Seven ladies on the hand

 

„Zero!?“

„I’m off! Play!“

„Now he’s playing again!“ says a farmer in his fifties without a hint of long-suffering excitement. „Where were we?“

„At zero,“ replies Steven, his eyes still downcast. „That’s not nothing.“

„That too!“

By northern German standards, the emotions reach a deceptively profound level in the carelessly probing early phase of the game, during the teasing, a flight of fancy that lacks a defibrillator - if the judgment is based on low-pulse equanimity and not the wellsprings of Mediterranean argumentative culture that rarely strays here.

As they do every Saturday at 2 p.m., the two husbands sit on the aging, dark brown lacquered corner bench with the thin, unstable cushions and Steven, the longest, on one of the wooden chairs with the baluster-like backrest at the foot of the cooler. Anyone who has known the room for decades will sense the patina of smoke and memories that has only been superficially cleaned, straightened and painted over. It is almost deserted - in the region - and in the guest room, which is three and a half kilometers away from the impressively lively summer beach sections of the Baltic seaside resort of Hollow Born, where the guest room protects its occupants from the winter. The wind whistles around the modest house in piercing cold, as if all negotiations to conserve residual heat have finally failed. It seeks out weak spots and draws the heat out as soon as the door opens. The fluctuation is close to zero and the room is heavily heated. Gerd, the tall, powerfully built farmer, sits down and pulls his thick, dark blue sweater, which can be worn closed as a turtleneck or open with wide lapels thanks to the zipper at the top, over his gray-haired head with the Slavic-edged face and places it next to him on the bench.

Gerd’s phone rings with an off-the-peg tone. „Excuse me, my tax advisor. I’ll just get that.“ He gets up and moves into the hallway where the cigarette machine once stood and some hunting trophies could be admired while on the way to the toilet or the store.

„Hi Peter.“ ... „Surely I’m still your client.“ ... „I haven’t got a clue. It must be settled this summer.“ ... „Yes, I’m hanging on to this harvest for dear life. What Corona did to the vacation guests, a fungus or whatever is doing to my plants. The peak season is coming for me too, without me having any serious income in the off-season.“ ... „Burden? How many times do you want me to tell you that?“ ... „I know, but you’re by no means the cheapest.“ ... „You can only be worth something if you have it or can afford it.“ ... „You, I’ve just got an appointment. Let’s have a chat.“ .... Gerd hangs up and returns to the table.

„So - does he want money?“

„What else? He calls it client care, I call it bloodsucking. As if I had gravy in my veins. Now of all times, when everything should be calm, he’s getting on my nerves.“

Pre-season means silence. Summer, the main holiday season on the Baltic Sea coast, is inevitably approaching, but with an unknown force; the harbingers are still to come. Agriculture and tourism add an existential, regional focus to the feeling of anticipation, reinforcing the coming development of the colors and the changing expression of the sea in our perception. Since the turn of the year, no local has romanticized the progressive scarring of fresh, yearning memories of warmer, brighter moments. Looking ahead, to the new season with its opportunities and risks, is what drives the rational. Contrary to reason, the mood in the region is closer to caution than attack. Pull up your hood instead of rolling up your sleeves. They are moving on a chosen asymptote within striking distance of the rising curve, which they jump onto as soon as various influencing factors lift the engines of tourism out of neutral. The days have been getting longer again for three months. The knowledge of this is a comfort of pausing to breathe in the cold, allowing us to forget for a moment that the beauty of the landscape means that almost the entire region is involved in the entertainment industry. To call it tourism would not do justice to the demands of the industry and the charm of Hollow Born; it is more. For the locals and those who work with it, it is a blessing and uncertainty, far from a curse and oppression. Behavior that is not exemplary is pre-emptively countered with neutral disinterest and even openly expressed dislike, with restrained North German eloquence.

A shrill, drawn-out sound howls through the air. Half a kilometer away, the steam-powered train puffs and whistles as it passes by every two hours during the winter months. The area around Hollow Born, with its topographical peculiarity, the elevated cooling, is the delivery area of the legendary ‚Molli‘. From the bravely rotating, condensate-sweating and overzealously whistling, dainty machine, pedants who don’t give a damn about personifications and matters of the heart infer a guy from the word stem of the Moloch, a masculine determined, steely steam horse. ‚The Molli‘. Once awe-inspiring and respected in its performance and weight class, the vehicle is now subject to attempts at nostalgic, romanticized trivialization. The little machine doesn’t seem to care, while it steams, reminiscing about the G7 summit in Heiligendamm, where the five thousand journalists who spent the night in Hollow Born commuted to work on the narrow-gauge line. The sea bath train went through it all. Rise and fall, elegance; it was and still is the family carriage and drove through bottlenecks before and after the fall of the Berlin Wall, accompanied by confessions of the spirit of the times.

Beyond spatial references, ‚Molli‘ is a vital reminder of historical and social changes. It is not just an entertaining means of transportation on a narrow track. It is part of our well-meaning examination of ourselves, a testimony to times gone by without an educational mission. And when it steams through the landscape, it tells of another depth of this special vacation region - lovingly and unforgettably.

In the frosty cold, between the breaths and the steady, strong heartbeat, lies a comfort, the knowledge of the beauty of the region. There is more to the region than the tourism industry could possibly describe, a seemingly anarchic and disorganized structure of disparate feelings that defy sober demands.

On this sunny Saturday afternoon, they are the only guests in the inn. Every week they play skat in the tiny room. Gerd, the owner of a farm that mainly raises and processes sea buckthorn, veterinarian Dr. Steven Grabow from Hollow Born-Ost and master painter Heinrich Berkel from Bad Doberan have known each other since their school days, and if there is one thing they have lived out in common in their lives so far, it is their skat battles, which were not limited to Saturdays in the past. Playing skat was and is an opportunity for them to be together and hold something in their hands while they talk about everything but God. They communicate as they play. Not with ultimate commitment. Not with an insistent bite. At no time did they have cause to compete, or for their differing views to divide them in perpetual conflict. The hand and victory were and are unimportant. There was no interest in impulsive decisions that could no longer be corrected.

The new year has used the last few weeks to slowly ramp up the engines. The three men’s respective businesses are currently running smoothly and passively. The tendency to have the painter in the house at this time of year is not exuberant, unless you move out. Demand changes abruptly with the weather. Spring brings the stress for Heinrich Berkel that he is used to and which is generally agreed to be part of his job, when his eight employees would logically be more on the scaffolding due to the weather and to a lesser extent in the houses and apartments. In a vacation resort with thousands of vacation apartments, things are different. This is not due to the vacation apartments and guest houses as a number of properties. - The hotels have them painted and repaired in winter. - It is the numerous private owners who are not surprised by the season every year, but are overwhelmed by it and try to recalculate their profitability based on the condition of the respective property and take into account possible personal contributions - a mistake in relation to the social community. In a kind of emergency rescue, Heinrich Berkel finally rushes in before the guests arrive who might complain.

Veterinarian Steven Grabow, a doctor by trade, likes to say that his practice is closed except for emergencies and births because he wants it that way. He has reduced consultation hours and can be reached on a second cell phone so as not to diminish his animal owners‘ sense of security. He notices the winter slump at the surrounding stud farms and riding stables and the lack of interest in vaccinating pets. Invitations for booster vaccinations and check-ups for chronic conditions continue to go out. Super cute puppy postcards addressed to the trusted family member. ‚Paulchen has received mail from his doctor‘ reveals in one sentence the dilemma we face as decision-makers when it comes to welcoming strangers into our community. All the domestic emotion cannot hide the fact that during the vacation season and at the latest when expensive treatments are needed, even familiar beings are often left to their own devices on highway rest areas.

„Gerd, old man! Wake up! Have you only got your stone fruit in your head again? Your problem won’t solve itself.“

 

Gerd Baller is present but not present; approachable but not eager to communicate at the moment. Twenty-five years ago, he fatefully dedicated his main business to sea buckthorn and is constantly involved with the farm in various forms and intensities. It is the outside influences that shape his day-to-day work with seasonal harvests. This basically makes his farm no different from hotels when they are fully booked in high summer. At the moment, Gerd and his employees do nothing but prune the plants in winter to ensure high yields and that they do not grow too sprawling because the inner, woody branches do not bear fruit. These form golden-orange from July and August on the fresh shoots, usually in large quantities, the branches coated in pearls.

The shrub is the cultivated plant of the region. Its sprawling root system gives the sturdy, thorny bush, which stands in the wilderness in place of a plantation and reaches a height and diameter of over five stately meters if left unpruned, with a low yield and miserable accessibility of the fruit. It loves poor, sandy soils. If these are minimally salty, it tolerates them without suffering. There are not many plants that compete with it for the vital spots in the sun, on the dunes and by the sea.

‚If you knew what I have in my head and not in my bank account, you wouldn’t babble on so carelessly and act as if there were no real problems in the world.

Gerd has been cultivating a romanticized, unintentionally romantic passion for the thorny ‚undergrowth‘, as he calls it in moments of sorrow, to cover up the suffering in his work. In winter, his work increasingly extends beyond pruning. A disease causes the plants to die. The cause has not been identified and a solution has not been found. He is left to pull out the dead bushes. The loss is immense and his production facilities are underutilized. The variety of processing has taken a liking to him and he has become an expert in cultivation and processing. He leaves the breeding of new varieties to specialized breeding companies, which have been extracting the highest yield forecasts from the shrub and fruit since the 1970s. His family business produces almost everything that can be made from sea buckthorn. Even products with no economic benefit are also included in the range, because they are part of it and round off the overall picture of this versatile crop, although his focus to date has been on nectar. The capacity of the production facilities exceeds its own harvest tenfold. It had developed. The individual cultivation areas, the farmers‘ plantations, are almost puny in the region, as long as they are not rapeseed fields, and are a patchwork of different uses. Gerd’s family by marriage is very familiar with the other sea buckthorn farmers, and is distantly related to some of them. He buys cut branches with the berries for processing before freezing them. Charging by load weight or volume is out of the question because of the branches. It is a matter of trust.

‚Yes, yes. The dear relatives moan about it themselves, even though they’re well off. They get more than just rent - and I do all the work on their fields. They’re all retired farmers on the side. Pff.‘

The idyll of lush nature that he has at home, for which he rather than his wife and mother-in-law would be responsible, reflects a kind of normality that brings back memories of walking barefoot in shorts on hot sandy paths surrounded by blooming landscapes for an older person. A present, living counterpart to the indulgent contemplation of yellowed, vignetted photos, which have their past-valorizing wavy edges from the deckle scissors. On Hollow Born’s coast, it flourishes throughout the seasons, which demands an appreciation of the everyday due to the intense, albeit short-lived dominance of the rape blossom and is still taken for granted in East Germany in a wide variety of areas of life, albeit in work, leisure and vacation without comment.

At the Baller family’s home on the Glowatz farm, a large part of the preparations for the magnificent sea of flowers from a wide variety of participants are in the final stages. It has been blooming there for generations. The ‚rough‘ Glowatz, the father of Gerd’s mother-in-law Hanna, who died in nineteen seventy-four, was a practicing Nazi opponent and communist in the planned Thousand-Year Reich. He lost the farm under profound reprisals in the aftermath of Aryanization and got it back in the fresh German Democratic Republic, in which he was declared a hero of the resistance; politically correct without the numerous upper middle-class-looking estates of members of his long-established family, too many of whom had not survived the wars and their poisoned travails. He was untouchable and tired of the stereotypical ramblings of lecherous henchmen of a state power. He had ridiculed the established, formaldehyde-soaked post-socialism and joined the liberals; until their block party assimilation. He didn’t care about agricultural production cooperatives such as the LPG Waterkant or LPG Helmut Just. The land right next to the farm, which he got back with it, was enough for him. He worked officially at the Neptun shipyard in Rostock and, despite his attitude, was a member of the works council, more importantly because of his reputation. His children grew up on the farm. After reunification, Hanna took over and expanded it by transferring back other properties that had previously been expropriated from the family or by taking advantage of compensation payments. Her brother Peter decided to become a parish priest. The son of a national hero was not acceptable to the people’s representatives. The case was suspiciously swept under the runner on the linoleum that was glued to the herringbone oak parquet flooring because an old building had been used as a makeshift administrative office. Out of a false shame that feared the last judgment in atheistic heteronomy, they looked out of the window, next to which a frieze of Boizenburg wall tiles with aquatic Art Nouveau motifs adorned both sides of the corridors at shoulder height, looking for the sky, at an early work of North German brick sacred Gothic.

Peter’s sister Hanna let her home blossom as soon as she found the time. Despite the apparent wildness, there is a horticultural and aesthetic order with a lot of work in the constant alternation of floral splendor and wilting. The creative power lies in the gracefulness of the transitions between the emergence in one place and the decay in another or the same. The illustration of change without exalting, if not concealing, the ephemeral because of its decline. Guests attribute the outstanding quality of the location to the sea of colors, shapes and smells, which are considered to have arisen by chance, approvingly ignoring small details such as the fact that it is not exclusively in the case of roses that pruning after flowering in May is the initial step towards putting all the energy into a second flowering in September.

In March, there is little hope of a botanical explosion, although on some sunny days it is like a tingling sensation, as if the vegetation is waking up on a trial basis, restrained to catch its breath without a swollen ribcage and venturing into the frost-free with fumbling toes. In these moments, Gerd, detached from his professional view of the plant kingdom, looks forward to the colorful changes and the imminent lively bustle of insects and birds. It happens, as it does every year, and despite everything remains a chain of miraculous events. Gerd wouldn’t be gushing with agricultural jubilation if he were to live near the equator from now on and do without seasons. Five hundred kilometers to the north would be too abrupt a measure of tension release and too compressed a fertile time, in which rise and fall are so close together that sowing and harvesting are accompanied by permanent populations of the most diverse species. As far as the geo -climatical environment is concerned, everything is in balance. - And yet it is the same weight of factors that lies leadenly on his chest and restricts his breathing and movements to a virtual standstill.

If you have a farmhouse and a plant-based agricultural business, it makes sense to dedicate yourself to nature. It helps to grow only organic quality produce, provided the necessary prices can be achieved. A wide range of products and the preservation of so-called bio diversity are the keys for some smaller farms, which are far from competing with the agribusiness corporations, neither operationally in hectares per man nor in subsidies. Gerd does not have a small farm, he has many scattered sub-units to manage, which he cannot cultivate with large equipment.

It must bloom. Aesthetically pleasing and memorably ephemeral. Gerd, father of five children, in the role of moderator in between, striving for equal opportunities for yield stability.

From a livestock farming perspective, Ballers‘ home has masses more flowers than are needed to provide food for the bee colonies on the farm to enrich the honey produced with sea buckthorn pulp. It doesn’t look nice for the reason that appreciating nature is a hallmark of the region. Guest rooms are on the farm. An idyll brings guests. A constant creates regular guests. They bring planning security and, thanks to their longer average stays, reduce the administrative effort and cleaning costs after a change. Contact with the vacationers who live on the farm is warm and frequent. They have time, free time, and technically speaking, every conversation with them is also working time, the billing of which according to minimum wage would be met with various forms of incomprehension in a destroyed world view.

The flagship of Gerds‘ farm is a magnificent, peculiar farmhouse with outbuildings on the ridge of the hill range saddle with a fantastic view of Hollow Born and the Baltic Sea. The view is legendary, because it really is legendary. Beyond that, it is more of a lived reality. It is the home, the livelihood and the passion with which he, his family and their employees look after the plants and process the fruit into high-quality organic products. This self-image complements the professional, economic approach with emotional depth, stability and continuity. It is not only disturbing that he is unclear in every respect about his succession on the farm.

Despite all the trouble that comes in from outside or that arises within the family, taking care of beauty together has welded us together so far.

‚If only I hadn’t.... I couldn’t have known that...‘, Gerd pushes the thought away - one of his strengths - and briefly imagines himself back in blooming landscapes that make it easier for him to slip back into reality with the sounds of the harp. „Who’s playing what? Sorry, I was off,“ he says after clearing his throat and assuming a more upright sitting position as a result of a romantic excursion through his life situation characterized by suffering and beauty. Lately, his mental absences have accumulated into two dream-based secondary worlds.

„Grand Hand!“ murmurs Steven Grabow.

„Great,“ says the one awakened from flowery meadows and smouldering horror scenarios. „Sucks the bird at zero, gives up the skat. - And now he wants to go through with four pawns.“

„Rather without two,“ mumbles Heinrich Berkel.

„Holla!“ replies Gerd, who had just prepared himself for a safe, comfortable loss of the round.

„Well, dude,“ says Steven, who also pays close attention to his appearance in his free time. He wears an open, brown tweed vest and a rolled-up blue shirt. The trousers match the vest over the heavy, mid-brown, welted Blucher leather shoes, which ostensibly complete the English style, although a Derby model would be the better choice if it were up to detail-loving fine spirits with a penchant for stitching shoe uppers. His wristwatch is the house brand of an Italian luxury watchmaker. He had bought a pocket watch that fitted in perfectly with the previous day’s outfit. His buddies talked him out of wearing the watch every day and the complete combination with the darts on his jacket elbows and the leather lapels. It was a friendly service far removed from London, the Britain-connected Hamburg or Hanover, considering the regional influences of the occupiers. In Hollow Born, formerly located in the Soviet-occupied zone, British understatement is not to be confused with North German composure, which is more akin to ‚laissez-faire‘, with personal initiative leading a distinctly shadowy existence on a private level in the planned economy apparatus. The fact that this creativity, falsely smiled at as adaptability and simplicity, symbolized by the ‚organizing‘ of materials or the sledgehammer for two-stroke engine repairs, has atrophied since German unification is an unappreciated economic and social damage, the extent and consequences of which are indicated by a single word that reflects a lack of understanding on all sides in relation to community and politics: powerlessness.

Steven stands up like a pheasant cock, looking intently over the grass as high as his neck. „Dude, dude dude, it seems to be like at your house. You think you’re playing it safe, without interference, or that one of your four daughters will fall head over heels in love. Everything is going great. The whole family is tidy and busy with tangible things. - And out of nowhere, another runaway boy who looks like he’s been kicked out of a boy band because of his age appears in front of you in the kitchen between the bananas and wants to get into the living room.“

„This is a conservatory that has gotten a bit out of hand. What’s it supposed to be, like my house? Do you want me to chase you out of the yard? You can have my sister-in-law. As long as you don’t come to visit.“

„That!“, says Steven and slams the jack of hearts on the table; according to popular opinion a mistake, because if Gerd cannot serve with trumps, a jack, he discards a high card, which Berkel then secures for the team currently playing against Steven Grabow with the strongest card, the jack of clubs, or the second strongest, the jack of spades.

Gerd looks at Steven, squints his eyes and grins broadly. „Unlike at home, the boys are served here.“ He claps an ace of spades to the jack, certain that Heinrich, who had claimed that Steven was more likely to go into the race without two pawns, would serve and capture with a stronger card.

None of this happens. The required clairvoyant flicks his jack of diamonds with a low grumble of contempt.

The game slips away from them physically, as they gain in ease with every card they play, and in terms of content, because their bond rests on foundations they have laid together. Skat doesn’t keep them together - it’s a cherished routine, unlike the alternatives they have tried in the past in order to have a reason to be together. Sport with constant movement would be too time-consuming to have the breath to engage with each other without bringing the rhythm of movement into the conversation. Steven plays golf. Many of his new customers, who have second homes in the region with an above-average number of four-legged friends as a visible and tangible substitute for what is missing and generally missed, are rooted with their mounted tourist cornerstones either on the golf course or in the marina. He is looking for customer proximity. Not when he is sitting on Beach Road with a mostly much younger companion, soaking up the soft ice cream in memory of the GDR milk bars, while the pleasure by the sea, under the treetops among all the people who are not working today, tastes like dolce vita and better far niente to them and he sees his chances increasing. An unsuitable ambience for someone to suddenly offer him a prophylactic examination of his beloved four-legged friend’s acutely injured paw, like a topping for ice cream. Presence and accessibility have a different significance in smaller social areas than in the big city. It takes no effort to get out of the countryside before you get in.

Gerd is always out in the fresh air, so he argues that he doesn’t go to the golf course to compensate. Being outside in bad weather is not on the list of desires for any of the three. Officially, northern Germans never talk about the weather - because it happens. This refers restrictively to human well-being. When it comes to crops, a farmer like Gerd can’t take a joke when it comes to sun, water and temperature. Sea buckthorn with a high degree of ripeness is unintentionally susceptible to storms; another factor.

As an alternative to skat, the three friends once tried their hand at barbecuing. Initially they succeeded, at least from a technical point of view. In practice, they realized that it couldn’t be done at home without unreasonable sacrifices. No consensual peace between men could be achieved. Family members and neighbors long just as much for the camp community around the fire - with different priorities for social interactions. The mates, who communicated more in reality than they felt and proclaimed, looked for an external barbecue area. He failed because of Gerd. His wife Sandy, their daughters and the eldest, Amalie, decided from one day to the next, after seeing a report on factory farming on television, to go vegetarian. He was forced to join in. A metabolic stage in many respects on Gerd’s path of knowledge to nowhere, the time when the ladies in his family investigated like detectives looking for the smell of meat and roasted aromas on him or on his breath. To reach an advanced stage of development in which he, moved and excited by being good, put zucchinis and oiled eggplants on the grill and his mates‘ peppers and onions only served to separate the magnificent pieces of meat on their giant skewers from each other with colorful seasoning, Gerd never had more than exactly one memorable meal. Whether lounging around a source of warmth in winter is very cozy when this source is the sole reason to go out, they had answered before, in his still carnivorous time. The problem, the annoying art of creating personal space in the family environment, is that non-family routines must be adhered to in order to maintain their raison d’être. Barbecues were ruled out due to the cultural-historical emotionality and weather conditions.

The obvious thing to try was fishing. Of course, it’s more appealing when the weather cooperates, and thunderstorm fishing would be a ram-rodding undertaking. Otherwise, it’s all about the clothes. You stand there with your boots in the elemental forces and argue that slippery weather is suitable for the best catch in the wilderness, which, as we all know, is no place for moderate ungulates. In contrast to Canada, the density of infrastructure and geographical detail is likely to be somewhat higher, which still means man against and in nature. That’s a different dramatization than burning a dead piece of meat with a burner in the pampas in the rain. They have fishing grounds in the sea right on their doorstep, where you can get your money’s worth and the dwindling abundance of fish in the Baltic Sea is not reflected in the catch for the professional hobby angler with knowledge of the area. Unlike in the good old days, six cod are not hanging on the line like a Christmas tree decorated with hooks. It now takes longer. Casting out from the beach or from one of the jetties and waiting; the kind of waiting that is the real purpose of being together. They could keep their mouths shut, but why? With the noise of breaking and landing waves, the Baltic Sea is not to be confused with the required silence on the Muritz. Their families appreciate every successful fishing trip in the most positive way, although it is no surprise. Fresh, muscular fish fillets trigger a rapturous appetite in Gerd’s family members, who have switched from vegetarian to animal welfare-oriented diets, and it manifests itself in an attitude of natural anticipation regarding the next ‚stalk‘. He is a meat eater and anything but a lover of aquatic species in any form or preparation. Hunting success is a compulsion and the only justification for being together, because hunting and fishing have been declared routine. The repetitions and a supposedly certain success pull the tension plug and declare the adventure a planned economy and see victory as a duty.

Theoretically. - Like many things in life, even fishing has a hook - leader with double hook, spoon and lead not included. Fish do not bite with the same frequency and catch weight at every time of year and time of day. Added to this are the closed seasons for different species of fish. The three of them grew up on the coast near Hollow Born. Despite overfishing, they know when, where and what can be found and in what size. They are anglers and hunters. The variables have changed from free choice and corresponding target calibration to the best possible catch of what is available. In terms of supply, the Baltic Sea of today mirrors the GDR of the 1980s. Just like getting up early to wait in the right queue at the front, it’s no longer possible to simply drive to the water and swim for meads or sand eels on the hook. Socially, fishing is not even remotely comparable to playing skat, it is hunting, success and basic sustenance in competition. That’s where the fun ends, as does the friendship.

Getting up two hours earlier at the weekend every week to beat his two friends in a vain competition in the rising waves doesn’t fit in with the goals they associate with the weekly meetings.

„We can go fishing again,“ says Steven.

„What are you up to?“ Gerd grins at him. „Sandbank or leopard’s den? You always play it safe.“

„I thought Sandbank. If you bring home a big old man, you can impress your family.“

„In this weather and at this time of year? The little ones from the slabs are too puny for me. I’m also not in the mood for a twenty-six meter wave to catch me.“

„Twenty-six meters? Man Gerd! That was almost thirty years ago and it was on the Darss. You happened to be not far away and not even on the water.“

„Nah, nah. Let it go. It’s time for a bit of peace and quiet. Away from the wet and dead animals. I have to look after my children too. Almost all the girls have grapes in their heads, except Amalie.“

„Are you sitting down?“ asks Steven Grabow, because Gerd has slipped into a phrasing of decreasing intelligibility in view of the monster wave.

„Grapes? You’re talking nonsense. Two of your daughters are a tick after their aunt. You’ll get through it,“ says Steven, gently slapping his friend on the shoulder. „You love them, your brats. What do you call them at New Year’s bathing? ‚Pearls of cool‘.“

„Actually ‚beach pearls‘. They are usually by the water. At least they were. Soon they’ll all be out of the house. Time is running out. I wish it would stop. Not just because of that. It’s the whole thing.“

Steven and Heinrich look up from their cards without a word.

Gerd plucks his shirt at his collarbone with his thumb and forefinger and continues: „Of course I’m proud and my sister-in-law is bearable. Why did I have to have four daughters? Benjamin does his thing. Sons are easier, somehow less important. It’s the girls that make my hair turn gray, even if they are sensible. All different, one more beautiful than the other. And they’re clever - unless they fall in love, then they’re dozy, except Amalie. I imagined it would be much easier. Times have changed. Patrolling around the house with a galvanized twenty-litre bucket of ice water and chasing the boys away like dogs doesn’t work anymore. Everything is on the move and on the move. Practical things are out of the question at the moment.“

„What do you mean?“ asks Steven.

„The farm, for example. I have no idea if, and if so, who wants to take it over. It would be during these weeks that we would have to set the course for the future.“

„Why now of all times? Wasn’t your son Benjamin interested in the court?“ asks Heinrich.

„The buckthorn is dying and we have to set the course for the future. It was his greatest wish. Until six months ago, ‚was‘, as he just told me. First he’s doing his A-levels. With his left hand. He parties and has a new girlfriend every week, although he has his eye on one particular girl. A serious relationship rooted in something other than fooling around is as far removed from him as farming. Merle is different. You wouldn’t believe that they are twins. She’s down-to-earth, thoughtful, disciplined - more like Amalie, with an opposite direction.“

„I know, Homer instead of Hippocrates,“ comments vet Steven Grabow. „She will go her own way.“

„But that doesn’t look like sedentary life and sea buckthorn to me. Josephine dreams of architectural competitions for art galleries and airports abroad. - And Marlene? My Leni. - Well, what she’s up to is written in the stars; it has nothing to do with Hollow Born. I have to decide where to develop the farm. I have no idea what’s causing the sea buckthorn to die. I can’t keep the land forever and our costs are rising with the meagre harvest. Whoever continues, which is probably me, will have no choice but to replant.“

„It’s the same with the others with the succession - and with the berries,“ Heinrich reassures us, as if the problem were getting smaller and the prices higher.

„You’re a good talker. You’re all set. Mario is taking over the painting business, he’s already built it and you can stop at any time. It happens in the best families that your daughter-in-law looks different from what you want. I find her particularly friendly.“

„It is, but it doesn’t fit here. You have German sea buckthorn. That’s worth its weight in gold.“

„Talker! Someone will fall over and stretch their nectar with Chinese dung, subsidized to the hilt, or pour water directly on their dehydrated marrow. If you want to reap gold, you have to sow gold.“

„You have guest rooms. On the farm and in the town. That’s a secure income,“ says Heinrich Berkel, who has built on part of his farm property, which is in a prime location in Bad Doberan, and rents it out conventionally. He is occasionally struck by a touch of envy at the high yields of vacation accommodation by the sea. - In summer, during the high season. Keeping heated living space would drive him crazy.

„Like anyone who had a room to spare. A safe haven is something else. Some people don’t feel like it anymore. It’s more fast-paced. The times of regular guests are ebbing away and stays are shorter. There’s no need for the pandemic to come back - a rainy summer is enough. And the money isn’t raining out of holiday makers‘ pockets. What’s the point of drooling if a palm beach on a poor island is cheaper? Work-life balance and demonstrating for the rainforest?“ Gerd excitedly plucks at an invisible crease in his shirt by his collarbone.

„Accusing a vacation region with palm trees of marketing itself and telling a German family where to go - and what to spend? Where did you take a wrong turn or get stuck?“ says Steven.

„That’s right. We watch and don’t react to changes, hoping that things will stay the same.“

„Come on guys! What kind of attraction that others don’t have, are we going to break the bank? The biggest bouncy castle in the world? Indoors, so that guests will come when the weather is bad and in the fall? One wrong decision and we develop from a tranquil, spotlessly clean Baltic seaside resort into the unmistakable ‚Tequila Born six kilometers‘, longer than the original after all,“ says Berkel, who, as the majority in the region agrees, prefers qualitative tourism to quantitative tourism in one idea, which has or should have an impact; from the offer to the development plan. It doesn’t affect everything and the flood of ambitions dries up in the sand of different interests before a model that meets the requirements can be created with a small chance of implementation.

„A drop in vacationers and I can forget about production for on-site sales. Times are brisker without being neater. Someone tries to create substance in this predicament. For example, switching directly from sea buckthorn to sloe, what happens?“

„You can’t do everything with it. You become a full-time distiller,“ counters Berkel pragmatically and product-oriented. As if it were a matter of driving around a puddle on the road to avoid driving into the alternative twenty-four-hour car wash.

„Great idea. As many people are switching to sloe, it’s totally beneficial that people drink less overall.“ Gerd pauses, looks briefly out of the window to the side and finds an argument in nature, visibly caught up in the cold: „Rosi, could you please make us three shots - for the road already?“ he calls out at an unnecessarily medium volume so that she feels directly addressed. As a local landlady, she is mentioned by name in many a table conversation, without it having anything to do with an order.

Gerd turns back. „Heinrich, it’s difficult for the restaurant trade. A lot has changed. Well, we’ve never had anything other than home office in the countryside, but the expectations and demands of tourists have changed. In the past, tourists used to like to go on the edge repeatedly. In Kampen, with all the tourists and lavish second homes, this is still the case. The last boozer in a purified world.“

„Let them dance. As long as the fascist mob keeps its mouth shut,“ says Steven, who is the unintentional master of foreign shame when it comes to xenophobia in the face of any form of nationalistic overestimation.

„Let me put it this way. But they’re not entirely wrong. After all, our German women are being besieged and threatened and the politicians are doing nothing,“ warns Berkel, who is relieved that at least the citizens of the eastern federal states are, in his opinion, recognizing the signs of the times and expressing this in the elections.

„You’re getting on my nerves more and more often...“

Steven does not finish the set. Gerd intervenes. He, who, if he had the courage to say it or act it out at home with the irrefutably good people like his wife, sister-in-law and, above all, Hanna, would be in a position to influence Berkel’s opinion. He shares it because it is easy to understand, there is good and bad and the problem has a face. Gerd intervenes by not asking Steven not to argue foul-mouthed, but by using his own corrective. „Heinrich, don’t let my mother-in-law hear that. That rumbles.“

„Why? Hanna herself said that too many of them are being let in and it has to stop,“ the reprimanded man contradicts. Gerd adjusts his shirt.

„And ‚gossip‘ you caught the next one right away because you misrepresented her.“

„He can get one from me,“ says Rosi with menus in her arms as she passes by, when two strangers have strayed to a table by the window next to the entrance, and she glances towards Berkel. The men don’t react, but immerse themselves in their playing cards, their posture rather squat, their shoulders slumped a little. Rosi appears again. This time with the shots, the high-proofs on a round tray.

„The same goes for you,“ she jabs at the plucker. „Pushing Hanna doesn’t make Deutsch-liners a shred more liberal. She’s got problems with the half-wits in their early to mid-twenties who fled the war or dictatorship at home, wherever that is, even though they could fight, and - now I’m saying it - are acting out with ‚us‘, cowardly as they are. We are infinitely sorry that they are experiencing a culture shock. Then they’ll just have to stay at home and fight, protest or work. Cheers guys!“ she says, leaving the tray with the filled shot glasses on the table. She returns less than five seconds later.

„Although I would understand that they would go on the barricades in Italy if the European Union told them to put the licenses for gondola drivers in Venice out to tender across Europe. Then something would be wrong with the system.“

„That’s what I said,“ Berkel concludes without pressure. „That’s what we’re missing with our beach chairs. That sucks.“

„It’s all a question of evaluation criteria,“ says Gerd. „Write something in that only local people can deliver.“

Steven clears his throat. „What was that about declining alcohol consumption and blackthorn as an alternative crop to sea buckthorn?“ asks the vet, reaching for his glass.

„Zeitgeist? Generation Z? The breweries that didn’t switch to alcohol-free in time are in crisis - and I, of all people, am starting to distil schnapps? Perfect. One call to Gunni and we come up with the name for a hip, trendy drink together over a tasting, paint a modern logo, my daughters as sexy influencers for loe, three funny selfies on the pier, a video sequence channel with near-accidents under the influence of alcohol and candy is sucked,“ Gerd reaches for the shot glass: „It’s moving inexorably towards zero per mille. There’s no shaking that.“ He raises his glass to forty-two percent by volume, toasts his teammates and drinks up.

„A Hollywood star is guaranteed to invest. They like high percentages as an investment,“ Berkel adds with his own inimitable empathy.

„Funny! That would be sloe instead of tequila and Hollow Born instead of Cabo San Lucas. A no-brainer,“ pops out Steven, whose stocking density in the Friday waiting room leaves plenty of room for online generalizations. He looks at Gerd. „Your yard is not contaminated.“

The person addressed flinches, as he hopes for the moment, unnoticed by the others.

„You have income from the vacation apartments and your rented castle on Beach Road. Nothing can happen to you,“ Grabow continues, to prevent his friend from taking excessive and rash action, such as adapting and expanding the entire processing line.

Gerd’s nose itches. ‚The damn shirt is two sizes too big for me. I’m extra large, not fat. It’s completely askew again and lies in oppressive folds, on purpose. It helps him to take his mind off his worries and compose himself. ‚I’m beginning to wish I knew who in the family I could have a serious conversation with about my farm,‘ he says, addressing the farm and referring to himself.

Steven, who had won the skat round and two others in the meantime, frowns, purses his lips, lowers his head and looks Gerd straight in the eye over the frame of his glasses with the round lenses.

„Strictly speaking, it’s Sandy and her sister Trixi’s farm. Precisely, and on the page it’s mostly the farm of your dear mother-in-law, Hanna.“

Gerd withstands his friend’s gaze and keeps a straight face while he collects two aces with a trump card, in this round - he plays ‚hearts‘ - the seven is enough.

„Sandy tries to strengthen the family and the farm by taking care of everything and changing nothing. My sister-in-law should have been married again a long time ago - she thinks, and it dominates what she believes is her messed-up life - from morning to night. Let’s talk about the highlight. Hanna. Since she was denied the free spirit of the sixty-eighties, she makes up for it. She plays that she doesn’t care how I manage her farm. She thinks everything is ‚pretty‘ if it doesn’t get in her way and she sets off to have her daily sundowner on the beach, at the harbor or in another pub in Brunshaupten. Make no mistake about it.“

„Does your stubborn mother-in-law know that there hadn’t been a Brunshaupten for two decades when she was born - in Hollow Born?“ asks Berkel.

„She is what she is. I don’t know anyone who thinks so progressively and is prepared to break new ground, and yet, like the elders, she clings to the separate view of places and where someone lives. She drives a tiny electric car and wouldn’t shy away from putting down a giant diesel if it meant feeding the world. The woman is a mystery to me.“

Steven, a fan of her sincerity and unsettled by her directness, nods and smiles. „That’s her. She’s a brand and an asset. Her spirit is infectious.“

Heinrich grins. „And if she’s pissed off, it’s better to avoid her. I’m the first to do that. You can’t have political debates with a head granny bitch. She has no inhibitions about biting. A muzzle for her wouldn’t look bad on her and wouldn’t do us any harm. What Steven?“, the German ‚top payer‘, who is not averse to a nation state free from European influence, ventures miles out onto the ice and pats the vet on the shoulder as if he had given him an industry-appropriate steep lead with his reference to a muzzle.

Steven Grabow raises his eyebrows towards his high, reddish hairline. An uncontrolled, tiny twitch like a ventricular fibrillation runs through his left cheek. He lowers his head and grabs his face. Always the same reaction to his loss of control. If they weren’t playing skat but poker, he would be the ideal victim to take out. He is unable to hide his feelings or lie in icy coldness.

Berkel finds himself with an unsecured flank and decides to abort the advance by changing direction. „We’ll put Hanna on day tourists. Then they’ll behave better.“

„What do you have against them? They drive up, park or get off the bus, jump into the water, eat, shop and then leave again. Thanks to the one-way traffic regulations on Beach Road, they don’t even get in each other’s way when they change sides of the road.“

„Please don’t give me the cheap shot, Steven,“ says Heinrich. „I know from the surveys and analyses that day tourists are an economic advantage for our region. There’s nothing about whistling about general rules of etiquette and politeness or browsing the shelves in the supermarket where others simply want to shop unhindered.“

Steven frowns as if he is thinking hard, which is not actually the case. „Logically, it doesn’t mean that if they don’t behave well, they automatically behave badly.“

Heinrich snorts with a swig of beer in his mouth. „That can only come from you. Single and in good spirits, as long as the cats and pooches in your waiting room don’t attack each other. It’s good manners for them to shit in you.“

„I’ll drink to that. Cheers!“ says Gerd with a disgusted expression on his face, the root of his nose burying itself under mountains of skin folds as if he had vinegar in his glass, and waits a moment for the image of the room and the image of the smell to evaporate.

„Cheers!“

„Cheers!“

After clinking glasses, the three drink the rest of their beers from the thin-walled glasses at the same time.

„Rosi! Pay please.“

„Gerd, is it your turn today?“ Rosi, the owner of the „Cliff Hut“, calls back.

„Jo!“

„Please wait a minute. I want to give you a parcel for Sandy,“ says Rosi and, after Gerd has paid, hurries straight back to the back and rummages around in the store.

The Cliff Hut, a small brick house that has been covered with roof tiles instead of thatch for twenty years, stands at the end of a hundred-year-old avenue of lime trees that have been cut back every year, the upper part of the trunk of which is thickened like a spherical head. They look just like the oldest planted trees in Hollow Born’s Beach Road; picturesquely sparse in March. It is not difficult to imagine how accurately and magnificently they flank the narrow street in spring and summer until early fall. Like its urban counterpart, this double row of trees leads to the sea; however, the starting point and the flanking attractions, the precious, ornate caskets of buildings from which the guests come, prominent and strolling under the summer-filled treetops, are missing. The avenue at the hut points in a direction where there is no need for a line. It stands protectively before the sun, for those who know nothing of it or do not need it, and the trees are a useless unit in the structure like an orphaned highway bridge without a connection in no man’s land.

The parking spaces, which are flattened by the stationary traffic in front of the dune cottage, are paved with sandy clay gravel. The men stand by their cars and say goodbye, while Rosi comes rushing up with a microwave-sized parcel in her arms. „Open the tailgate! Come on!“ she says breathlessly.

Gerd rushes to the fifth door of his SUV, opens it and she throws the package into the back. A muffled sound, like a hard blow to a pillow. It doesn’t rattle, it doesn’t bang, it doesn’t crash. Rosi’s cheeks and her breathing indicate that it is heavier than ten kilos.

„Say the word! I would have helped you.“

„Would have, would have, says the fat man. Don’t lose yourself in unlaid or unfound eggs. Especially not if you’re not looking.“

In the absence of an argument, Gerd spares himself a comment on the phrase bombardment. „I’m not asking what’s in it,“ he deflects. The sentence was just said. He doesn’t expect to find out from Rosi what’s in the package - just as she makes no attempt to tell him or signal that he should be interested in any way. As there are no further transport-related instructions or indications of urgency, he forgets about the parcel the moment he loses visual contact.

„Take care, boys! See you next week!“

„Bye Roswitha.“

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