I move around the ruins of an highly classified area, paying more attentions to the thriving nature than to the desolated buildings. Field flowers are surrounding the place. Like in a pre raphaelite painting, wild roses are embracing the surviving bricks. The atmosphere is enchanting, the only danger could come from a spiky rock. My shoes are old, they comfortably fit to my feet, but have also got acquainted far too well with the cobbler for periodical maintenance.
I would like to find a comfortable spot, where to stop and relax for a while. Some anarchist living beyond any social convention would approve my behaviour. Those are the kind of ruins chosen by an heroine addicted as shelter, or anyone who does not share the perfect feelings with the world he lives in. My is staring at me understanding I am up to something unusual. He is quite amused and interested about my quest and true goals.
“Are you really intentioned to search the place? What do you expect to find?”, “Some ostalgic memorabilia, the souvenir from an unauthorized expedition on the other side of the Berlin Wall”. “They have already brought with them everything. As soon as they have abandoned the buros, the place has been looted”. It is not the tomb of a Pharaoh, at the best the graveyard of false expectations of too many who joined the secret services with the promise of an adventurous life and they have suddenly discovered to do nothing more exciting than the routine activities of any bank employee.
He has given me an hint, although I am quite sceptical about the idea to recover anything more interesting than an old piece of barbed wire. Perhaps much more dangerous to my nice clothes than to any serious and self respecting spy.
I however decided to go on, even more troubled when I realised that, if I had stumbled on some hidden obstacle and required the help of the cops, they would have for sure fined me with a bußgeld equivalent to several months of my income. My level of attention suddenly increased.
My friend urged me to go on, while I was losing myself in the meanders of German social democratic penal system. An old rugged door, as those usually seen in the movies, was partially opened as inviting us to enter. “Why not?”. At least Munich is a safe city and nobody would have stolen our bicycles waiting outside, we still had several hours before sunset and at the worst we could have taken the S-Bahn.
The inside was completely empty. The efficiency of the German bureaucracy had guaranteed that no piece of furniture has been left behind with the end of the cold hostilities against Moscow. Completely abandoned, the place should have been used for some time by a group of second-generation immigrants from North Africa or the Middle East. Graffitis in arabic were all around, just a plain and clear calligraphy, quite elegant, written with blank ink on the walls and the ceilings. The artists should have attended the school in Bavaria for sure, since they took care to clean the floor from dust and cigarette stubs.
We smiled. “Well, enough of mystery today. Shall we go back?”, said my friend quite sceptical. I agreed, I was starting to feel tired and also uncomfortable at the idea to walk around unattended in a supposed to be restricted zone.