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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. 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.

T hey were unusual TV images indeed: a US president travelling by train to a state rippled glass, men in suits, with briefcases under their arms, often waiting nervously,
visit. When did something like this last happen? In Potsdam or Yalta in 1945?
in front of this single compartment, placed between 1st class and the dining car: the
Until now, the president always travelled on this giant Boeing, the Air-Force One, “train secretariat”. Yes, a scaled-down edition of the rolling chancellor’s office existed
which looks as powerful and significant as its occupant is supposed to look all over for everyone (who could afford it) on all Intercity trains. And there, even more impor-
the world. And on board as well: this automobile, also so oversized, appropriately tant than the IBM typewriter, was the polite secretary and her typing- and mail service
called “the Beast”, which – so the popular myth goes – would even be able to with- (she even sold stamps), a telephone! From there, and only from there, one could
stand any nuclear attack. Be that as it may, now he was actually travelling on a train. make a phone call (like a chancellor) from a moving train long before the internet
And a strangely old-fashioned, simple one at that. Certainly not nuclear-safe, probab- and mobile phones! The travelling office was frequented by those who considered
ly not even silenced. The design seemed to be from – let’s say benevolently – the year themselves close in importance to the heads of state: Lawyers, businessmen, politi-
1991, or, perhaps more correctly dated, it looked like a train from the 1960s that an cians and people, almost exclusively men, who at least once – even if it was in the
overtaxed interior designer was ordered to somehow trim to end up appearing to be moving office of an IC train – wanted to be on a par with chancellors and presidents
“modern” within just a few weeks. In a railway repair factory far from any big city in terms of self-esteem. And people like me, a fifth-grader after a holiday trip, who
and with the “most beautiful” ceiling lamps, high-gloss lacquer wall panels and silk was supposed to call his parents to pick him up, but in his youthful restlessness and
living-room curtains purchased from the next best DIY store. One train photo in parti- search for food and drink had not found a pay phone in the departure station. Now
cular made the rounds: the US president with a few A4 folders (no laptop) in a kind of I was waiting in front of the train office, anxious whether my last seven marks would
improvised study at a kind of improvised desk. The later was looking as befits presi- be sufficient and whether my 2nd class ticket would allow me to wait in 1st class. An
dential office furniture, a little too big, a little too much clear varnish, a little too much elderly gentleman, bent over on a cane, dictated something, then shuffled out and the
polish and a little “wood art” to boot: six thin inlaid strips on the table top. They are friendly-correct secretary invited me in, asked for the number, dialled and handed me
supposed to look powerful and like tireless work, the mobile the receiver. The call went out, no one picked up. “You can
workstations of the potentates. However, the compartment try again later.” She smiled kindly-correctly and then, “Five
doors with their rounded corners, their glass panes of etched marks please.” Now the remaining cash was not enough for
frosted glass and the sliding windows of the carriage betray- any more telephone attempts, nor for a meal either, but at
ed the carriage’s origins from days gone by, recalling the state least for a glass of mineral water. I went over to the dining
trains of regents long gone, the photos of their journeys in car. I had risen to the adult section, this was a moment to
printed newspaper black and white: Didn’t the Queen of Eng- savour. A group of businessmen were drinking cognac, a
land once hold court in a magnificent private train? Didn’t group of lawyers were drinking wine, three railway officials
Mr Khrushchev and Mr Mao wave to the cheering crowds were drinking Pilsner and schnapps, and they were all cele-
from the windows of their state coaches? And wasn’t there a brating their respective successes verbosely and with loud,
chancellor’s train in the old Federal Republic? Some Göring almost shrill laughter. The old gentleman with the crutch
saloon car from the Nazi era that was hastily converted into Fotocollage: Benjamin Reding was also there, sitting alone, drinking a coffee and smoking
Adenauer’s rolling office after the war? No more special filterless cigarettes. And I was sitting alone with my mineral
train as a state-supporting “leisure express”, no more lavish water at the table opposite. I had seen his face somewhere
dining aboard the train, no more marble bathtubs, no more before. On television? A politician? But his face looked too
crystal chandeliers and viewing compartments, no, the new Federal Republic was crumpled, too tired, too melancholic for that. An actor? No, he was too stooped, too
industrious and humble-modest. No photo of those years from the Chancellor’s train introverted, too taciturn. An announcer? A newscaster? A famous painter perhaps?
without the Cologne-Bonn father of the state at the meagre train desk. And his suc- At least his clothes would fit, all a bit careless, fallen out of time, brownish corduroy
cessors: Chancellor Erhardt with his usual fat cigar, but up-to-date with a fax machine trousers and a tattered jacket. He was seen by the other guests, but not looked at.
and a telephone; Kiesinger with a servile breakfast waiter standing by; Willy Brandt at In the dignified dining car, one was entre nous, an inner circle, presupposing mutual
the compartment window in the station in Erfurt in 1970, with spy Günter Guillaume acquaintance, importance, power. It dawned, the guests drank more, boasted more,
in front of the train on the tracks during the 1972 election campaign, Brandt with jour- let all their decisions shine, glitter, become even bigger, better, more correct. The old
nalists in the overcrowded dining car shortly before his fall in 1974. Brandt and the gentleman looked out of the train window, looked at the lights of the cities, then
train – he must certainly have liked it. Later pictures are missing, no more Schmidt, turned to his coffee and saw me and I saw him. Suddenly he smiled and nodded at
no more Kohl sitting at the train desk, but instead photos of Kohl in the new state air- me. Friendly-melancholic. A look signalling approval, approval of our common fate of
craft, almost too heavy, too rounded, too space-consuming, even for the voluminous being the only two in the compartment – one of them sick, old and using a cane, the
Airbus A310. The time of modesty as a reason of state was over for the chancellors. My other just an exhausted child – who lacked any aura of power here. He paid, the wai-
own encounters resurface from memory: the already decommissioned chancellor’s ter called him by name. In Cologne, at the main station, he got off. The old gentleman
train on a siding in Sauerland. Silent summer heat, only the chirping of insects in the was Heinrich Böll. Since Joe Biden’s train journey in February 2023, many heads of
weeds of the track. Faded significance, dormant importance, peeling paint, cobwebs state have travelled to Kiev by train. Also, the German Chancellor. All without a jumbo
in the blinded windows. And, suddenly, violently, the memory of a smell. Not a smell, jet, without 200-person delegations, without radar defence, without the “Beast” and
a scent, from childhood: of fried food, cigarette smoke and towelettes. Memory of without using up 80 tonnes of kerosene. The only effect of the war that seems reaso-
the hammering sound of an IBM ball-head typewriter, the silhouette of a lady behind nable to me so far. And I take the liberty of guessing: to Heinrich Böll, too, perhaps.

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