Alice + Freda Forever: A Murder in Memphis (28 page)

Ward, Jo: letter to Lillie from,
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; media depiction of,
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; at murder,
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–
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,
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–
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; testimony of,
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,
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,
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Ward, Thomas,
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,
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,
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Ward, Wander (alter ego),
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Wells, Ida B.,
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Wilde, Oscar,
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women: activists,
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; chumming by,
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; courtroom spectators,
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; depression, postpartum, in,
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,
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,
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; erotomania diagnosis of,
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,
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; female hysteria diagnosis of,
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; Higbee’s cardinal virtues of,
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; household role of,
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,
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,
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; jobs for,
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; jury rights of,
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; male impersonations by,
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,
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,
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; marriage expectations,
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,
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,
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,
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,
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; media depiction of,
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; sexual assault and race of,
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; voting rights of,
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; weak stereotype,
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,
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,
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,
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Wright, Luke: access tactics of,
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; background of,
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; DuBose prosecuted by,
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; insanity defense by,
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,
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,
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,
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; on testimony of Alice Mitchell,
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I
CARRIED
A
LICE AND
F
REDA’S STORY AROUND
with me for years, but I didn’t find a good home for it until Nicole Cliffe and Mallory Ortberg launched
The Toast
and made me their history columnist. They gave me a space to write the kinds of stories I’ve always wanted to— including Alice and Freda’s heartbreaking saga.

Before the essay was published, I described it to Daniel Harmon, an editor who understood my desire to tell the girls’ story in a very specific way. I’m grateful to the entire Pulp/HMH team, including Hallie Warshaw, Jo Beaton, and Ann Edwards, and Adam Grano, who designed the gorgeous cover. Thanks to interior designer Dasha Trojanek, copyeditor Pam McElroy, and Southern publicist Rich Rennicks.

I have long admired the work of Sally Klann, the book’s illustrator, and she greatly exceeded my expectations. Sally read early drafts and listened to me describe no less than a hundred ideas, all of which she perfectly translated into stunning, nuanced visuals. Historian Mary Klann, Sally’s sister, was my first reader in grad school, and did not escape that fate on this book.

I’m generally lucky when it comes to smart friends who mistakenly offer to read early drafts. After putting in long hours with her authors, Emily Clement made herself available to me for small moments of panic and big picture edits. The wonderful Daniel Jacobson, also an editor, painstakingly
reviewed every single line, and managed to do so with the same kindness he’s shown me for a decade. No one understood what I wanted to accomplish here more than Avi Steinberg, and he made crucial cuts, organizational suggestions, and line edits.

I spent a few weeks scouring archives in Tennessee, fueled by biscuits and aided by local historians, curators, and specialists. I’m particularly grateful to Wayne Dowdy at the Memphis Public Library, who provided research support long after I left the state, and the excellent archivists at the Shelby County Register/Archives, including Frank Stewart. I was lucky enough to find a random link to Audrey May of the MPL and the Memphis Gay and Lesbian Community Center early on. She put me in touch with, among others, Vincent Astor, who generously shared his research and gave me a personal tour of Elmwood Cemetery, as well as the Memphis waterfront. Dr. John Harkins was kind enough to answer my rapid-fire local history questions, and share his own collection, which included a catalog from the Higbee School.

My mother, Anne Bank, provided me with the hermetic retreat I needed to finish the first draft of this book, and Amelia Ashton’s Aunt Betty generously put me up while I was researching in Nashville.

Years of honors tutorials with Professor Francis Dutra at the University of California, Santa Barbara, made a historian out of me. The encouragement I received from the late Richard Helgerson, chair of the English Department, as well as Professors Enda Duffy and Mark Maslin, was particularly meaningful to me. A nod to the Honors College at UCSB as well, which rewarded performance with greater challenges, access, and support, and very much enabled me to become the person I am today. At Columbia, the late Lindy Hess left her mark on me. At Sarah Lawrence, thesis advisor Eileen Cheng taught me how to approach and manage large research projects. I was lucky enough to take classes from Matilde Zimmermann, who became my unofficial Don. Our car rides home were one of my favorite parts of
grad school. Susan Rabbiner, the Assistant Director of exhibitions at the New York Public Library, was the best boss I’ve ever had—and by far the most stylish. Throughout my time at the NYPL, Susan consistently told me I should become a writer, and her praise and encouragement meant the world to me.

My brother, Justin Taines, is my biggest fan, and I’m grateful for his love and support. My husband, Michael Coe, has been telling me to become a writer since the age of nineteen, and was wildly supportive when I took his advice a decade later. This book took over his life, too, which he tolerated with patience and humor. I’m sorry that my grandparents, Max Scharnocha and Hal and Sue Taines, didn’t live to see my first book published, but I’m so grateful that they always believed it would happen.

Christiane F. is an amazing young woman, but she also has a lot of problems. She’s smart, bold, charismatic, and ready for anything, but in the housing projects of 1970s Berlin, “anything” has the tendency to go a little too far. At 12, Christiane starts smoking pot and drinking. At 13, she’s snorting heroin and going to clubs. And at 14, she’s shooting up before going to school, and selling her body in exchange for her next fix.

Christiane’s rapid descent into heroin addiction and prostitution is shocking, but the longing for acceptance, the boredom, and the thrilling risks that fill out the rest of her existence will be familiar to everyone. Her unfiltered account offers an incredible testimony about the temptations, the perils, and the struggles that pervade teenage life—where every decision seems hugely important, because in the end, every decision is.

This new translation of Christiane F.’s iconic autobiography also includes dozens of original photographs showing Zoo Station as it really was.

Zoo Station
The Story of Christiane F.
by Christiane F.

© 2013 by Zest Books LLC
First published in 2013 by Zest Books
35 Stillman Street, Suite 121, San Francisco, CA 94107
www.zestbooks.net
Created and produced by Zest Books, San Francisco, CA

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval systems—without the written permission of the publisher.

Teen Nonfiction / Biography & Autobiography / Social Issues / Drugs, Alcohol, Substance Abuse

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012936083

ISBN: 978-1-936976-22-5

Cover Design: Tanya Napier
Book Design: Keith Snyder
Translation: Christina Cartwright
All photos courtesy of Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag Typeset in Sabon

Manufactured in China
LEO 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
45XXXXXXXXX

Every effort has been made to ensure that the information presented is accurate. The publisher disclaims any liability for injuries, losses, untoward results, or any other damages that may result from the use of the information in this book.

Copyright text and photographs © Stern Verlag 2009 by CARLSEN Verlag GmbH, Hamburg, Germany First published in Germany under the title WIR KINDER VOM BAHNHOF ZOO All rights reserved

It was all incredibly exciting. My mom had been packing suitcases and boxes for days. We were going to start a new life together.

I had just turned six, and I was going to start attending school right after we finished with the move. While my mom was packing and getting more and more anxious, I hung out almost every day on the Völkl farm. I waited for the cows to be herded into the barn for milking. I fed the pigs and the chickens, and ran around and played crazy games in the hayloft with the other kids. I was able to carry the farm's kittens around with me. It was a wonderful summer, the first one that I remember consciously enjoying.

I knew that we were going to leave soon and move to a large faraway city named Berlin. My mom flew ahead because she wanted to set up the apartment first. My little sister and my dad and I followed a couple of weeks later. It was the first time that my sister and I had ever flown anywhere. Everything was unbelievably exciting.

My parents had told us wonderful things about the huge apartment with the six big rooms that we'd soon be living in. My parents were going to make a lot of money in Berlin. My mom said that we would each have our own big room. They were going to buy really nice furniture. She would describe what our rooms would look like in vivid detail. I know, because as a kid I never stopped fantasizing about that room. In my imagination, it became more and more beautiful with every passing day.

I'll never forget what the apartment looked like when we actually arrived. I felt this deep-seated fear when I was in it. It was so big and empty that I was afraid I would get lost. If you spoke loudly enough, there was a spooky echo, too.

Only three rooms had any furniture in them. In the kids' room there were two beds and an old kitchen cabinet for our toys; in the second room was my parents' bed; and in the biggest room we only had an old couch and a couple of chairs. That's how we lived in Berlin-Kreuzberg,
²
on the north bank of the Spree River.

After a few days, I finally took a chance and rode my bike down the street all by myself because I saw a few of the older kids playing outside. In the town where I grew up, the big kids always looked out for the little kids, and played with them. But right away the kids out front said, “What's she want here?” and took away my bike. When I got it back it had a flat tire and a bent rim.

My dad spanked me because the bike was broken. From then on, I only rode my bike around our six rooms.

Three of the rooms were actually supposed to function as an office because my parents wanted to run a dating service out of the apartment. But the desks and armchairs that my parents talked about never arrived. The kitchen cabinet stayed in the bedroom that I shared with my sister.

One day a moving truck arrived, and the couch, beds, and kitchen cabinet were all transported to one of the tall apartment buildings in Gropiusstadt.
³
So now, instead of living in the big place in Berlin-Kreuzberg, we were confined to two and a half small rooms in an eleventh-floor apartment. The big, expensive furniture that my mom always talked about would've never fit into the room now meant for us kids.

Gropiusstadt: the projects. Home to 45,000 people, but mainly just a forest of high-rises, with some patches of green and shopping centers in between. From far away, it looked new and well taken care of. But when you got up close, you realized that the whole place reeked of piss and shit—because of all the dogs and kids that lived there. The stairwells smelled the worst.

My parents hated the trashy kids who treated the staircases like their own personal bathrooms, but most of the time it wasn't their fault. I figured that out the first time I played outside and needed to pee. By the time the elevator arrived and I'd made it up to the eleventh floor, I'd already wet myself. My dad gave me a spanking. After the same thing happened a few more times, and after a few more spankings, I learned to just find a place where nobody could see me. And since people in high-rises could see almost everywhere, the safest place to pee out of sight was in a staircase.

On the streets of Gropiusstadt, I was known as the stupid country kid. I didn't have the same toys as everyone else—I didn't even have a water gun. I wore different clothes. I talked differently.

And I wasn't used to the games they played (but I also didn't like them). In the town where I grew up, we would ride our bikes into the woods, to a bridge over a little stream. When we got there, we'd build dams and forts—sometimes together and sometimes apart, but always side by side. And when we destroyed everything afterward, it was only after everyone had agreed to it, and we'd have fun tearing it all down. We didn't have a leader. Anyone could make suggestions for what kind of game we should play. Then we'd all argue back and forth until someone's suggestion won out. It wasn't even unusual for the older kids to let the younger ones have their way once in a while. We'd created a real democracy amongst us kids.

In our section of the Gropiusstadt projects, there was one boy who was definitely in charge. He was the strongest and he also had the best water gun. We liked to play this game where we would pretend to be a gang of robbers, and he would always be the leader (of course). The most important rule for all of the other robbers was that they had to do whatever he said.

But it didn't matter what kind of game we were playing—we were always competing with each other. The goal was to always try to annoy somebody else. So we'd do things like try and steal or break someone else's toys. The name of the game was superiority: beating people up to show you were bigger and stronger than they were, and finding other little advantages that made you look better than everybody else. It was a dog-eat-dog world.

If you were the weakest, you'd obviously get the most abuse. My little sister wasn't very strong, and she always looked scared, so people picked on her, but I couldn't really help.

Then I started school. I'd been looking forward to it. My parents had told me to behave and to always do what the teachers said, but I thought that was a given. In the town where I came from, the kids respected the adults as a matter of course. And that's probably one of the reasons I was looking forward to school, because I thought that it would keep all of the other kids in line.

But school was totally different than I expected. After just a few days, the kids would get up during class and run around playing tag. Our teacher was completely helpless. She kept yelling, “Sit down!” but then the kids would laugh at her, and everything would get even more chaotic.

I'VE ALWAYS LOVED ANIMALS
, ever since I was really little. Everyone in my family was crazy about animals. It made me proud. I didn't know any other family that loved animals like we did. I felt sorry for the kids whose parents didn't like animals and who weren't allowed to keep pets.

It didn't take long for our already cramped living space to be transformed into a small zoo. I had four mice, two cats, two bunnies, one parakeet, and Ajax, our brown Great Dane, whom we'd brought with us when we moved to Berlin. Ajax always slept next to my bed. At night, I'd let one arm dangle out of my bed so that my hand was on his fur while I fell asleep.

I found other kids who also had dogs, and I got along with them pretty well. It turned out that in Rudow—which was a neighborhood just outside of Gropiusstadt—there were still pockets of nature left. So that's where we headed with our dogs. We played on the old, earth-covered hills of the garbage dump, and our dogs were always a part of whatever it was we were
doing. Our favorite game to play was a version of hide-and-seek that included our dogs. One of us would hide, and somebody else would hold onto that person's dog. Then the animal had to track down and find that person. My Ajax had the best nose of all.

Sometimes I would bring my other pets into the sandbox or even into school with me. My teacher used them as show-and-tell opportunities in biology class. Some teachers even allowed me to bring Ajax into the classroom. He never disrupted anything. Until the bell rang, he'd lie peacefully next to my chair or under my desk.

I would've been really happy there with all my animals if things hadn't gotten progressively worse at home. While my mom was out at work my dad just sat at home, doing nothing. The dating service didn't pan out, of course, so now he was waiting for a different job. He wanted something that he'd enjoy, but he just sat on the worn-out couch and waited for something to fall into his lap. Meanwhile, his rage-filled outbursts happened more and more often.

My mom always helped me with my homework when she got home from work. At one point, I was having a hard time telling the difference between the letters H and K. So one night, my mom was explaining the difference to me (with the patience of a saint), but I wasn't really paying attention, since I could see how worked up my dad was getting. I could always tell when it was going to happen: He got the hand broom out of the kitchen and started beating me with it. During a break in the thrashing, I was supposed to explain the difference between H and K to him. At that point, I was obviously incapable of understanding or explaining anything to anyone, so my rear end received another dose of the same, and then I was sent to bed.

That was his idea of helping me with my homework. He wanted me to be a good student and work toward a better future. After all, his grandfather had made a lot of money: He owned a printing company, a newspaper in East Germany, and some other businesses as well.
After the war, everything that was privately owned in the DDR
⁴
was expropriated by the state. So now my dad totally freaked out whenever he thought that I wasn't getting something in school because I was supposed to continue the financial success of his family instead of succumbing to the apathy generated by the socialist policies in East Germany.