Zoo Station: The Story of Christiane F. (13 page)

In the German Concert Hall, where the concert took place, the atmosphere was awesome. Everyone there seemed really cool—of course, since they were all Bowie fans. Next to us, there were some American soldiers who were smoking a pipe. And we only had to look their way for them to pass it on over to us. Everyone seemed ecstatic and high (either in anticipation or on drugs). The overall atmosphere was amazing: It was like falling into an alternate—and better—universe. Frank was sucking on the pipe like his life depended on it. But despite that, he was feeling worse and worse.

When David Bowie came on, he was almost as great as I'd imagined. It blew my mind. But when he got to the song “Station to Station” (with its refrain, “It's too late”), I came down with a crash. All of a sudden, I felt just absolutely miserable. Even a few weeks earlier, when I didn't have a clue what I should do, or where I should go, or why I should even bother, this song got on my nerves. It was just too close to reality for me. And now here it was again, this song, “Station to Station,” pulling the rug out from under me. I could've really used some Valium right then.

After the concert, Chicken could hardly walk. He was in the throes of some really bad withdrawal symptoms. Outside, we ran into Bernd, Detlef's friend. He'd shot up before the concert, and he said we really had to do something for Chicken. Anyway, he wanted another fix himself.

Bernd still had two LSD pills. We didn't have any trouble offloading those outside of the concert hall, and we made twelve marks. The rest I was supposed to just bum off of people. I was a real pro at hustling up some money at that point. In The Sound,
I could usually scrape together most of the money I needed for drugs without too much effort. We needed at least twenty marks total. There was nothing you could get for less than that. But begging in front of the venue was a piece of cake. After all, there'd been a lot of people there with plenty of cash, guys who weren't used to being hit up for cash every five feet by random junkies. So I just stood out there and fed people my usual lines about “no money for the subway,” etcetera, and in no time, my little plastic bag was heavy with loose change. Bernd quickly scored some H with our new funds. It was more than enough for two fixes. (Dope was still relatively cheap back then.)

And then I had a thought: I was the one scrounging to get all that money together, so at the very least I should try some of it. Let's see if that stuff really is as good as everyone always makes it out to be, with their dreamy expressions and blissed-out looks. That's really all I was thinking. I didn't realize that over the past few months, I'd been subconsciously getting myself ready for H. I wasn't aware that I'd fallen into a deep, dark hole, and that the song “Station to Station” had knocked me down and run me over. No other drug seemed like it could help me get out again, so all of a sudden, the next logical step down my path was obviously heroin. All I could think about was that I didn't want those two junkies to walk away and leave me alone again—stuck in this fucking mess I was in. I told them that I wanted to try some. Chicken was barely coherent. But he got really furious. He said, “Don't do that. You have no idea what you're doing. If you do that, then you'll end up just like me in no time flat. Then you'll be a zombie, too.” He knew that we all called him that.

So despite what the newspapers always say, it wasn't like I'd been victimized by some evil dealer or seduced by a junkie. It wasn't at all the case that I'd been turned into a heroin addict against my will. I don't know anyone who'd been forced to shoot
up against his will. Most teenagers get into H all on their own, when they think they're ready for it, like I was.

Chicken's earnest but pathetic attempts at dissuading me only made me that much more determined. He was the one in withdrawal. He wasn't cool or in control like he used to be. Instead, he was just a strung-out guy who was more or less dependent on me. I wasn't going to let him order me around. “First of all,” I said, “most of that dope is mine because I was the one who got the money. And besides, it's bullshit what you're saying. I'm not going to get addicted. I've got myself under control. I'm just going to try it once, and that's it.”

I had no idea yet how helpless you are when you've got the itch. Chicken, at any rate, seemed completely impressed by what I said. He didn't even bother replying. Bernd was going on about something or other, but I didn't listen. I told them that if they wouldn't let me try the stuff with them, then they should give me back my share. We went into a doorway and Bernd divided the dope into three equal portions. Now I was really eager to try it. There was no thinking about it, no feelings of guilt. I wanted to just do it, to finally experience a real high again. The needle scared me a little bit though. I told them, “I don't want to shoot up. I'll snort it.” Bernd explained to me how to do it, even though I already knew how from listening to all that talk for so long.

I snorted the powder without hesitation. It tasted sharp and bitter. I had to suppress a quick wave of nausea but ended up spitting out a whole bunch of the stuff anyway. But then the high took over incredibly fast. My arms and legs became insanely heavy but at the same time really light. I was so, so tired, but it felt amazing. All of the aggravation and sadness I'd been wallowing in just fell away, all at once, just disappeared. “Station to Station” didn't bother me at all anymore. I felt great—I felt better than ever before.

That was on April 18, 1976, just a month before my fourteenth birthday. I'll never forget that date.

Chicken and Bernd got into some junkie's car so that they could shoot up. I went ahead to The Sound. It didn't faze me anymore, being alone. It felt good, actually. I felt powerful in a way.

I went over to a bench and sat down. Astrid came over, looked at me, and right away she asked, “Hey, are you on H?” Despite the fact that Astrid was one of my best girlfriends at that time, I went ballistic. “Fuck off,” I screamed at her. “Just go away!” I had no idea why I was flipping out like that.

Chicken and Bernd came in, eventually, both totally high. Chicken was back to normal again—totally cool, calm, and collected. Detlef wasn't in The Sound. I was thirsty and got myself a soda. I drank soda all night. I was really scared of alcohol now.

At around five in the morning, Bernd asked if we wanted to come over to his house and have some tea. So off we went. I happily hooked my arm into Chicken's. The soda was sloshing around in my stomach, and I had to throw up. I puked while walking. It didn't bother me at all though, and the other two didn't seem to notice.

I felt like I was part of an awesome new family. I didn't say much, but I had the feeling that I could talk to both of them about anything. Heroin turned us into real brothers and sisters. We were all equals. I would have revealed my most secret thoughts. After those terrible weeks before this, I felt that I'd never been this happy before.

I slept with Bernd in his bed. He didn't touch me though. After all, we were like brother and sister. Chicken lay down on the floor with his head against an armchair. He stayed in that exact same pose until two in the afternoon. Then he got up because he was starting to get the craving again and had to somehow find a way to get his next fix.

Suddenly I was seized with this insane itch all over my body. I ripped off all my clothes and started scratching myself with a hairbrush. I scratched myself bloody, especially on the calves. But that didn't faze me either. I knew that junkies had a tendency to scratch themselves. At The Sound, I'd always been able to tell who was on heroin by how much they were scratching. Chicken's calves were so scratched up that there was hardly any healthy skin left, and in some spots he'd scratched down to raw flesh. Chicken didn't scratch his legs with a brush though; instead, he used a pocket knife.

Before he left, he said to me, “The dope that you let me have today—I'll replace it and give it back to you tomorrow.” He was already treating me like I'd become a bona fide junkie, as someone who'd need to re-up soon—the next day at the very latest. Somehow I figured out what he was saying in his matter-of-fact way. I acted cool though, and just said, “No problem. No rush. It's okay if I get it back later.”

I went back to sleep again, all calm and happy. And then in the evening I went home. There were moments when I thought, Jesus, you're thirteen and you're already using heroin!? That's so fucked up. But that feeling only lasted for a second, and then everything went back to normal. I was feeling way too good to really think critically about things. When you first start out, you don't have to deal with any withdrawal symptoms. And for me, the high seemed to last a week. Everything went without a hitch; everything was wonderful. There were no more arguments at home. I didn't act out at school. I felt relaxed, and I even participated a little bit and got some good grades. Over the next weeks, I even worked my way up from D's to B's in a few subjects. It seemed to me that I was getting along with everybody and coping with everything. I was floating through life. During the week, I went back to the Center House. In the meantime, four other
people from our old group had switched over to heroin. I now sat with them. Within just a few weeks, there were more and more junkies at Center House. Gropiusstadt was just like everywhere else, and when heroin arrived, it exploded.

For many years, the basement of the Protestant center, aka the Center House, served as the central meeting place for kids and teenagers from Gropiusstadt and the borough of Neukölln. On most nights, we'd get up to five hundred kids at the youth center, but that ended in December 1976, when we had to close it because of the rapid increase in heroin use among teens. The closing was part of an effort to call attention to the catastrophic situation.

What surprised the teachers and staff was how fast the entire hard drug scene sprang up in Gropiusstadt. Up until then—for instance, during the student movement of the 1960s—our main concern was with the use of so-called soft drugs. Within just a few months in 1976, though, almost fifty teens from our area had started using heroin.

Our attempts up until then had focused on raising awareness through conversation and education, about the dangers of drug use. When it came to heroin, though, those old methods seemed dangerously casual: They amounted to surrender. It was almost like we were admitting that we were too weak to win in a fight against this new, powerful drug.

Our work with teens at the Center House forced us to deal with something that the authorities were still refusing to admit at the time: that the drug problem was actually getting worse. The
market for these drugs consisted mainly of working-class teens and other young people who were unemployed, unskilled, and not in college. The only thing that we could do, as educators, was to engage in public protests against official ignorance. The closing of the youth center was supposed to bring to light what many people would've rather kept in the dark. Our strategy was at least somewhat successful. Today in West Berlin there's an intense dispute about the drug problem — as it really exists, instead of how we'd like to imagine it.

In Neukölln, they now have a government-financed drug-counseling center, and in Gropiusstadt there's also a new “Clean-Bus,” which is available as a meeting place for at-risk teens. There's also now an expanded availability of therapy and rehab programs. However, the drug problem hasn't gotten any better over the past two years, even though we are now dealing with a new generation of young people. Some of the teens from Gropiusstadt who started using heroin just two years ago have already passed away.

In a high-rise housing development like the housing projects in Gropiusstadt, where approximately 45,000 live, any problem is automatically magnified, just due to the sheer concentration of people in a relatively small area. There's an abundance of the unemployed, of dropouts, of dissatisfaction, and of conflict. Financial hardship, high rents, and a constantly rising cost of living impose a steadily increasing workload and the necessity for both parents to have a job and bring in money. This causes seemingly irresolvable stress: having to come up with more and more energy for the daily grind without reaping the benefits of working harder, such as being happier, more content, and more prosperous. In addition to their parents (or their single parent) having less and less time for them, kids and teens also suffer from overcrowded classes, a lack of jobs and internships, increasing
demands at school and at home, family conflicts, and a lack of recreational opportunities, playgrounds, and open spaces such as parks. Drugs and alcohol have always been a quick, easy way for people to deal with these stresses by numbing the pain.

In view of the challenging living situation of these teens, we shouldn't be surprised at all about their escalating drug use, increasing criminal activity, and growing brutality. Nobody can seriously dispute that a direct connection exists between the increase in drug abuse among working-class teens and the deterioration of their quality of life.