Berlin has been rebuilt, and there is no longer the frantic search for cheap labor
And such work in Berlin is becoming harder to find every year. Just five years ago, the situation on the 'black' labor market was the complete opposite of today's. Back then, the city was experiencing a construction boom—everything that could be built was being built. There was a shortage of workers. Employers stood in line for workers (illegal ones, of course). Wages were such that today one can only dream of them. And most importantly, the police did not show such tender affection for foreign workers. Raids on construction sites were as rare as their absence is today. Many seasoned illegal immigrants, who remember THOSE times, still live with the sole hope of the return of WHAT WAS. Without that hope, they say, they would have long ago left Berlin in search of a better lot elsewhere. So they live in their castles in the air, some for five or six years, unable to send a single kopeck home—just managing to support themselves with the bare minimum...
Now the city has been rebuilt. The frantic search for cheap labor has long since disappeared. There are enough German construction workers on the sites, even some surplus is observed. And whatever the 'city fathers' may predict (in the style of 'Berlin is doomed to eternal construction and will never be finished'), that is no longer for us. There are almost no 'off-the-books' construction sites left, and those few that still exist are almost entirely staffed by Yugoslav workers. Russians are now hired only for meager wages, and only during emergencies. Most Yugoslav foremen today are not so bold in hiring illegal immigrants—due to increased police attention on their sites. They have learned to count money and no longer chase petty savings on wages. They suffer huge losses from police raids.
Imagine: a certain 'Yug' receives a warning about a raid. Where they get these warnings, only God knows, but in my opinion, connections in the 'crystal clear' German police are involved. After receiving such a 'storm warning', he must urgently remove all illegal immigrants from the construction site, otherwise—a fine, and a very hefty one. Sometimes a whole week passes waiting for the raid. And what if during that week he has to hand over the project, which is most often the case? Work stops, deadlines loom, the German Bauleiter starts getting nervous... Who needs that? And who will pay the penalty for the unfinished work on time? It is much easier for the 'Yug' to hire compatriots from among refugees or 'asylees' who have somehow miraculously obtained work permits, and register them at a minimum wage to save on paying exorbitantly high taxes. He will pay the difference between the officially registered salary and the agreed salary in 'black cash', and no problems with downtime. The wolves are fed and the sheep are safe, and one's own shirt is still closer to the body. This is again about compatriotism—a 'Yug' will always understand a 'Yug' better than a Russian.
So, the first pancake turned out lumpy. But it was worth trying—after all, only those who do not try make no mistakes. My today's venture cannot be called a mistake either. It was another attempt to obtain truthful information, and it ended successfully. All the myths about an incredible amount of work for illegal immigrants on large construction sites in Berlin were successfully dispelled. To my great dismay...
REASONS FOR ATTEMPT NUMBER TWO
It was too early to give up. There remained one truly boundless field of activity—the private sector. But to find work in this direction, at least a basic knowledge of German was necessary, which I just did not have. The few German words and phrases added to my 'impressive' vocabulary in the first days of work could not fully satisfy my needs. I was well aware of the insignificance of my chances of success, but I had no other choice. There was nothing else to do, and I did not want to sit idly waiting for manna from heaven. A day spent in Berlin costs a bit more than a day spent in Ukraine. That has to be taken into account.
Every 'wasted' day either lightens your pocket or increases the amount of your debt (as in my case), and there is little pleasant about it. You can get into such debt that even with German wages you won't be able to pay it off, which, by the way, is the misfortune of many illegal immigrants. True, some of them do not consider it a problem, and live 'in debt like in silk', without thinking about the consequences at all. And those consequences can be very dire. Due to the specifics of their situation in Germany, illegal immigrant creditors have no place to seek legal protection, and they find no better option than to turn to the mafia for help. What that can mean for the debtor, I think, goes without saying. Good if he gets off with just a beating. But what if not? Is that why we go there?
However, at that moment I somehow did not really want to think about such unpleasant consequences. But, hoping for the best, be prepared for the worst. By the way, here is another law of the jungle: 'Never lend money to anyone under any circumstances.' And if compassion has prevailed over cold reason and you have still given some cash to someone who touched your tender soul, forget about your money forever. If a person is left without money in Berlin, the only reason you might lend them a small amount is for their return to their homeland. That will cost you no more than the price of a bus ticket on the route 'Berlin – Country of origin.' But if the beggar asks for a large sum (with a promise to 'pay back with the first paycheck'), rest assured, you will never see that money again. Judge for yourself: if a person has no job and has ended up completely broke (meaning they have been out of work for a very long time), where would they get the chance to find one? And while they are looking, they will have to spend money to live. Your money. And then they will run aground again, and it will all repeat. So a polite refusal is the best way out for both of you. You will keep your money, they will keep their health, which could be seriously damaged by the guys from the 'Family.' Ultimately, you will be a benefactor, even if they don't realize it...
THE ROAD TO THE VILLAGE
Let us briefly step away from thoughts on the topic 'What does this threaten us with?' and continue our journey around Berlin in search of a 'job'.
I did not dare to engage in such activity in the city center, despite having a visa. The fear of being caught was already beginning to take over my subconscious. Being caught on a construction site while begging for work and on the street near a private house while doing the same thing are two very different things, as they say somewhere. So I decided to go to the outskirts — there it is calmer, quieter, and you can see a police car from a mile away. Say what you will, but the German police made sure their cars were noticeable against the backdrop of the depressingly numerous fleet of private cars. Huge thanks to them for that from all illegal immigrants! It is impossible to count how many times that white-and-green color scheme warned us of impending danger in time. And the black 'Krip' vans with the characteristic roar of diesel engines?! Their appearance never goes unnoticed; however, little good it does — you cannot escape them if the construction site is already cordoned off. These are not the 'white-and-greens' who are too lazy to lift a finger. If you run, they will run after you, and if they catch you, you are guaranteed a complete violation of human rights.
Still, the topic 'What does this threaten us with?' is firmly intertwined with all the others; it cannot be simply gotten rid of. No wonder — the life of an illegal is thoroughly saturated with all sorts of 'threats,' and bright sunny days in it are oh so few! Allow me to give some advice — always treat with a fair amount of skepticism any information about how good life is for an illegal on German soil. Perhaps you are tired, dear reader, of reading about the constant troubles that await illegal immigrants at every step, but this is the bitter truth, and there is no escaping it. To embellish anything in this narrative is a rare crime. After all, a person who has read cheerful tall tales will sooner or later come to the conclusion that here it is — deliverance from a hard life! Why shouldn't I try my luck? I'll live in Germany, make big bucks, so what? Look how many have been THERE. And am I any worse? In the end — another disappointment in life, another collapse of illusory hopes, and often it all ends in a severe nervous breakdown due to the realization of one's own worthlessness.
But let us continue the story of the Seeker's fruitless wanderings. The S-Bahn started moving, and I immersed myself in contemplation of the passing views of Berlin, one more beautiful than the other. In the car, you can only hear the light rustle of the outside wind, and nothing prevents you from focusing on the beauty around you. This is another reason why I prefer to move around the city by S-Bahn: fast, convenient, and relatively quiet. I did not take the U-Bahn that day. As it turned out, the station where I transferred from the train to the subway was only a five-minute walk straight ahead. But I was spending at least fifteen minutes on the transfer and waiting for the right U-Bahn. It took me four days to orient myself in space, when I only needed to turn my head and see right in front of my nose the very same S-Bahn station where I transferred to the subway. All to ride it just one (!) stop...
As we approached the eastern part of the city, the view from the window became less attractive — developed socialism left its ugly mark even on architecture. Thank God, most of the buildings built during that period are now being actively renovated, acquiring a quite decent appearance. Meanwhile, my car left 'Zone B.' The GDR-era five-story buildings gave way to nice private houses. Since the houses looked fully built and lived in, I decided that my help was unlikely needed here. A couple of stops later, a whole new residential area under construction, consisting of two-story houses, appeared in the window. I snapped out of my meditation — it was time to get off.
ATTEMPT NUMBER TWO
From the height of the railway embankment, it seemed to me that the construction sites were just a stone's throw from the station. An optical illusion – I had to trudge for about twenty minutes before I reached the first one. Another small digression: if you intend to actively search for work in the private sector, be prepared to run your tongue out over a huge number of kilometers in a day, and don't expect results. Better to bring a spare pair of shoes – one pair won't do. In the suburbs of Berlin, public transport does not run as often as in the center. That is, buses do run on schedule, but when you look at that schedule, you feel sick. By the law of the sandwich, you arrive at the stop about ten minutes after the last bus left. The next one won't come for at least an hour, maybe two. So you can't rely on suburban transport.
But let's get back to the point. On the way to the coveted boxes of houses under construction, I mentally rehearsed phrases that I thought might come in handy. Wasted effort. No one was going to talk to me. Only with a sneering grin: 'Keine Arbeit!' With such accompaniment, I walked the gauntlet to the very end of the developing neighborhood. There were only Germans there, every last one of them suffering from a particular love for Russians. I can guess why. I'm not the only one who saw such a huge construction site from the S-Bahn window. I can imagine how many times a day these construction sites were visited by Seekers like me. Such a pilgrimage would drive anyone crazy. The Germans also have unemployment, and they also don't want to lose their jobs because of some illegals willing to work for pennies. And we methodically, day after day, 'bombard' them with our visits.
It would have been foolish to return to the station along the main street of the construction town, so just in case I took a detour along its outer boundary. All I needed for complete happiness was to run into the management – with my luck, it was entirely possible, and if ordinary workers treated newcomers like that, then what could be said about their bosses.
It made no sense to ask the few workers in this part of the construction site about work – it was enough to catch their expressive look, and everything became clear. But I tried to derive benefit even from the walk itself in the immediate vicinity of the houses under construction. I was gaining experience, so to speak. I carefully examined some features of the construction technology that were visible to me. I discovered many new things. Unfortunately, our 'advanced' technologies lag behind the German ones by about fifty years, and this must be taken into account when self-assessing one's knowledge. If you, being in Ukraine, consider yourself a great specialist in construction work, do not be mistaken – your knowledge in Germany will be rated at least an order of magnitude lower. The exceptions to this rule are perhaps only bricklayers and plasterers – these are already fairly rare professions in Germany due to the ever-increasing popularity of drywall and various modular structures.
CONTEMPORARY OF THE CENTURY
Having lost all hope of success in this place, I moved on. I walked another S-Bahn stop and turned off the main street into some lane. Here stood houses not of the freshest, most likely from before the war. In the yard of one of them, some little old lady – a contemporary of Stirlitz – was skillfully wielding a hoe like a seasoned Soviet dacha gardener, despite her advanced age. I, having mustered up my courage (should we be afraid of old ladies?), knocked on the tin mailbox with my wedding ring in the hope of attracting her attention. No such luck! The grandmother, as it turned out later, was hard of hearing. What to do? Not kick the gate with my foot – after all, besides the grandmother's attention, I could attract the attention of a neighbor who hadn't slept off a night out, and in that state his hand automatically dials the police. Even then I had heard about one of the favorite pastimes of Germans – 'snitching' to the police. They absolutely love to demand that others comply with all sorts of paragraphs and regulations, while in turn breaking them all without a twinge of conscience.
Fortune finally turned her face to me. The grandmother tore herself away for a moment from her fascinating activity and noticed a stranger at her gate. After a few minutes, she hobbled to the gate and held her ear to me, cupping her hands like a megaphone. I realized that I would now have to shout the word 'Arbeiten' down the entire lane, and began to regret approaching this house. I was tempted by the old lady's harmlessness – now I had only myself to blame. But I found a way out of the awkward situation – I gestured that I 'can dig, can not dig.' The language of distant ancestors turned out to be more effective than I could have imagined. The old lady happily opened the gate and dragged me somewhere into the depths of the yard. Her yard was impressive – about eighty meters long and twenty meters wide. More than half of the entire yard was virgin soil untouched since the founding of Berlin. And she offered me to clear this tangled undergrowth and then 'Graben.' I understood the meaning of this word when she took a well-worn shovel from a half-collapsed shed and handed it to me. I felt uneasy, especially when I found out how much she valued such work.
You'll laugh, but she drew a three with two zeros on the ground with a stick. For everything. There's two weeks of work here from dawn to dusk. Apparently, the old lady not only has hearing problems, she's also not right in the head. At best, it comes out to less than two marks an hour. This is just mockery! But the 'dandelion' looked at me completely seriously. In my head, thoughts were born and died at a furious pace about how to politely refuse such a 'tempting' offer without offending the 'benefactress'. Regardless, age, especially that age, must be respected. I couldn't find a stronger argument for refusal than pointing out the terrible dilapidation of the shovel, showing on my fingers that it wouldn't hold up even half an hour of such work. From the expression on the century-old woman's face, I realized she had heard this 'excuse' many times before. I hurried away, profusely apologizing.
SKINHEAD
On the next street I noticed a fairly large house with crumbling plaster. One of its walls had been covered with scaffolding up to the roof since the fall of the Berlin Wall. The scaffolding was metal and heavily rusted, and the pile of construction debris nearby was so overgrown with weeds that it suggested the owners had no desire to continue the renovation. And why didn't I consider that they might have no money?! That would have spared me the shameful retreat that ended my attempt to offer the owners help with restoring the house for a modest fee.
The gate was open, and I boldly approached the front door. In response to my ring, the door was opened by a scrawny boy about fifteen years old, in the usual disheveled state for that age. His head was clean-shaven, which surprised me quite a bit. Following him, a cute face of a Great Dane peeked out from the door. The face was the size of a basketball. If this beast has such a face, you can imagine my state when it stuck its nose into my navel, sniffing and licking. Somewhere around my heels, where my soul was at that moment, a vow began to form never again to cross the threshold of any house where there was even the slightest suspicion of keeping such 'Pekingese'.
The kid, crossing his arms on his chest and leaning against the doorframe, thereby giving an opportunity to assess the giant size of his dog, growled something with a contemptuous smirk, trying his hardest to make his voice as rough as possible. I took this as permission to be heard. Unsuccessfully trying to stop the trembling in my voice (the nice doggy kept sniffing me), I tried to explain to this arrogant boor the purpose of my visit. I already knew the word 'Verputzen' ('to plaster'), which I was terribly proud of. The depth of my knowledge of German did not surprise the pocket-dog lover at all; on the contrary, it was clear that he expected exactly this level of knowledge from me. Are we really so different from Germans that they can spot us a mile away?
The young Schwarzenegger growled 'Moment!' and shouted something inside the house, turning his back to me. The tattoo revealed on his shaved neck did not improve my optimism. It was an exceptionally well-made image of a Nazi swastika... While I was examining this highly artistic work, trying to figure out what it might lead to, an hysterical female scream came from somewhere deep inside the house, apparently belonging to the dog owner's mother. From all I heard, I only caught something about 'Kein Geld' and 'Russian shit'. The latter phrase was one of the first I learned by heart during the short time I had been on hospitable German soil.
The youth turned to me with a silent question: 'Is everything clear?' I nodded affirmatively and began to slowly turn around so as not to arouse suspicion in the spotted monster, who still hadn't gotten enough of the 'Russian' scent. The fascist punk didn't even move to restrain the dog. He was getting great pleasure from this scene. I recalled scenes from movies about German concentration camps... I hadn't taken a few steps when a croaking command rang out behind me, followed by the ferocious barking of the Hound of the Baskervilles. To say I was scared to death is an understatement. In two leaps I covered the ten meters to the gate, automatically slamming the tall gate shut behind me. Behind me came the heart-rending clang of the 'Dalmatian's' jaws snapping shut. My escape was accompanied by the wild laughter of the neo-Nazi.
In all fairness, I must say that this incident was the only one in my experience. God forbid you think that Germans set their dogs on every passerby. No more often than in our country. Every nation has its misfits. But for the most part, Germans are a very good-natured people. And their unfriendly attitude towards us is no different from our attitude towards 'people of non-Russian ethnicity'. In my opinion, we simply 'got to them'.
BURGHER
I decided to recover from the encounter with the 'dog handler' and his protégé in a nearby pine forest. There, lounging on a lovely glade, I let my tired feet rest and finished the last sandwich – hunger had long been reminding me of itself. The sun's rays enveloping me with warmth and the singing of an incredible number of birds prevented me from concentrating on the main question – 'What to do next?' No matter how I tried to steer my thoughts in the right direction, I couldn't. This forest seemed specially created for relaxation. I did not resist Nature and completely surrendered to its power. Too many events for one day...
I was awakened by the sound of a hammer coming from deep within the forest. The clock showed exactly six o'clock in the evening. It was already getting dark, it was time to go home, but the methodical hammering would not let me go back in peace. I thought I would give myself one more chance and went, stumbling at every step, in the direction from which the sound came.
Imagine my surprise when, after just ten minutes of pushing through centuries-old thickets, I came out to another microdistrict, but more modern than the previous one. I thought it was a large forest and the walk would take much longer. The hammering stopped, and I saw a man in the yard of the nearest 'hut' staring at me in amazement, shifting his gaze from me to the road that ran through the woods just some fifty meters parallel to my route. Who knew...
The man looked about fifty-something. He was wearing a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up two turns and work overalls that could barely contain his 'beer belly' – a true German burgher from a picture. Next to him stood an opened bottle of beer. This was beyond my strength. Not a drop of liquid had passed my lips all day, and my throat had dried out many times. Without a shred of embarrassment, I approached the fence and acted like a traveler dying of thirst (I'll return from Berlin, enroll in the theater department – I showed extraordinary talent). The burgher handed me an unopened bottle of beer, watching with interest as I opened it on his fence (show them what we're made of!). Having quenched my thirst, I began a leisurely 'conversation'.
Clumsily manipulating my meager vocabulary, I let the Burgher understand that I had no other dream than to find a job. The beer fumes did their job, my tongue loosened to indecency, and my hands themselves began to depict all my construction skills. The German just nodded: 'Ja! Ja!' Finally he asked: 'Was kannst du machen?' Strange fellow! Wasn't that what I had just been doing? The acting session on request of the audience was repeated. Satisfied with the answer, he opened the gate and gestured for me to enter. I looked around just in case – was there any four-legged friend in the yard. Crossing the yard, we entered the ground floor of the building from the back side. After wandering a bit through small rooms, we entered the largest one, about twelve square meters. There were cardboard boxes containing tile adhesive and the facing tiles themselves. He slowly, syllable by syllable, explained that his 'Frau' had been having a 'Traum' for many 'Jahre' about a spacious 'Badezimmer', and asked if I knew how to do 'Fliesen', to which I happily nodded.
The offer of payment for this work at eight marks per hour I accepted unconditionally. Well, I thought, finally there's a holiday on my street too! The German kept talking, but I was no longer listening carefully – out of joy, and with beer, everything else seemed like a trifle. The German gave me a strange look, stepped out of the future bathroom for a moment and returned with a large wall calendar, on which he pointed to a date about two months away. Deadlines, I thought. He's underestimating my abilities a bit. What is there to do for two months? There's at most two weeks of work here. But if he wants, I can stretch it out for six months, as long as he pays! But no, it seemed that was the start date, judging by how he started babbling: 'Morgen – nicht!', and again poking his finger at the calendar.
Well, what can you do! Another failure! Of course, having such work in reserve even two months from now is very nice, but what to do these two months? The Burgher understood from my upset expression that the meaning of his words had reached me. He wrote a phone number (which already today?), his name on a scrap of paper, and stuck it in the pocket of my T-shirt. 'Vielen Dank!', of course, but I was hoping for more. As compensation for the dashed hopes and as a sign of sealing the deal, he offered me another bottle of beer.
«Prosit!»...
BEFORE BED
It had been dark for a long time, and finding the way to the S-Bahn station turned out to be quite difficult. After wandering around the area for a while, I finally heard the dear sound of train wheels clattering. Another hour and a half later, I was knocking with a prearranged knock on the door of our 'khaza', as it was locked from the inside. My friend had already begun to worry about my absence. I managed to lift his spirits with the story of my day's adventures. Half an hour later, he was rolling on the floor, one hand covering his mouth, the other holding his stomach, shaking with fits of laughter. Laughing out loud is also undesirable for illegal immigrants – who knows which paragraph of the Law we might be violating by that, and we don't want to 'blow' the apartment over such nonsense.
There was a case when an apartment came to the attention of the police only because the upstairs neighbor didn't like that the gas water heater was often turned on after eleven in the evening. That somehow violates some paragraph, according to what she was shouting at midnight throughout the entire stairwell. But when should one turn on that damned water heater if you sometimes come home around eleven?! Not go to bed without washing off all the dirt accumulated during a full workday!
When my acquaintance came to his senses from laughter, he advised me not to do such things anymore. It turns out that many illegal immigrants fall into the hands of the police precisely while looking for work. Some German didn't like that a Russian refused to work for half the existing rate, some just 'got tired of these Russians' – anything happens. Dialing the police number takes a few seconds, and the police will respond immediately. Before the poor guy can walk a hundred meters from the 'well-wisher's' house, he will be caught.
Over dinner we summed up the results of my outing today: three phone numbers, two of which offer little hope. Two more construction sites and one residential area were excluded from potential sources of work. In a couple of months, work with Burger could be expected for about two weeks, no more. We decided to postpone buying a phone until meeting with one of the former illegal immigrants who has long been living legally in Germany. He understands this matter better than us. For me, a mobile phone at that time was associated only with the concept of 'new Russian', so I had little use in this matter. That was decided.
Alright, time to sleep. Gute Nacht!
Read also material on the topic: NOTES OF A BERLIN ILLEGAL -1
Andrey EVDOKIMOV.
Specifically for «Zagranitsa».