You can't really relax when working for a burger...
BUSH'S DRUMSTICKS
One day, having heard about a Turkish shop selling chicken drumsticks at an incredibly low price, we set off to find it. According to the information we had, this "supermarket" was located "somewhere between Kottbuser Tor and Hermannstrasse." The first of these U-Bahn stations was well known to us from the cheap TV cafe nearby on Adalbertstrasse. We had a vague idea about the second one, but assumed it was somewhere near the first. We assumed, but it wouldn't have hurt to glance at a map.
At Warschauer Strasse we changed from the S-Bahn to the U-Bahn and crossed a beautiful old (if not old, then skillfully imitating old) bridge over the Spree, where the train slows down to pedestrian speed. We got off at Kottbuser Tor and rejoiced at the presence of four more U-Bahn stops on the stretch we needed. Scratching our brilliant heads, we decided to walk the distance so as not to miss the entrance to the shop, which, as we had been warned, was camouflaged by fruit stalls. We combed the area twice, got as cold as peacocks at the North Pole (it was a rainy, windy day), and were about to head home when suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared... One of our acquaintances, and he was carrying in both hands the coveted ten-kilogram packages of drumsticks! Truly, it's a small world!
As in the good old Soviet days, chasing after scarce goods, we rushed to him with the only question: "Where did you get them?!" "See that passage between the apple crates? There are those drumsticks..." And indeed, between the fruit displays there was something resembling a door. And we had already passed here three times, but it never occurred to us to look between the crates. Oh, those Turks! Dealing with them is enough to make you turn into a Turk yourself.
We push the door with our foot and enter. Some shelves with glass jars filled with all sorts of combinations of canned vegetables and fruits, half-rotten piles of red bell peppers, and an overpowering cacophony of spicy smells. In the farthest corner of the store, a meat counter was visible. But the drumsticks there cost three times more than the huge price tag at the entrance declared. At that time, I was better at sign language than German, so I simply tore off the price tag from the entrance door and handed it to the butcher, gesticulating wildly in the style of "I'm buying this plane! Wrap it up!" I don't know what the Turk didn't like, but he let loose such a tirade in his gibberish language that, by the laws of the genre, I was supposed to be trembling with fear. I didn't stay silent and expressed my opinion about the absence of the proper goods at the advertised price. No reaction. Then, taking a deep breath, I let loose in one breath an exquisite seven-story recall of all his relatives up to the seventh generation, without repeating myself once. Hail to the "great and mighty," especially its profane part! The Turk immediately silently pointed to a small refrigerated display case standing alone in the corner. Apparently, I was not the first Russian to deliver a passionate speech here in defense of consumer rights. The Turk, waving his hand at me in understanding, went off to attach a new price tag to replace the one I had torn off.
That would have been fine, but I wouldn't feel like myself if I didn't find something to nitpick. And so, carefully reading the inscriptions on the package of "Bush's legs," I noticed that their expiration date had passed four days ago. Only the contents of the very bottom package turned out to be not expired. Naturally, I tried to repeat the feat of Georgy Vitsin in the film "Operation Y," but nothing came of it. If the weight indicated on the price tag was correct, then on "my" box there were sixty kilograms of chicken remains. I had no choice but to lay out the extra packages right on the floor to get to the desired one. The Turkish butcher didn't like that, but his possible indignation would have guaranteed such a fiery response from me that he deemed it best to remain silent; however, the gnashing of his teeth followed us all the way to the exit of his establishment. Before leaving the store, I grabbed a whole pack of plastic bags for packaging the drumsticks before putting them in the freezer compartment of our refrigerator. Fortunately, the Turk didn't notice, otherwise he would have definitely ground his snow-white teeth down to the roots.
The result of our chicken epic was expressed in a laconic note in the notebook: "U8, Schonleinstrasse, chickens 17.99 DM/10 kg, check expiration date!"
WAITING FOR A CALL
A week had passed since our last meeting with Grandmother, and there were still no offers from Brisk. Grandmother called Petya every day and lamented about her protégé's irresponsibility, promising to sort everything out as soon as our potential boss appeared on the horizon. Presumably, Grandmother's regular ten-minute calls (that's just to Petya, not counting her numerous acquaintances) noticeably lightened her husband's wallet. Grandmother principledly did not use the home phone, considering it a relic of the past. The "handy" was her only means of communication, and besides, the compact Siemens fit perfectly in the pocket of her housecoat, which became the decisive argument in favor of mobile communication.
In general, there was no sign of work. My friend flatly refused to start looking for work following my example, fearing being caught by the police. After lengthy persuasion, I gave up on this thankless task – after all, he must understand perfectly well that in this way, the repayment of the money I owe him for the trip and visa is postponed indefinitely. And if he himself is not worried about it, then I certainly have no reason to waste my nerves. I calmly began studying German using a self-study book I had prudently brought from Ukraine. Fortunately, there were plenty of native speakers around, so the need to listen to instructional cassettes disappeared on its own.
At the end of the third day of constant interaction with the textbook, my patience finally ran out, and the learned book was exiled to the very bottom of my travel bag, where it remains to this day. My only guide through the thickets of the German language remained a small dictionary, which I occasionally consulted to look up the most frequently used new words overheard in Germans' conversations. I don't know about others, but in my opinion, the best self-study method is direct communication with 'native speakers.' And if you hint to them in conversation that you don't understand a word or phrase, every self-respecting German suddenly awakens as a born teacher, and you're guaranteed a lecture on the basics of German. Once I 'called out' a German in this way, and he spent two hours introducing me to the subtleties of Berlin pronunciation, and flatly refused to deduct that time from my wages. A scholarship for a poor student...
So, the granite of science was finished, it was time to start Petia's education. Those three days while I was poring over learning 'Deutsch,' my friend slept from morning to night, making the windowpanes rattle with his snoring. He occasionally interrupted this pleasant process with meals, which for some reason I had to cook, and phone conversations with Grandma. Such blatant injustice did not suit me at all, and at one fine moment I decided to put an end to this outrage.
Petrukha, vainly trying to free himself from the sweetly viscous embrace of Morpheus, was for some time completely incapable of perceiving the world around him. Without letting him come to his senses, I bombarded him with questions that worried me, the main one being: 'Why the hell did you call me here if there is no more work here than in Ukraine?' Finally realizing that the conversation was going to be serious, Petya with difficulty squeezed out a confession – he had expected that I would be able to establish myself on construction sites, and then he would come to the bridgehead I had captured, and we would work together as a pair. Then he expressed regret over my incompetence. There it was, the Moment of Truth! I was being blamed for the collapse of his own castles in the air! What next? Next he told me that because of me we were now sitting without work, whereas we could be earning 15 marks an hour! How about that? He thought I was a big specialist in construction matters, and that I would succeed. And this was said by a man who, as it turned out, had worked on a Berlin construction site only once, and the rest of the time exclusively in the private sector, for Grandma's acquaintances! The boy decided to 'move up.' And he really didn't want to pull chestnuts out of the fire with his own hands. A homegrown investor!..
The situation threatened to escalate into something more serious, but common sense prevailed. What's done is done. You can't turn back. Petya needed to get his money back, I needed to pay him back, and we both needed to try to earn something along the way. According to Carnegie, that means trying to make lemonade out of the lemon we got. And since it's easier to work together, we decided to postpone splitting up. At the same time, the issue of cooking was resolved – Petya left me the right to cook due to his lack of proper skills, and he took on the honorable duty of regularly taking out the trash and washing the dishes after cooking and eating.
SHUSTROGO'S COMPANY
Passions subsided, and, like a gong in the ring separating fighters, a phone call rang out. It was Grandma, triumphantly announcing work that we were to report to the next day. Her joy knew no bounds, and she announced it so loudly that Petya had to hold the phone half a meter from his ear, which allowed the entire neighborhood to learn the happy news.
It took us about two hours to get to the workplace – Shustrogo's company. That's not much, considering that a couple of times it took us exactly four hours to get back. We arrived fifteen minutes before the appointed time. The boss wasn't there yet. That's understandable – management isn't late, it's delayed. But fifteen minutes passed, half an hour, an hour – there was no one in sight. Neither management nor workers. And only after an hour and a quarter did Shustrogo's Ford appear on the horizon. Either Grandma got something wrong, or Petya misunderstood, but Shustrogo swore up and down that his company starts work exactly at that time, and in confirmation pointed to the company's work schedule, which for some reason hung inside the premises.
While we were waiting for Shustry, I had a strong urge to visit the restroom. But just as I was ready for this act, the boss appeared and disrupted my plans with his chatter about the operating hours of his almshouse. Seizing a convenient moment, I asked him, showing off my excellent pronunciation: 'Wo ist Toilette?' I had to shine several more times because the boss absolutely did not understand such a simple phrase. What did they teach him in school? My patience was running out in the fullest sense of the word, and I (for the umpteenth time!) switched to sign language. This gesture is known to men all over the world, so Shustry understood me with half a gesture, if I may say so. 'Ah! Pee-pee!' He finally got it! Only I wasted so much time with him – he allowed 'pee-pee' anywhere but not in the toilet (?!), their toilet was reserved exclusively for more serious needs, which he strictly forbade us to satisfy outside the restroom. And who was going to?
The boss had the sense to start introducing us to his subordinates just when we were changing clothes. Among his charges was a young girl, in front of whom I had to parade in traditional Soviet-style pink floral underwear. By that time, Petya had managed to cover his shame with a jumpsuit.
The task set before us was not easy. We had to unload a truck containing bags of construction plaster and three hundred brand new wooden doors, each weighing at least twenty kilograms. Moreover, we were forbidden to use the lift platform. The car's battery, you see, was too weak! So we jumped with these doors like kangaroos, from the truck onto a stand made of boxes, and then onto the ground. But by the start of the second hundred, our legs were buckling, and we, to ensure the safety of the goods and our noses, finally used the lift. Work just took off! We even had to slow down a bit, otherwise the boss might suspect we were disobeying his ban. The battery lasted just until Shustry came to check...
We removed the remaining dozen wooden 'hand-breakers,' trying our best to show the approaching boss our exhaustion (we didn't need to act – we could barely drag our feet). And that poor Mercedes with its abused battery sat idle for several more days, but no one accused us of sabotage.
Instead of a salary, we received the boss's assurances of his solvency and promises to pay within the next two weeks. 'You're not planning to go to Ukraine tomorrow, are you?' We aren't, but the authorities could help us with that at any moment. But there was nothing to be done; for lack of a better option, we had to take his word for it.
The next day we had a simply wonderful job (you couldn't even call it work) – to 'rip out' locks from old doors and tightly stack the door leaves into a container. We had barely gotten into the swing of the destructive process when the perpetually disheveled Shustry flew in and, seating us in his minibus, took us to another job.
BEER MUST BE AT WORK!
After pressing the gas pedal to his heart's content (the speedometer needle dropped below 90 only at traffic lights), half an hour later the boss dropped us off near an old mansion, of which only the walls remained ancient; the rest had been dismantled for further reconstruction. Inside the building, only one half-destroyed partition wall remained, which we were to demolish. Then we had to carry the resulting rubble in buckets to a container standing nearby. We set to work.
After repeating the demand to keep our mouths shut fifteen times, so that Russian speech would not defile the neighbors' ears, Shustry vanished. Some time later, another Ford pulled up, and Skinny and Fat came out – the boss's workers, who got those nicknames for their physical appearance. They also worked on this site. Skinny immediately cursed about the crappy weather (I feel sorry for Germans – their language lacks strong expressions). Fat, seeing us, went back to the bus and brought four cans of cheap Holsten. We politely refused (we're on duty!), but they wouldn't listen, briefly and clearly explaining the reason for their insistence: 'Beer must be at work!' The beer cans were to be thrown into an old chimney, so as not to incur the boss's displeasure.
However, a few days later the boss still found out about the violation of the Dry Law at the workplace. To our misfortune, he went down to the basement to clarify some measurements. And there were so many cans in the basement! It turned out the chimney had cleaning channels that connected to the basement, and all our cans were happily falling out onto the floor. We should have thought earlier about where they were going, but no way! The cheap beer left no chance for caution.
Under the influence of beer fumes, work went more cheerfully, and within four hours, not a trace remained of the partition. Not knowing what to do next, we turned to the representatives of management for help. They held a council, and for full quorum, the remaining cans of beer were invited. The meeting lasted a whole hour, and we unanimously decided to call Shustry. Fat, talking to someone on the other end of the line, suddenly beamed, immediately said goodbye to the interlocutor, and turned off the handset. Almost running to put the tools in the car, he gave us five minutes to put on clean clothes, as the work for today was over. Take that! We had only worked a little over five hours! Our gloomy faces puzzled him. How could one be upset about the end of work?
The Thin One brought some clarity. It turns out the boss had left the office and gone home, and he wouldn't be back until tomorrow at least. Consequently, we could safely head off for a well-deserved rest! But what about our 'workdays'? 'Alles wird in Ordnung!' they assured us. You say we've served our required time, we say the same about you! It's so simple, isn't it clear? We didn't need a repeat explanation of such an obvious truth, and after quickly changing clothes, we got into the minibus. The guys drove us to the nearest tram stop, making oncoming cars swerve out of the way – after five or six cans of beer each, driving straight was a great art that only Russian drivers possess.
So we worked for eight days. Four of them were 'shortened'. Shustry never found out. True, he only paid us after four (!) months, but that payment delay was the price for our 'absences'.
CLIENT ROUND
The job with Shustry ended as suddenly as it began. Sitting within four walls and mindlessly pressing the remote control buttons of the TV got boring as hell. After all, ninety-eight percent of what the announcers said was perceived as nothing less than a mockery of our ability to understand German. All the video cassettes with films dubbed into Russian had been watched three times. The music center 'SONY' began mercilessly 'chewing' the cassettes with 90s music hits. In the words of Kozodoev from 'The Diamond Arm', 'Everything is lost, boss! Everything is lost!'
From idleness, bad thoughts crept into my head, painting pictures of the future each darker than the last. Somewhere in the back of my mind, treacherous nostalgia began to stir. Longing for my wife, carefully (but not always successfully) suppressed, made itself known more and more often, until it crowded out all other thoughts and problems. It couldn't go on like this any longer, otherwise one could head straight to the loony bin – the roof isn't made of iron! Something had to be decided. And as soon as possible.
Unexpected deliverance from this nightmare came from where no one expected it. One wonderful morning, Petya, rummaging through his notebook, fished out invaluable information. That day, the daughter-in-law of one of Babushka's numerous acquaintances was celebrating her birthday. Petya had done some odd jobs for her husband, and they were pleased with each other. We decided to quietly probe the ground for work. Having mustered up some audacity, we went to the celebration without an invitation, buying on the way some kind of broom, which the seller for some reason proudly called 'Blumen', and a bottle of Odessa champagne that I had brought from home and which had somehow survived until that moment.
Everyone was already pretty 'tipsy' to notice that we were 'worse than a Tatar'. Our champagne infused new blood into the previously languid lovely ladies, refreshing their memories, and they took up their favorite topic with renewed vigor – gossip. However, this time, judging by the numerous nods and glances in our direction, we became the object of their discussion. The birthday girl's husband was the only man in that company, and his joy at our arrival was quite understandable. Not everyone can endure female chatter for several hours. We used this to our selfish advantage by taking the German out into the fresh air to engage in a purely male conversation away from the ladies chattering like machine guns.
For propriety, we first attentively listened to a detailed description of the host's pressing problems (actually, the hostess was his mother-in-law). And although we didn't understand half of what was said, we nodded very convincingly to show our sympathy. After an hour, when his interview time was up (as it seemed to us), we spent a minute informing him about our life-and-death problem. Expressing great regret at our misfortune, he disappointed us by saying he couldn't help solve our problem. Except perhaps his wife's sister... Exactly! Not more than half a year ago, she needed workers, and given her dire financial situation, exactly the kind we were.
Showering him with thanks for such valuable information that smelled of mothballs, we said goodbye to the host and hostesses and hurried to the indicated address, not losing hope of success.
'MOSCOW SPEAKING!'
The wife's sister, who for some reason didn't honor her sister with her presence on her birthday, didn't express much joy at our arrival. Yes, she needed workers, but she had no money, and did we have the desire to work on credit? And the salary would come from the first pension. 'We're all friends, we'll settle up!' We didn't have such a desire, and we were about to take our leave, but then the hostess's husband appeared on the doorstep and ordered us to immediately let us into the yard (we were talking to his wife through the fence). He was superficially acquainted with Petya, and he was just missing two more to 'make it a threesome'. And on top of that, 'fresh ears'! He was simply happy.
We were in no hurry, free beer doesn't grow on trees, and we didn't want to disappoint the needy with our refusal. Obloltus, so nicknamed for his extremely careless attitude towards everything in the world, pulled out a whole case of 'Berliner Kindl' from the basement, and under the leisurely 'bla-bla-bla' (the German equivalent of Russian 'la-la'), we emptied it.
Obloltus craved more of the party, and he decided to visit a mutual acquaintance of his and Petya's. Not at all embarrassed by the level of alcohol in his blood, he sat us in his minibus, which we had dubbed 'a coffin on wheels' for its technical condition, and floored the accelerator, only releasing it upon arrival at the destination. I, a confirmed atheist, almost came to believe in God that we survived – Obloltus took corners lifting the wheels of his hearse off the ground...
Our guide to drinking establishments was right – where he took us, a serious gathering was in full swing. Six people were sitting at a table by the pool. Under the table were three cases of Berliner Pilsner, two of which were filled with empty bottles. The goofball, theatrically spreading his arms and bowing toward the honest company, introduced us in Levitan's voice: “This is Moscow speaking!”, enunciating each letter carefully. In response, the attendees vied with each other shouting “Oh, a hundred grams!”. Yes, our Russian brother has been so successful in creating a public German opinion about himself that the Germans cannot imagine us otherwise than as alcoholics and foul-mouthed. But it would be a sin to notice the speck in another's eye – that evening we too did not distinguish ourselves in the best way...
We were seated at the table, handed another bottle (how many was that today?), and the conversation, interrupted by our arrival, about the merits and demerits of the local beauties' figures was resumed. Despite my very weak knowledge of German, there could be no doubt about the subject of the conversation – so unambiguous were the storytellers' gestures. Then, at our instigation, everyone unanimously agreed on the undeniable superiority of Russian women's beauty, which angered the Driver's wife (the owner of the house, so called because of his profession), who at that moment was locking the cellar, thereby cutting off further drinking by the boon companions. The main supply of beer was in the cellar, and the men, fearing they would lose the last of it, began hastily emptying the remaining bottles. We kept up with them...
We walked to the S-Bahn – those who could have given us a lift by car were so drunk that getting behind the wheel would have been suicide for them. We were not far behind them – about six liters of beer per person were taking their toll. It was time to start learning kung fu in the "drunkard" style. Our bodies' readiness for this was, as they say, obvious. Or was it on our faces?..
AT THE DRIVER'S
Our health had taken a significant hit, but we were not returning empty-handed – the Driver offered us, not God knows what, but still some work. Since the construction of his house, the basement part had not yet been plastered, and his wife was tired of living in a “shed”, as she put it. Some shed – one hundred eighty square meters! In addition, before winter it was necessary to plaster the walls of the last room being put into operation in the basement, where the Driver planned to hold weekly parties to mark the end of the work week. Jumping ahead, I will say that the commissioning of the "Partyzimmer" was subsequently postponed until the following year. The wife considered the appearance of a “home pub” a harbinger of her husband's alcoholism and insisted on “freezing” the project.
Strike while the iron is hot, as they say, and the next day, despite our shattered state, we arrived to complete the assigned task. The Driver greeted us with open arms, and after an introductory walk to the shed, where all the tools in the house were kept, he led us through the backyard to the garage. There, winking conspiratorially, he pulled another case of beer from his car's trunk. At that moment, my state was close to that of Shurik from "Kidnapping, Caucasian Style" when the “toast in three copies” was brought into Comrade Saakhov's office. Drink again! No, this must be stopped, or the narcological clinic will become our second, if not first, home!
Striving not to offend the potential employer, we gently refused the temptation to taste the cool beer, citing the possible deterioration of the quality of work “under the influence”. Our argument was deemed convincing and later served as excellent advertising for our reliability.
The basement took us three full daylight days. Still, it was one and a half meters high with a length of over forty meters, and in some places the thickness of the plaster reached six centimeters. The concrete walls of the basement refused to absorb water from the mortar, and it kept sliding to the ground. Only God knows how many curses were sent then to the manufacturers of the concrete blocks from which the walls were made. And the builders, who laid such crooked walls back in the day (and still, beer at work should NOT be!), probably have hiccups to this day. But on the other hand, if not for all this, we would have finished much faster and, consequently, earned less. So it's still unknown what is better – easy work or higher pay.
For an hourly wage of 10 marks, there was a hearty lunch, and the time spent on it was not deducted from the total hours worked. I particularly liked one dish – boiled potatoes with stewed meat. But it would be more accurate to say – a mountain of stewed meat with two tiny potatoes. That's the real deal! At home, I didn't get that much meat even on holidays – that delicacy was beyond my means. I'd better keep quiet about the beer, which could be drunk as much as one wanted, or else half of Ukraine's unemployed will rush to besiege the poor German private homeowners, very few of whom are so liberal with their workers, take my word for it!
As he was driving us to the S-Bahn station at the end of the third day, the Driver told us in great secrecy that the neighboring old house, terribly neglected by its previous owners, had been sold to wealthy people from the West. He didn't know for sure yet, but according to rumors, these people want to do a major renovation of the building, including replacing the roof, and that would take at least two or three months. And he would try to get us jobs as laborers in the company that would be doing this. If we, of course, weren't against doing dirty work. Were we against it?! What are you talking about, Driver, did you fall from the moon?! You just give us the go-ahead, we'll dig the earth with our noses, as long as they pay! In short, we agreed. He promised to call as soon as everything became clear, and his new neighbors were supposed to come to inspect their property in a day or two. With that, we parted.
WAITING FOR A MIRACLE
For three more days we sat waiting for the miracle promised to us by the Driver, not even talking about it – afraid to jinx it. Gulliver, our roommate, was also out of work – at the construction site where he worked, a raid was expected, and his boss, not wanting to take risks, sent all the illegals on 'unpaid leave'. So he had been idle for a week. We stayed home all day, occasionally making raids on grocery stores. To keep from going crazy with boredom, we entertained each other with funny stories from our lives, while Gulliver didn't forget to empty one beer bottle after another, though he turned them in on time without reminders. One of these 'funny' stories, told in a fit of indignation at the behavior of Yugoslav foremen, I want to briefly recount.
Gulliver and his comrades were carrying out the remains of drywall sheets from the third floor of a building under renovation (there was no elevator). As usual, suddenly a furious 'Yugo' boss flew onto the floor and started yelling at his subordinates – saying, you're working too slowly! And he decided to show them how to clear the floor of trash. He grabbed a piece of drywall and threw it straight out the window. The second, third, fourth, each time heavier pieces of drywall followed the first. The fifth and last piece, the size of a third of a sheet, fell directly onto the back of the boss's cousin who was exiting the building at that moment. The little brother survived, but he will never be able to walk again...
Such a sad story. And if the 'Yugo' hadn't hit anyone then, he would surely have made our guys follow his example, and who knows how it would have ended!
The first month of my stay in Berlin was coming to an end, and it was time to take stock. So, 'let's tally the score'. What did I have as of today? A debt of one thousand marks. Total earnings for the month were about 1,600 marks, of which 900 was still owed to me by Shustry, and we were very lucky that he returned them after four months. After deducting expenses for food, rent, transportation, phone, cigarettes, and flowers for the birthday girl, I had left on hand... zero marks zero pfennigs (Shustry's debt not counted yet). Moreover, my debt to Petya increased by another fifty marks! Meanwhile, during the 'stagnant' days, we restricted ourselves to minimal food, fully aware that we wouldn't last long like this. Paraphrasing a famous phrase, it turned out that 'a builder must be hungry'. Is there anything else to add to what has been said? I think not. The smart one will draw the right conclusion, and fools are always lucky anyway.
Read also related material: NOTES OF A BERLIN ILLEGAL -3
Andrei EVDOKIMOV.
Special for 'Zagranitsa'.