baumschulenweg
I went to Dr. Brenneke's building today. I didn't plan to ring. I just wanted to see it.
It's a quiet street of 1930s houses near the S-Bahn, with front gardens and old trees. Her name is on the bell panel, hand-written on a little card: Brenneke.
While I was standing there like a creep, a neighbor came out with a dog and asked if she could help. I said I'd spoken to Frau Dr. Brenneke on the phone last year and wanted to send something.
The neighbor looked at me oddly. "Mit Frau Brenneke telefoniert?"
Frau Brenneke had a stroke in 2019. She's in a care home in Treptow. She hasn't really spoken since. Her daughter clears the mail and answers her phone.
"Die Tochter vielleicht," said the neighbor. Maybe the daughter.
Maybe the daughter. A daughter who knows the Academy's cover story from 1964, word for word, and talks about "she kept it after all" like she knew who "she" was.
I said thank you and walked to the S-Bahn. I can't remember the ride home.