Page 63 - AIT0616_E-Paper

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. Ja nuar 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.

An Essay by Benjamin Reding
I t was not a hotel, not a bar and not a pub. It was a station restaurant. That’s what ed serious, alarmed. Like a priest who had discovered the symbol of the devil. What
the scuffed sign above the entrance said: “Sta-tion Restau-rant”. A station restau-
should I answer? He already had his answer. I tried to produce a smile. “Well, that
rant with cigarette smoke, smell of beer, wooden benches, and laminated tables. It all live together without dictates. Without outside control. In peace. All over the world
was New Year’s Eve. More precisely, it was two hours and forty minutes before the and...“ He remained silent, turned around, walked back to his table. Then they con-
New Year. However, we stood at the main station in Erfurt and our connecting train ferred, all three, silently, tensely.
had not arrived yet - and so we had to wait. The innkeeper cleaned the glasses, the fridge hummed, the drain gurgled, and the
The party would be a stunner. Band from Hamburg, DJ from Berlin, friends from all elderly couple drank their tea. Now the smaller one with the croppy hair gazed at us.
over Europe, and all that arranged in a lovingly-weird fashion in an old youth hostel Something gleamed in his eyes. Anticipation. “We should go. Together, directly to the
near Ilmenau. There was a draught on the platform. Minus twelve degrees, we had to platform. Now.” I said this to my brother so that or fellow passenger could not hear
wait. We, that’s my brother and I and this man in a trench coat. He had approached me. My brother nodded. “The train is coming,” I shouted. The elderly man put down
us on the train. Whether we were on the way to this New Year’s Eve party, too. He is fork and stood up. “But look at the clock, there are still five minutes left,” he mur-
was the DJ’s father and finally wanted to see what his son was doing. The man fas- mured. “It is slow;” I lied. The platform was deserted, catching a breath out here was
tened up his coat, rubbed his cheeks. “Let’s go pleasant. The first shot I thought was a fire-
in, warm up, and have something to eat. They cracker. And then another one. And another
definitely have wieners.” He looked at the one. This time accompanied by the sound of
warm, fogged up windows of the restaurant. metal on metal. I had already heard something
Alas, New Year’s Eve, there is plenty of alcohol, like this before. In a western. “Pijoing!“ That
there are many drunks, there are also argu- can’t be true, I shook my head in disbelief. If
ments. “We rather wait on the platform. The they do something, they will beat us up, hit us,
connecting train will arrive in only 20 minutes.” kick us, they won’t shoot us. I heard steps and
But the old man was freezing cold. “Oh, a turned around. The door of the station restau-
sausage would be great,” he said. We walked rant was pushed open, the two man ran after
in. Steamy-dark tavern fumes billowed through us, the taller one in front, the small one clasped
the door. There wasn’t a lot going on, no party a pistol, and shot. Don’t run. Walk. They regard
atmosphere. An elderly couple drank tea, a running as weakness. Definitely. “Run, run!
stout man with a half-bald head stood behind They shoot!” My brother shouted at me.
the checkout of a self-service counter. Bread „Pijoing!“ I ran.
rolls, Mars bars, coffee, tea, biscuits. Three The train was waiting at the platform. One of
young people in their early twenties, two men the old trains, with compartments. My brother,
and a woman, sat there over a beer. The boys, the elderly man, and then I myself stumbled,
one of the tall, the other one small, with short climbed, fell onto the train. In the corridor, the
hair, jump boots and bomber jacket, the girl, Foto: Benjamin Reding ticket collector walked towards us. Excited,
chubby, with a sweatshirt and a Karstadt blow- with blushed cheeks. “Bolt the door!” I
dry hairstyle. They looked towards us. Our fel- screamed. “Please, lock it!” She turned around,
low passenger ordered two sausages with mustard, we asked for coffee to fight the fiddled around with the knobs. The two guys appeared underneath the window.
cold. The milk was sour. We took a seat next to the entrance with a view to the station “Click”, the door latch engaged. The light on the train was turned off. We stumbled
clock. 15 minutes left. “He is in for a surprise when his dad suddenly turns up.” He through the semidarkness into the nearest compartment and closed the door behind
smiled and sprinkled mustard on his sausages. “That will be great fun.” us. Closed it tightly. Even though it only was a shaky compartment glass door. They
The three looked at us again. Critical, scrutinising, appraising. Yes, I had dreadlocks, rattled at the train’s door. Again and again. The face of the smaller one was contorted
by brother a blond ponytail, but we did not look anything like radical left-wing. From with anger. He brandished the pistol. The taller one pushed him aside.
the corner of my eye I peeked to the neighbouring table. They had no Nazi slogans A jerking, a hiss, the train started to move. The light flickered and was turned back
on their bomber jackets. They talked quietly. They were not drunk. Nothing would on. A mother with two small children crouched on the floor of the compartment. She
happen. “I haven’t done this for years, haven’t been to a New Year’s Eve party for looked at us, inquiringly, fearfully. The elderly man shivered. Sweat was running
ages.” Our fellow passenger smiled whimsically. The hand of the clock wandered: ten down his face. “Sorry”, I said to the young woman. She remained silent, struggled to
minutes left. Chairs were shifted. The taller of the two men stood up, approached us, her feet, put the children on her lap, a girl and a boy. She embraced the two tightly.
looked at me and then at my brother. Again critical, scrutinising, appraising. The A small village shimmered next to the tracks, the snow swirled outside the train. In
badge! I had sewn it on my jacket just for the party. The anarchy A, very big. “What Ilmenau we took a taxi. Apparently, the New Year’s Eve party was a stunner. With
does that mean?” He tapped the fabric symbol with his index finger. His voice sound- sparkling wine and dancing and DJs and bands. I don’t have any memories of it.

AIT 6.2016 • 063