Berlin construction site – view from an illegal position
UNEMPLOYMENT
It was too early to cry, although things were as bad as they could be – the work had ended, and with it all hopes for any kind of earnings and a more or less peaceful life. Although what kind of peaceful life is this?! Avoiding every policeman you meet like the plague, of which there are more than enough in Berlin, fearing a knock on the door in the middle of the night – what if it's 'our' bandits coming to 'borrow' all your money, and many, many other unpleasant things – and all this is a peaceful life?! But without work, even that won't exist. So we illegals dream of even some lousy little job, and we rejoice like children when we find one. And then we rejoice in the 'peaceful' life that comes with that job.
I sat alone in our 'conspiratorial' apartment. My comrade, as usual, had been at work since early morning (lucky him!), where there was still no place for me. Thoughts, one worse than the other, filled my poor head, which had long been swollen from excessive nicotine consumption. The eternal question 'What to do?' could not find an answer in my inflamed brain. At times I regretted agreeing to this adventure of coming to Berlin to earn some money (and getting into debt in the process), at other times I was glad that, despite everything, I would never have earned THAT kind of money at home. There was no point in going home – not only would I have to repay the debt based on Ukrainian salaries (i.e., for the rest of my days), but also those salaries need to be found there. I can't say that there is no work at all in Ukraine, but to say there is enough would also be a lie. As for the sufficiency of the salary to maintain at least a minimal standard of living, there is no point in even talking about it.
When I was getting ready for Berlin, I could not have imagined that I would face the same problem as in Ukraine, namely unemployment. To me, Germany seemed like a Klondike in terms of job availability. It seemed to me then that work here was just 'lying on the road' – take it if you want! That the Germans in their well-fed country were so 'spoiled' that they didn't really want to work. They just sit comfortably on 'social welfare', while illegals of all kinds work for them. Or 'legals', what's the difference, the main thing is that there is enough work for everyone. To a large extent, the formation of this prejudice, so far from reality, was facilitated by the tales of 'old-timers' who had once been in the sweet embrace of the 'decaying' West, as well as those lucky ones among former CIS citizens who, after obtaining permanent residence in Germany, 'got on social welfare' and live to their heart's content, without a care in the world.
Such 'new Germans', when visiting relatives in their former homeland, constantly flaunt this. Yes, they are somewhat lucky (although I personally find it hard to call a reluctance to work luck), but why should they fill our naive heads with nonsense? We greedily absorb any information about everything that happens THERE, hoping for its reliability. And for some inexplicable reason, we believe the most incredible stories, thereby plunging ourselves even deeper into the abyss of absurd illusions about life in the Countries of the Setting Sun. People have a tendency to embellish reality, especially the inhabitants of my unfortunate Ukraine against the backdrop of the terrifying poverty surrounding them, and they try their best in this regard. And the 'new Germans' together with the 'old-timers' regularly supply them with food for thought.
So I sat, torn by doubts, enveloped in a thick veil of bluish tobacco smoke, for quite a long time, when suddenly a brilliant thought visited my poor head: 'The drowning man's salvation is the drowning man's own doing!' And I decided to act...
FIRST TIME IN FIRST GRADE
First of all, I tidied up my face (I couldn't bring myself to call this overgrown and shaggy 'something' anything else). Then I tried to clean my tracksuit, decorated like the national flag of Ukraine (yellow and blue), from the persistent plaster dust – in vain. The damned German quality of Knauf drywall did not provide for removing traces of its presence from civilian clothes by the traditional method – shaking. Something more radical was needed – tedious hand-washing, which for me, unaccustomed to such ordeals after many years of married life (my poor wife!), became a nightmare. The pain in my hands after the day before yesterday's exercises with the Terminator wheelbarrow on the construction site while removing debris had not only not subsided but had flared up even more, but I realized this too late, when the suit was already soaked in water. Due to the lack of spare outer clothing (you wouldn't bring your entire wardrobe from home!), I had to continue torturing my hands and – 'Oh, miracle!' – by the end of the washing, the muscles and ligaments of my hands began to slowly fill with life force. The same cannot be said for my lower back – it cramped so much that I had to walk in the pose of a Soviet dacha owner (back to the forest, nose to the ground), in which I was washing my suit in the bathroom, to the bed and collapse dead. Only after half an hour could I force myself to get up from the lullingly soft bed and continue preparing for my planned course of action. I didn't have much time left, so I dried the suit with a powerful hair dryer. You'll laugh, but it's a very effective remedy. Especially for synthetic fabrics.
Refreshed and scented with Fa deodorant (I haven't earned Hugo Boss yet), I went outside, once again getting immense pleasure from the silent elevator and the automatically opening huge glass doors of the entrance. I took a deep breath of the eternally damp Berlin air and headed for the S-Bahn station. With each new step and gulp of fresh air, I felt my former optimism returning, and defeatist moods gradually losing ground. And how could it be otherwise – after all, for the first time in five days, I went outside during the day, wasn't in a particular hurry, could calmly turn my head around and not think about how being late for work would affect my salary. And everything around is so beautiful! I won't presume to judge other European capitals – I haven't been there, but Berlin is a very beautiful city! It reminds me of a Teutonic knight clad in steel armor, and its appearance exudes a kind of gloomy calm, which, nevertheless, does not oppress but, on the contrary, awakens only positive emotions.
Infected with good mood, I walked more energetically and within a few minutes was settling comfortably into the luxurious seat of a brand new S-Bahn, having first fed the ticket machine a crumpled twenty-mark bill, which it persistently spat out. I was planning to go to the construction site where I had worked the first three days and try my luck again in finding a job. Well, I didn't get a job from the 'Yugoslavs' then – no big deal. They're not the only ones hiring illegals! There will be kind people. Especially since I remembered very well the Russian profanity directed at me when I tipped over the wheelbarrow of garbage in front of the container. So, there were plenty of Slavic brothers on that site, and quite possibly, there would be a place for me too. That's what I thought on the way to my goal. If only I had known then how wrong I was! But at that time, I was still full of rosy hopes for a cloudless future. The not-yet-expired visa in my pocket also added optimism – at least there was a chance to get out of a dangerous situation.
Getting off the U-Bahn, I first of all carefully examined my reflection in the Rolex window, mentally trying on the most expensive 'alarm clock' on my skinny wrist. 'Probably too big!' I thought, finally counting the number of zeros on the price tag. Not with our luck... But I didn't come here for that. Straightening my sparrow-like shoulders, I headed for the entrance to the construction site.
I didn't manage to get in on the first try. Right at the gate, I came face to face with the same Bauleiter who had scolded me the day before yesterday for my discourtesy towards the Japanese. His bald spot even turned purple at the sight of me. He shouted something in his non-Russian language, waving his hands at me, and demonstratively closed the gate, almost knocking me off my feet with the heavy iron doors. What a start!
Without thinking long, I turned to that ill-fated entrance to the building where I had managed to insult the national pride of the sake lovers by appearing with a wheelbarrow of garbage in the midst of their party. It wasn't too difficult for me to put a cold marble Japanese smile on my face and slip past the again stunned man in a tailcoat with a bow tie (and why does he suffer so?!) to the elevator. So I found myself again on my beloved construction site, bypassing the main entrance. If I hadn't gone into that elevator then, I would never have thought of this way of getting onto the 'site'. Negative experience is also experience.
MAN IS A WOLF TO MAN
On 'my' floor, there was impeccable order and the smell of fresh paint. All the painters were tightly packed in special overalls, and their faces were hidden behind gas masks (not even respirators!). It felt like you were not on a construction site but in a biological weapons production workshop. Only the lack of sterile cleanliness brings you back to reality. Well done, Germans! Health first!
I walked among them like at an exhibition among exhibits and realized that there was no Slavic spirit here. They wouldn't give our man such equipment, that's for sure! On this floor, it seemed, finding work was not in the cards for me. I went down a floor and immediately saw what I was looking for. It was a dirty little man of short stature, about forty, with shifty eyes. It was impossible not to recognize him as a Soviet builder, so much did he stand out from the general mass of workers. His 'overalls' hadn't been washed since the day of purchase, and that event had apparently happened not a month ago. At first glance, it was clear that he worked here for ten – he looked so exhausted. He, in turn, also unmistakably identified my non-Aryan origin, judging by his look. As I approached him, his appearance changed before my eyes. From a miserable, tormented by hard bondage and resigned little man, he turned into a real dzhigit with a burning gaze. I, naive, still didn't fully understand what these metamorphoses were leading to.
Everything became clear a moment later. It turned out that the brother by blood had long been living by the law of the jungle: 'Man is a wolf to man.' He bluntly told me that there was no work for me here, and that it was time for me to go back where I came from. His overly emotional speech was half composed of untranslatable idiomatic expressions. I didn't have time to open my mouth... He had developed such a peculiar instinct to protect 'his' territory from outsiders. I, unaccustomed to such rude treatment of my person, advised him to choose his expressions more carefully when talking to strangers. I was just finishing my instructive tirade when from the neighboring offices appeared the comrades of my interlocutor, at least five of them, and in a much harsher form told me to get lost. The forces were unequal, and I had to listen to the voice of reason, that is, retreat.
I recall that Tikhii had told me something about a brigade of 'Zapadentsy' (people from Western Ukraine) working on this site, and about their ways. Judging by the accent of the 'dzhigit', I had run into them. I got off lightly; I could have gotten a beating, they are capable of that. Quite a bunch! As construction specialists, they are unsurpassed, they work like devils – fast and skillfully, and they have no competitors in terms of quality, speed, or pay. I would like to dwell on the last point in more detail. The fact is that these guys undercut prices for all other illegals. If the rate for 'black' workers on a site is, say, ten marks per hour, they instantly offer the boss their work for eight marks, thereby pushing out other 'off-the-books' workers from the site. A very ugly move, but it does not contradict the Law of the Jungle that reigns in the Berlin illegal world. It's hard to get used to this law, but you can't live here by any other. Tested.
ONE FLOOR DOWN
On the next floor, I was luckier; there I met a real family brigade – a father with two sons, and they greeted me more friendly than the Khokhol brothers. Maybe the fact that I came to them just as they were 'setting the table', i.e., unwrapping sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil (the sacred time of the lunch break had come), played a role. Or maybe they were just normal people. One of the sons immediately recognized me as 'that newbie who tipped over the wheelbarrow' and admitted that he too had added 'a few choice words' to the general canon of curses directed at me. They had also heard about my 'run-in' with the Japanese. I had become a celebrity. Heartening. Some kind of fame, at least. In any case, it was this episode that made possible the ease with which our further conversation proceeded. They knew that I hadn't yet become a competitor, so they had nothing to fear. The conversation went in the style of 'I talk – you listen', and our brother loves to give advice – after all, it's the Land of Soviets. I didn't mind – extra information wouldn't hurt me.
They gave me quite a lot of useful advice. First, my suit absolutely did not fit into the denim-and-T-shirt monotony in which Germans appear on construction sites. And in it, I would be the first candidate for arrest during a raid, which are quite regular here – construction sites in the center of Berlin are known for increased police attention, unlike on the outskirts. And my visa wouldn't help. Our people sure know how to cheer you up! Second, I needed to get a work overall so as not to stand out from the general blue-white-green mass of German builders. And also to have access to some fairly well-paying construction sites where safety regulations are strictly enforced. I would also have to buy work boots for eighty marks. Otherwise, you simply won't be let onto such a site. In total, the minimum cost for equipment is about one hundred and fifty marks (including a T-shirt). Not bad!
They also advised me to get a mobile phone. An illegal without communication is like without hands. The situation changes every minute, and you need to be constantly aware of all events in the illegal world. Not to mention that via the 'mobile' you can always be offered a job you never dreamed of. Looking ahead, I will say that I did indeed get such a dream job, but about that – in one of the following publications, if the editor-in-chief doesn't object. And now, in the era of universal 'mobilization', minutes decide everything. If some 'Yugoslav' gets work for illegals – what will he do? That's right, he'll dial the first number in his phone book and offer the job, and he certainly won't go scouring Berlin construction sites looking for workers. So everything is in our hands, including the 'mobile'.
Finally, they offered to sell me an old phone of an unknown brand with the single inscription 'E-Plus', honestly warning that the battery charge lasts a maximum of fifteen hours, which is why they were selling it. For a ridiculous price – eighty marks. At that time, at the Turkish market, the exact same handset, even without a SIM card, cost at least one hundred and fifty, as I found out later. And here there was even twenty marks left on the card. But I'm not used to buying everything, even if it's very cheap, without finding out more about the item, so I took their phone number, promising to call when I was 'ready'.
But advice is advice, and work on this floor also didn't work out. When the conversation got to that, the head of the family just sympathetically spread his hands. According to him, they themselves were expecting imminent 'layoffs'. The finishing work on this site was almost finished, and the near future for them was as uncertain as for me. Just in case, they suggested calling their 'pipe' – maybe someone would offer something worthwhile. If I were a good specialist, my chances of employment would be much higher, but as it is – alas! But no one comes to Berlin as a great master; everyone becomes one here, in the process of work. It's another matter how this skill upgrade comes to each person. For someone who at home had only a superficial idea of construction, it will be hardest here. So I still have everything ahead. Such a vague prospect didn't suit me at all, and I said goodbye to the hospitable 'hosts' of the floor, especially since they were also getting ready – the lunch break was coming to an end.
POLES
On the remaining floors, all the way down to the 'Erdgeschoss', I didn't encounter any Russian-speaking workers. There were Poles, Yugoslavs, I even met a black man (they should warn you – I almost fell down the stairs from surprise!). The Poles sent me even further than the 'Zapadentsy' an hour earlier (oh, how popular that address is on construction sites!), and also expressed their opinion about my mother. I knew Polish quite well, especially this kind of 'business address' and information about relatives – at one time I worked in Poland at a shipyard, though officially. Despite the 'warm welcome', I still asked them about job availability. I wasn't surprised by the answer – that phrase had been heard too often lately... Especially since the Poles had to condescend to talk to some poor Ukrainian. After all, they had a more privileged position in Germany compared to us – visa-free entry means something.
Who all illegals envy with black envy are the subjects of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. There is something to envy. They are legally on the territory of the FRG, can do whatever they please (within the law, of course), and at the same time are not afraid of being caught by the police at any moment. And that means a lot for the overall psycho-emotional state. They are not in a state of constant stress caused by the fear of being deported to their homeland, which is characteristic of all 'our' illegals without exception. And with a normal, not shattered nervous system, work is easier. Of course, they, like us, cannot work without a special permit, but even Germans indulge in 'black' side jobs. Particularly enviable are those Poles who live on the border with Germany. They generally commute to Berlin for work every day by train. Not life – a fairy tale! During the day they earn money at German rates, and in the evening they spend it at Polish rates. During the day at work, at night – in a warm bed with a wife (well, not necessarily with a wife – I'm looking from my own bell tower). What more does a person need for complete happiness? So what if they spend a lot of time on the road? In Tokyo, one Japanese spent six (!) hours daily on the road, and nothing, he even benefited from it – he learned nineteen (!) languages in ten years of such commutes.
But enough, God be with them, the Poles. The 'Yugoslavs' weren't far behind them, only the 'address' was in a different language. Since at that time I understood Yugoslav no better than our government understands the needs of its people, that was enough for me (I had learned THAT the day before yesterday when I was 'working' with the 'Yugoslavs'). On that note, we parted, feeling great sympathy for each other.
ERDGESCHOSS
The lowest floor was no different from the others in terms of job prospects for me. The same phrases, the same facial expressions, only it became more dangerous. There were more bosses than workers. The imminent completion of work on this site was taking its toll. Here I had to be careful – speaking loudly in Russian became dangerous. For me, it was still okay – I had a visa, but I didn't want to let down the 'hospitable' Slavs. As they say: 'The earth is square, we'll meet around the corner.' Who knows, maybe I'll have to work with some of them yet. Making enemies from the first days is not my policy. But apparently, I wasn't quite ready for conspiratorial work yet, because within five minutes of my fruitless search, a man of impressive size approached me and hissed through his teeth, looking around:
– Listen, what the ... are you walking around here in your parrot suit and blowing our cover? They told you in plain Russian – there's no work for you here, got it?!
Couldn't be clearer! Then the Big Guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled cigarette pack, wrote something on a scrap of it, and handed it to me with the words:
– Here, take this phone number and get the hell out of here. Call in a week – maybe something will come up for you. That's it, go, motherf***er! Because of you, they're going to bust us all here – look how many bosses have shown up!
Well, I've heard enough about my mother! She probably doesn't even suspect how popular she was back then. But thanks for the phone number! Extra contacts never hurt anyone. And illegals live by this. Don't have a hundred rubles... But there's nothing to do, it's really time to 'wrap it up'. Any moment now, I might run into a big boss, and then not only will I be in trouble – everyone will get it. As if I had looked into the water! I hadn't taken a few steps when, as always out of nowhere, the chief Bauleiter appeared in front of me. And not alone, but with a whole retinue of very important-looking gentlemen.
...I feel sorry for the German – he could have a heart attack like that. At that moment, he was enthusiastically telling something to his guests, waving his arms, but when he saw me, he stopped mid-sentence, and his hands froze in the air, describing an imaginary circle. His eyes filled with blood. He would have stood there like a bullfighter, who knows how long, if one very important person from his entourage hadn't asked: 'Ja, und?!' and turned his clear gaze on me. That saved me. Apparently, the Bauleiter didn't really want to advertise the presence of 'black' workers on his site, because the next moment he made one of his hands, hanging in the air, into a weak semblance of a greeting gesture, and his lips, trembling with anger, creaked 'Hallo!'. He decided to pretend to be an old acquaintance. I don't think he succeeded, but his retinue fell for the trick. Some of the 'big people' even nodded at me. I'm rising in their eyes! If only they knew where the soul of their contractor's 'acquaintance' was at that moment... Personally, I couldn't even feel my heels! It's still unknown which of us was closer to a heart attack. I'm really lucky today!
I didn't test fate and almost ran to the saving entrance gates. Passing them, I ran-walked another two hundred meters, all the way to the Rolex, afraid to turn around. Only then did I catch my breath and finally come to my senses. How could I have gotten into such a mess! What did Tikhii advise me? Not to pay attention to all this? It would be good to learn that. But not from lessons like this! Not only was I sent to faraway places today by everyone who wasn't too lazy, but also this 'meeting on the Elbe' with the Bauleiter! And most importantly – no result. Exactly like in the famous joke about two cowboys – 'Bill, don't you think we've eaten a load of crap for nothing?'.
Read also related material: THREE DAYS IN THE LIFE OF A BERLIN ILLEGAL -1
Andrei EVDOKIMOV.
Specially for 'Zagranitsa'.