I had now, more or less, successfully made it through my school years. So, it was time to look for an apprenticeship! After all, I had a secondary school leaving certificate that wasn’t too bad, and I thought I could now really get started. I would have loved to become a locksmith or carpenter, as I was fascinated by what could be created from those materials and because I wasn’t entirely untalented when it came to working with my hands.
The problem, however, was that the market was oversaturated! Back then, there were countless apprentices, and it was only logical that even the simplest professions were making their pick. No high school diploma? No chance! Especially not if you weren’t the most talkative person and tended to start any interactions cautiously.
This led to three years of applying over and over again, without success. Occasionally, someone was kind enough to send me a rejection letter or return my application documents, but most of the time, I might as well have saved the postage costs.
During that time, I worked for temp agencies, which were all the rage back then and were touted by politicians as a viable model. What was it like? As an unskilled laborer who wasn’t exactly small-framed, I was pushed to my limits in warehouses and similar settings. 6.90 DM per hour. Gross! And for that, I ended up with my first slipped disc while loading refrigerators and washing machines. And if you got sick back then, you were presented with a termination agreement – a nice euphemism for a mutual termination. By agreeing to this termination, you basically forfeited any entitlement to unemployment benefits. Pretty stupid, right? Well, you live and learn…
At least temp work gave me hope of being taken on by a company or even getting an apprenticeship. Yes, back then I still had dreams. But with each rejection and the growing realization that most companies had clauses in their contracts that made it impossible for them to hire temp workers permanently, my frustration and despair naturally grew as well.
You have to remember that I was still suffering greatly from everything that had happened in all the years before. Three suicide attempts, multiple broken bones, countless humiliations, and filled with self-doubt from head to toe! Was I even worth anything? Nobody loved me! Nobody wanted me! And anyway, it was all my own fault – I didn’t know why, but that I was to blame, that was certain. And ultimately, nothing I could do would ever make me belong anywhere.
To say that my inner being was shattered would be an understatement. I was severely depressed, introverted, suicidal, and had zero self-confidence. Maybe I had even developed bipolar disorder – I don’t know. I’m not a psychologist, but from today’s perspective and my current experience, a lot suggests that might have been the case…
A change came when I randomly encountered the psychologist who had been assigned back in my elementary school years to observe me and my environment. He had since retired and had nothing to do with government offices and agencies anymore. He actually recognized me and approached me, asking how things had gone after school and what I was doing at that time.
I was able to have a pretty good conversation with the man, and he gave me his phone number. We spoke several more times, and eventually, he invited me over. He had thought for a long time about whether or not he should tell me, but ultimately decided to be completely transparent.
We sat there, piecing together the puzzle that was my life. Me, the guilty one, and him, the observer who couldn’t intervene. In many conversations, we began tracing back what had actually happened back then. The first thing he tried to take away from me—or at least attempted to—was my conviction that everything that had happened was my fault.
No. He explained that the directive from the elementary school administration, though unofficial, was explicit to the teachers. He had learned this from a teacher who didn’t want to stay silent but was too afraid to testify in court: I was supposed to fail. The question now was, why was there such a directive? After all, I had just been a child back then. No fault, no understanding, simply a child.
We went through various scenarios, and at some point, I asked my mother about my brother. That’s when I learned—more or less by chance—about the fiasco during the funeral service and the subsequent public apology letter from the priest. And there it was, the common denominator: the Catholic elementary school on Wipperfürther Straße, right next to St. Mauritius, and two old men who had shared a connection during the war.
These old alliances, contacts that originated back in those times, bound the school principal and the priest, and even extended into the local youth and education office. And when one of those within this circle had a problem, they stuck together like glue. And the priest had a problem with my family because he had been forced to apologize publicly. Because this damn bastard couldn’t keep his hands off the bottle and had completely ruined my brother’s funeral service. So, three years later, when I stood before him, the long-awaited chance for revenge presented itself. That malicious perfidy: punishing the mother for his own mistake through her child…
Once I understood what had actually happened, it felt as if a grenade had detonated inside me. That rage, that extreme anger, the grief, the pain—it was as if, all at once, everything that had been festering inside me all these years surfaced. It felt like someone was choking me.
When I hear the phrase „blind with rage“ today, I know exactly what it means. I know that blindness, that tunnel vision—it truly exists. At that point, you fixate on one single goal. And that’s exactly how it was with me.
I procured a weapon in Keupstraße. Back then, in Cologne, that was a place where you could get anything if you had enough money. Illegally, of course. It was an old P38, but that didn’t matter—for the range and purpose I envisioned, I didn’t need a precision weapon.
For weeks, I kept revisiting the thought of whether or not I should follow through with what I had planned. In the end, the hatred inside me won.
It was a beautiful summer day when I grabbed my weapon, loaded it, and made my way to my old elementary school. My plan was simple: the school and the church were close to each other. First the principal, then the priest. Neatly executed—one shot to the heart, one to the forehead for each, and then? Who was I? What was I? Superfluous. Afterward, one shot to my temple, and that would be the end.
That was my plan. Murder and then suicide. I had even written a farewell letter and packed it with me. The world should at least know why I would have done it! I already felt like a monster, but people should know who had turned me into one.
However, things turned out differently. The principal wasn’t in his office. I approached a teacher I didn’t know and asked her. I must have been a very good actor: „I wanted to express my gratitude to the principal, where can I find him?“ Her answer left me with weak knees – the man was dead! She must have misunderstood my unsteadiness, as she started talking about how terribly the poor man had suffered: stomach cancer. It had slowly eaten him up from the inside…
Well then. I thanked her and disappeared. I stumbled like a drunk toward the church—my plans had faltered, but I still wanted to know what had happened to the other one, the real cause.
A young chaplain with a white collar opened the door and invited me in. I think he could tell that I was going through a shock because he ushered me into his kitchen, placed a glass of water in front of me, and asked if there was anything he could do for me. I asked him where the other priest was. Here too, the answer wasn’t what I had expected.
The priest was still alive, but after an accident, he was confined to a wheelchair, unable to move or speak. I should have felt glad, but I couldn’t. And as absurd as it sounds, I found it very cruel and even felt ashamed of what I had planned to do.
I spoke with the young clergyman for a while and explained to him, asking for confidentiality, what had happened, what I had planned, and how I was feeling at that moment: shame, guilt, pain. „God’s justice sometimes works in mysterious ways, and He knows best what people deserve!“ I will never forget that sentence! It wasn’t an accusation against me, not a moral sermon, just the core message that everyone eventually gets what they deserve.
At some point, I left. I don’t know how to describe the chaos I felt at that moment. Pain? Yes. Self-hatred? Yes. Guilt? Yes—and so much more. I walked off with my weapon, heading toward the Rhine. What was I supposed to do now? Where should I go? Nobody wanted me, nobody knew me.
So, I sat down by the Rhine near the Mülheim harbor, pulled the pistol out of my waistband, and began to think. Through the mouth or through the temple?
That day, I sat trembling by the great river, the same one that had spit me out near Stammheim nearly ten years earlier. Tears ran down my cheeks, and the loaded weapon pressed to my temple, my trembling finger on the trigger. Even my revenge had been taken from me, but I still couldn’t do it. I tried, God knows I tried, but I couldn’t pull that damn trigger.
At that moment, I remembered what it was like when I woke up as a child on the shore at Stammheim. I thought of the two other attempts to end my life. The vomiting after the rat poison or the snapped rope and the aching neck.
There had to be a reason why I was still here, and then the chaplain’s words came back to me: „He knows best what people deserve!“ I can’t claim to be a religious person, but I am familiar with the concepts of karma and kismet. And for me, there’s no difference whether someone talks about fate or God, but in that moment, and because of that sentence, I found hope.
I threw the weapon in a high arc into the water, watched as it rippled the surface, and then disappeared without a trace. No. I would live, and I would find a way to walk my path despite the bad start I had been given.
And I am still walking this path today. Although I still think that, if there is a God, He owes me some explanations.
I make many, many mistakes, but that’s part of it. I haven’t amassed riches, nor have I become famous. I don’t have much, and as for people who truly know me? There isn’t really anyone left. The last person who truly knew me was my mother, and today, she’s waiting for me—but I’m in no hurry to join her.
I still suffer a bit from what happened back then. Not in the sense that I wake up screaming at night or tremble when I’m in crowds. No, not that. At least, not always. It’s more the question that haunts me: what could have been different?
Yes, maybe I could have had a great life. University, professional success, lots of money, lots of luxury—I’ve got the brains for it. But life taught me something else. I know what pain is, what betrayal feels like, and today I know that I won’t do just anything for money.
I’ve worked. As a helper in production and warehouses, on construction sites, as a chef, as a store detective, as a boat builder, as a media designer, and as a web designer… you could say I’ve done everything from cleaning to crafts to coding. And today? Today, nothing works anymore. And once again, I find myself facing the problem of feeling superfluous.
No. In a societal sense, I am anything but successful, and after surviving eleven heart attacks and having my chest destroyed by the surgeries—well, it’s clear that I’ve surpassed my expiration date and definitely won’t find success in this life anymore.
I’m no longer working on a new self-employment project. I had planned to do that until recently. But when heart attack number eleven entered my life not long ago, I realized that it’s over. No more plans, just greeting each new morning and trying to take joy in every new day.
That is my life’s path. And my conclusion? Things always turn out differently than you think…