at the head of the rooms, balconies visible in the building opposite, very
was bent and dented beyond repair, all the mail was stolen. Two days later, the police close. “They can wave to you in your room!” A little joke like that, at the beginning, it
summons to testify lies in the wide-open mailbox rectangle. Four pages of tightly prin- always helps. Mr Fernbeck says nothing, waits for my next statement sentence. “There
ted paper. I fulfil my civic duty: I go. To the police station. Ready to give statements. I was construction work being done in the house that day, the door was open for a
am over-punctual. Have to wait. The station from the outside: a Wilhelminian “ma- while.” Mr Fernbeck listens, types. My gaze wanders from the dogs to his desk. To the
gnificent building” with oriels and towers and “Gothic” windows, an overweight brick left of the PC: folders, loose-leaf binders, file folders, hand-labelled: “Thefts 2020”,
mass, the tectonic muscles of columns, arches, symmetries demonstratively taut. “Domestic burglaries 2019”, “Vandalism, unsolved, 2017”. To the right of the PC, accu-
“That way,” buzzes the police officer at the secured main entrance, pointing to a side rately lined up: a hole punch, a stapler, two stamp pads, a stamp carousel, a small
room behind aluminium doors with ribbed glass. The precinct in here: Well ... Two plastic dish with paper clips, a paper clip remover, a date stamp, a letter scale and an
barred windows, yellowish-white painted walls, grey linoleum floor, two discarded ink blotter, Graf Bluco's Piccolo. “Did you witness the crime?” We used the Graf Bluco
airport waiting benches. Nothing else. But, three photo- at university; even then, it was regarded as a droll relic
copied notes, pinned on top of each other with from long-gone years of the economic miracle. In its out-
thumbtacks, wrinkled by sun and time: “Pay attention line, it was not dissimilar to the protagonists of that
to your valuables!” and “Consumption of food and be- time, the gentlemen with houndstooth-patterned hats
verages not permitted!” and “No smoking!” A young and ample corpulence. “Did you witness the crime?!”
woman smokes, slumped on the scraped airport pla- Ink blotter, stapler, hole punch, stamp, letter scale ... in-
stic. She looks at me, a brief, tired, helpless smile. We destructible, everlasting, perfect in form. Like works of
are the only ones waiting. The officer behind the ribbed- art. No, they are works of art, as absolute as Leonardo’s
glass door calls her in. Her passport has been stolen, Mona Lisa, Michelangelo’s David, Shakespeare’s Ham-
she asks, more than that, pleads for a replacement. An let. Works of art from which nothing can be taken away
Austrian woman. I notice her accent. “There’s nothing or added to without destroying them. “Now for the third
we can do!” The officer talks at her, explains in detail and last time: did you witness the crime?!!” Mr Fern-
what papers she has to ask for at the Austrian consulate beck shouts it. “Oh ... sorry ... No, I didn’t.” He types,
in order to then be allowed to report to the German po- the keys clattering hard. “So, I’ll print this out now, then
lice that her papers have been stolen. She struggles, po- Grafik: Benjamin Reding you read it and sign it!” I nod. Concepts pass in my
litely: whether not, whether not differently, whether not mind, heard first three decades ago, then again and
online? But his “no” remains adamant. Exhausted, she again, more definite and definite: The “paperless office”
returns to the waiting room, picks up her belongings, says “Goodbye” as she leaves. that is finally becoming reality, the feel-good office, the office as an experience, the
And I say “Good luck” and think Morituri te salutant! the doomed salute you ... Those home office that is coming, very soon, tomorrow, today, now. Mr Fernbeck pushes the
who sit here, hoping and waiting, become a community. Like the gladiators in the ais- printout towards me. “Read it through!” I read, notice mistakes, the scaffolding com-
les of the arenas. A community of the lost, whether a thief or a person stolen from, pany is mentioned by name, but I don't want any trouble with them, ask for a change.
guilty or blameless. I wait, silent and patient. Then the officer calls my name through “Well, if it absolutely has to be ...” Mr Fernbeck types, prints out, pushes the new
the open ribbed-glass door and says, “I’ll take you up!” Energetically, he walks ahead, sheets of paper towards me, wordlessly points to the dotted line for the signature. The
I follow insecurely behind, through neo-Gothic corridors, up some stairs, through hall- name of the scaffolding company is in the text again. I start to feel pain, a deep, inner
ways. The building looks like a church, a monastery. “Thou shalt not bear false wit- groaning, the feeling of being a supporting actor in a never-ending popular thriller
ness against thy neighbour!” L'architecture parlante in perfection. Then finally, third shown on television around 1978. Then I hear my voice, much too loud in the neo-
floor, last corridor: a door with a small sign in a stainless-steel frame: “Polizeihaupt- Gothic room: “There was once a Federal President who answered the question ‘Do
kommissar Jürgen Fernbeck. Dienstzimmer 247”. The door to Police Chief Inspector you love this state’: I don’t love states, I...” Mr Fernbeck interrupts, finishes the sen-
Fernbeck stands ajar. “Come in!” I push my way through the crack. He types, stops, tence: “I love my wife! Gustav Heinemann. He was a clever man!” He reaches for the
clears his throat, looks up, then, matter-of-factly and friendly: “Take a seat,” and pieces of paper. “Without the name of the company, we can hardly investigate.” He
points to a steel chair in front of his desk. He sizes me up, thoroughly, as he has cer- looks at me, my gaze resting on the ink blotter. “Yeah, I collect stuff like that. Old office
tainly sized up everyone who has taken a seat here before, whether perpetrator, vic- stuff like that. The Graf Bluco is my favourite!” Says it, picking up a ballpoint pen and
tim, suspect or witness. “You testify and I type this, then you get to read it and you crossing out the name of the scaffolding company. “I understand you. Then please
sign.” Then Police Chief Inspector Fernbeck turns back to the desk. At least, he’s typing sign here.” And I do, somewhat ashamed and clearly relieved.

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