No More Learning

The water kettle was started with a loud whoosh and, after a
few minustes, supplied hot water for a cup of instant coffee.
„Nnnhhaa! ", uttered the young man, a statement, that could
be interpreted in many ways at this early hour, and could
have referred to his life situation in general. At 5. 27 o'clock,
Frank closed the battered door behind himself and walked
listlessly down the dark corridor on his way to descend the



even darker stairway. The source of that foul stench, that

had been torturing Frank's nose for days, was somewhere

here. Perhaps one of the other tenants, damn idiot, had left

his garbage in the corridor.

J don't know. . . ", he muttered.

Each morning it was the same old story: „Rising, eating,

walking, slogging away. . . ", as Kohlhaas always said.

In the past years, he had learned to hate his life. He was 25

years old now, living in a more than shabby flat on the

outskirts of the former FRG capital, Berlin, working for

modest wages as a temporary help in a steel plant. In

former times, he had wanted to study, but this issue was

over - for reasons that Frank never mentioned.

Actually, he was not dumb, but, according to his own words,

he couldn't hack it yet. However, the job at the steel plant

was better than nothing, because it gave him the chance to

earn some money and to survive - an advantage that was

not enjoyed by millions of Germans in the year 2027.

As he now groped along again on this particular morning,

step by step towards the plant, he passed demolished

houses in the twilight and crowds of homeless people lying

in masses in the dark corners of the streets.

„What would be, if I simply didn't care about the

consequences and went home again, got back into my bed

and just slept until tomorrow? ", he thought sometimes.

„What would it be like if I just packed my bags and

disappeared from this rotten city, this scruffy country? ", he

asked himself occasionally.

But where was it any different? He should enjoy, what he

had - he'd got a job and didn't go hungry. That was at least

something, thought Frank.

After the worker had gone through a very long and dark

underpass without giving a Globe coin to the drunken

beggar there, the production complex came into Frank's



vision. It was 5. 53 in the morning and the workers for the
early shift stood there waiting, smoking, jawing.
When the factory gates finally opened at 6 o'clock, about
200 workers poured through them like a viscous mash. Most
of them were not in any rush to begin their work, but it had
to be, there was no other way.
"No alternative! ", as Frank always said.
After ten hours, they went back home again. All were dirty
and tired, but happy that the work was over for the day.
Frank crept through the corridor on his floor, which was still
dim even by day, and unlocked the door of his apartment.
There were no new messages on the Scanchip and that
was good, because it were usually only calculations:
electricity, water and such things. Frank had placed the
television in his bedroom the day before, so if he couldn't
fall asleep, he could turn it on. The program did not interest
him, but with the sound of anyone talking, he didn't feel so
alone in this dark block of flats.

Kohlhaas just knew his neighbours from brief encounters.
Many of them only left their apartments to go to work and
some of them had become serious boozers in recent years.
From time to time someone would bawl from his balcony or
accosted people, passing "his block" - but after a while,
everyone was sleeping.

Citizen 1-564398B-278843 watched television till 22. 37
o'clock: the news („War of the global armed forces against
dangerous terrorists in Iran"), talk shows, easy
entertainment on all fronts, warnings of the second dog flu
epidemic and the necessity for the immediate compulsory
inoculation. Then he fell asleep, although meanwhile the
foul smell from outside seemed to have lodged itself in his
pillow. . . .

Next day. . .



10



„Good morning, Frank! ", muttered Dirk Weber, one of the
foremen. „Good morning, Dirk! ", answered Frank listlessly. It
was 6. 03 o'clock, the morning shift began. A-341, this was
the designation of the young man as worker and temporary
help in the steel plant, gave his helping hands for many
operational steps till the clock indicated 10. 30.
Now it was time for a short lunch, and when Frank
unwraped his only bun which was covered with a piece of
salami, he did not suspect, that an unpleasant stroke of fate
would wait for him in the following minutes.
Since approximately half a year, the production complex'
administration had arranged the singing of the "One-World-
Song", due to a new international regulation, before every
lunch time in each production complex - for the increase of
work moral and to strengthen the international doctrine of
„peace, freedom, prosperity and equality" that was
propagated by the World Government since 2018. The
official of the "Ministry for Production Supervision", stationed
in this enterprise, Mr. Gert Sasse, who was mostly in his
office above the factory building, had conscientiously come
down to the workers to sing the "One-World-Song" with
them. It was always the same.

. . Workers, now is lunch time! But we will sing first! ", he
shouted through the hall and the steel workers formed to a
bored line, in order to enjoy the short break after the
singing:

"We are the children of One-World and we are all equal!

We love our One-World, the great realm of peace!

We don't know any classes, we don't know any races. . . "

Frank heard ever more rarely on the text in the last weeks,
didn't move his lips and stared at the ceiling of the dirty
production hall. . . Hurry up! ", he thought and boredly scraped



11



with his left foot over the dusty ground. Then the singing

was over.

„Gosh! This stupid song is really getting on my nerves! ",

said the labourer very quietly to himself.

„AH right, men! That could be done - halfway! Enjoy your

meal! ", called the official of the "Ministry for Production

Supervision" and A-341 looked forward to a hungry bite in

his softened roll.

But while his teeth eagerly crushed the salty piece of

salami, he was hit by an angry look of Mr. Sasse. The

supervisor narrowed his eyes to slits and looked like an

aggressive bulldog.

„A-341! Yes, you! Come to me! Hurry! ", he roared at the top

of his lungs.

This got Frank's adrenalin flowing. He didn't need quarrel at

work anymore.

„Come on, A-341! ", yelled Mr. Sasse, waving the worker

nearer. Kohlhaas followed the order immediately.

„l am just a fool for you, isn't it? ", hissed the man.

„Eh. . . no! Of course not, Sir. . . eh. . . Mr. Sasse! ", stammered

Frank.

J fail to see what you mean. . . ", he added stumbling.

„How I mean this, you idiot? ", screamed the official with a

look which gave the young man the biggest possible

uneasiness. A malicious silence prevailed for several

oppressive seconds. Meanwhile, the eyes of the superior

threateningly became smaller and bushy, black eyebrows

were pushed over them.

A second later, Frank saw a fist with fatty fingers fly towards

his face. It suddenly hurt and his nasal bone reacted with a

cracking on the punch. While some blood threads flowed

down from his nose, A-341 heard a growl: „How I mean that,

you numbskull? "



12



„lf I give the instruction that the „One-World-Song" has to be

sung, you have to sing it too. This was an order! ",

completed Mr. Sasse his powerful argument.

His intonation varied now between satisfaction and

rampantly growing meanness. In the meantime, Kohlhaas

had gone to the ground. This punch had been really hard

and Sasse gave him another kick in the ribs now.

„Do you understand, idiot? You probably think, that you

have a special status here, isn't it? ", he roared.

The other workers googled at him and hid their faces behind

their rolls. Meanwhile, Kohlhaas felt like a kicked dog,

humiliated in front of the rest of his colleagues - what was

very close to reality. Without considering his action, he

jumped up and positioned himself in front of the official of

the "Ministry for Production Supervision".

"You can be glad, that you are my superior, otherwise I

would break you every bone! ", screamed Frank with boiling

fury. Gert Sasse was baffled. A-341 obstinately wiped off

the blood from his lip.

One hour later, the worker still waited in front of the door of
the production complex leader. Sasse was in his office and
Frank heard him swearing and ranting. This was no good
sign.

„A-341, come in! ", resounded the voice of the highest boss
of this work plant over the brightly illuminated corridor. The
young man started moving and took a seat on the chair in
the middle of the office room. A short silence followed, then
it began.

J took a look on your Scanchip, A-341! ", reported Mr.
Reimers, the production complex leader. „ln the ten years of
your activity here, you had come too late three times. Apart
from that, this is not the first time that you make a spectacle



13



of yourself. You are already occured to me, because of
subversive statements at work which can probably also be
confirmed by your colleagues. We have even marked you
with a blue code 67-Beta, if you didn't know it yet, A-341!
We will examine the video tapes of your working days in this
complex in the next days, with our new "Voice-Analysis-
System", and Tim sure that we will find some more
subversive statements.

But what you have done today, is a real scandal!
Threatening an official of the highest authority of production
supervision. Is there just air in your head, boy? If I don't
take drastic measures in a case like this, my superiors will
make me a lot of problems.

I must dismiss you, A-341! Further, I am correctly obligated,
to react on such an unbelievable incident with a message to
the responsible administration. Disappear now from this
production complex, and never come back, A-341! "
Frank Kohlhaas, the just dismissed worker, was struck
dumb with horror. His vocal chords seemed to be rusted, his
throat was tied and his courage was put on ice somewhere.
He went out, just went out, pale as death, with a roaring
head, without answering. Frank had lost his job, his source
for subsistence. And this was no fun in these joyless days.

Like in trance, the young man went into the changing room
of the production complex and absently opened the baggy
sheet door of his spint. . . Dismissal" - this word sounded like
the cut of a razor in the ear of each listener in this time. It
was related to the word . . liquidation", because it was the
destruction of the social existence. Being dismissed meant
to get no more Globes, as the international currency was
called since the year 2018. If Frank would not find a new
employment as soon as possible, he could lose his
apartment, his food and finally also his life. Any social



14



security, warranted by the state, had completely been
abolished since the total collapse of world economy in
winter 2012/13. And it was more than difficult, to find work in
a time, in which the industrial production in old Central and
Western Europe had mostly been outsourced to the Third
World. Therefore, millions of Europeans tried to survive by
doing extremly bad paid jobs in this dark present. They had
nothing to lose, so they were glad about every breadline
wage they could get. Those, who were not able to find a
possibility to earn some money in any way, ended as
beggars and homeless people, hanging around under
bridges or in vacant house ruins.

On the next day, Frank was not awaked by the shrill sound

of his alarm, after an sorrowful and restless night, but by the

disgusting stench which came from the stairway. The smell

had not been liquidated by anyone - against the spirit of the

age.

Only in the early morning hours, he had been able to sleep

for a while, because of his constant brooding and the

unpleasant thoughts that had tortured him during the night.

As first thought of the new grey day, the face of Mr. Sasse

appeared in his head and the face of citizen 1-564398B-

278843 changed to a hateful grimace, when he mused

about killing the official with an iron rod.

„This damn hybrid! If my life goes down the drain, because

of that guy, then I will smash the skull of this bastard before

I go to hell! ", hissed Frank, erupting in anger.

He finally crept out of his bed and stared down at the dirty

street in front of his apartement block.

„Damn! What shall I do now? ", he thought. J must find a

new job, otherwise they will close the account on my

Scanchip, because I can't pay the fucking calculations any

longer. "



15



After a further hour of useless musing, he left his dwelling,

tried not to inhale too deeply on the corridor, and walked the

dark stairs down to the ground floor.
The elevator was defective since months and nobody

seemed to waste a thought about repairing it. The only one,

Frank could imagine as a potential employer in this

hardship, was Stefan Meise, the junkdealer, an old

schoolmate.

Meise' s scrapyard was about half an hour foot march

distant from Frank's apartment block. He hit the road,

walked down the ugly street, which was covered with

garbage, and finally reached his goal - a place full of rusty

cars and all kinds of metal debris.

Nevertheless, Stefan Meise was not difficult to find between

the mountains of scrap iron. He was very tall, thick, bearded

and looked hardly differed from what he collected and sold.

„Hello Stefan! How are you? ", welcomed him Frank quietly,

trying to smile.

„Oh, Frank Kohlhaas! What's up, man? ", answered the thick

junkdealer. "You haven't been here for ages! "

"I just thought, I could visit you. Does the scrap metal trade

still run, Stefan? ", asked Frank. „You have here. . . eh. . . a lot

of rusty stuff. . . Where do you find so much junk? "

„Ha! I collect, what I can find. As all junkdealers do. Why do

you ask me this, Frank? Can I help you? ", returned Meise.

„l have lost my job yesterday", told Frank, while the fat man

looked at him quizzically. Then, Meise stroke with his oily,

broad fingers over his dirty black overall.

. That's a disaster, Frank! And now? ", asked Stefan and

shook his head.

„Now, I'm looking for something new. Some kind of

temporary job, you know? Perhaps, you still need another

helping hand? ", murmured the young man.



16



For half a minute, Meise just googled at the unemployed

man with his yellowish, bulging eyes. Then he looked

around and tried to give his unpleasant answer as carefully

as possible.

. . Working for me? ", he inquired. . . Thus, Frank, the situation

is. . . eh. . . the times are bad. We all know this, my friend. I

almost run everything alone here and only Ralf helps me

from time to time. This is actually enough. I don't need a

second man, sorry! "

Frank Kohlhaas had never been a good actor and who saw

him now, could feel his disappointment.

„And only for two months? ", he asked.

„l need none here, and I can't afford a second man, Frank! ",

explained the thick, filthy man and turned away. „l'm sorry,

but I have to do some work now. No offense, but there is no

chance for you to find work here. "

Back home, Frank hissed one of his worst curses and

kicked against the kitchen table. He desperately scanned

his brain for other possibilities of employment and checked

all production complexes around Berlin in his mind. But the

problem was, that his boss had given him a negative entry

in his Scanchip register after the conflict with Mr. Sasse,

what made it difficult to get a job in another steel plant.

He still had 246 Globes on his electronic account for this

month. More than 400 Globes he had to pay only for his

apartment in this rotted estate of prefabricated houses.

Time pressed now, with each day a little bit more, and the

dark shadow of despair grew with the passing hours. It

occupied Frank's mind like a malicious ulcer.

After the young man had watched an extremely stupid

sitcom, he switched off the television and tried to sleep. But

it was only 23,00 o'clock and regrettably the exhaustion had

not achieved the necessary level yet, to turn off Frank's

brain and give him some peace of mind.



17



Several hours followed, when Frank was staring at the dark
ceiling, cursing the production complex 42-B with all its
superiors, supervisors and workers.

Then the stench from the hall became noticeable to him
again and the fog of despair in his head swelled so strongly
that the young man thought about killing himself.
He mused about operating the bad thoughts and concerns
under his skullcap with a heavy-calibered shotgun which
would completely spread his brain over the yellowed
wallpaper behind his bedstead. And Frank Kohlhaas still
thought about many other things in this terrible night.
He brooded over his so far senseless life, the isolation, the
monotonousness and the gaping abyss that waited for him
now. Frank came to no solution in this night and not even
the smallest glimmer of hope seemed to shine somewhere.
Nothing. Outside it was dark. In front of the house, Frank
could recognize a few ripped garbage bags, which already
lay there since several weeks. Then he was finally so tired,
that he fell asleep with his head on the window sill.

Up to the end of the week, the search for a new job was
unsuccessful - as he had already expected it. It seemed
that there was no more work at all, in the periphery of
several kilometers. Furthermore, a inquiry at the local
administration had proven that Frank had meanwhile a
negative entry in his Scanchip register, because of
. . disturbance of peace at the workplace".
. . Perhaps, the idea with the shotgun is not too bad at all! But
before that, I will visit this Sasse! ", grumbled Frank on
Friday, when the short weekend for his former colleagues of
the production complex 42-B began.
On Saturday and Sunday, he invested his last Globes in the
cheap liquor from the kiosk at the corner. Alone in his small,
modestly furnished apartment, in the dark block of flats, in a



18



much darker time. His fate and his pain was not noticed by

anyone else. Just like Frank Kohlhaas had never noticed

the pain of the others who lifed their lives in their

honeycombs, behind the shabby, gray walls of this

plattenbau.

If he would drink himself to death or blew his head away, he

would soon smell like the corridor on his floor, and it would

probably not even been noticed by his neighbors. This

thought was somehow so sick that it elecited Frank a

tormented smile.

Hard alcohol had not the best reputation, but one thing was

clear: It had already given millions of desperate people a

good sleep. No concern could be so big, that it couldn't be

drowned in a wave of the good and, above all, cheap booze

from the nearby kiosk. Frank checked this old truth in a

"self-experiment".

„Beep! Beep! Beep! ", it resounded on Monday at 6. 30

o'clock in the morning from the kitchen, where the drunk

man had forgotten his Scanchip. „Beep! Beep! Beep! "

An electronic woman's voice always repeated. . .

„Good morning, citizen 1-564398B-278843! You have a
message of priority level alpha on your Scanchip! "

„Good morning, citizen 1-564398B-278843! You have a
message of priority level alpha on your Scanchip! "

„Good morning, citizen 1-564398B-278843! You have a
message of priority level alpha on your Scanchip! "

„Hmmm. . . ", hummed Frank, still a bit dazed from the night
before.



19



„Damn! What? ", he muttered and rolled out of his bed which

still smelled of alcohol.

„What the hell? Damn! Shut up! ", he grunted and walked

with a bad headache to the kitchen table.

It lasted a little eternity until Frank had remembered the pin

code and had found his way through the message-menu of

the Scanchip.

"What. . . ? "

"Citation? What? ", whispered citizen 1-564398B-278843. He

had to read it twice, in order to believe it. Did somebody try

to kid him?

„What the fuck is that? ", he could only say.

Official citation:

Citizen 1-564398B-278843,

You are officially cited to an automated trial on
14. 08. 2027 at 8. 00 o'clock.

Accusations:

- Massive disturbation at the workplace

- Theoretical aggravated battery

Appear at the mentioned time in court cell 4/211, at your
local juridical complex. In the case of nonappearance,
you will be punished with the deletion of your Scanchip
or arrest! (*§127b, „Citizen Obligations and theoretical
Sanctions")

Official document code: 257789000-0100567-
2345441 1 1 3-EGN-59900-4/21 1
Culprit number: 319444-556. 77



20



Thank you for your cooperation!

Frank's atomised brain began to hurt and to rotate.
. . Citation? What do you want from me? "
He was totally confused and couldn't remember any crimes
in his past life.

. . Just because I've yelled at this damned Sasse? ", he
thought. . . This can't be true! I finally did not touch him. I
have just lost control for some seconds. I don't understand
this. And what the hell do they mean with . . theoretical
aggravated battery"? "

And there was no doubt. Frank Kohlhaas, the helping out
citizen with the official code 1-564398B-278843, had never
done something bad to another person. Except for the time
in the kindergarten, back then, as he had given this stupid
Kevin a little slap and his parents had been called to the
authorithies. The local education officials had briefly
become anxiously and had explanied that Frank would have
some . . subliminal aggressions" and a . . precarious masculine
behavior". Then they had suggested a therapy with
tranquilizers.

But this was many years ago. Furthermore, the therapy
could be avoided, after the child had repetend its "sins" in
front of a committee of psychologists and social
pedagogues, and his parents had insured, that they would
immediately report Frank's next "crimes", if he would
become noticeable again in this context.
But he never became noticeable again. He always stuck to
the rules until this day; in the kindergarten, the elementary
school and everywhere else. Since his fifth year of life, he
had always been a good boy. No, he was not noticeable at
all. And of course he was no human being with . . subliminal
aggressions". Sometimes in his thoughts or dreams, he beat
up a superior or an administrative coworker, but this was a



21



secret and Frank had never talked about his thought crimes.
He was just "normal", as he meant.

Apart from this, it was also the first time that the otherwise
perfectly inconspicuous plattenbau-inhabitant Frank
Kohlhaas had come in contact with an . . automated trial". The
citizen had already heard about this, once in the news,
since it had been introduced by the World Government
three years ago. But the young man could not imagine, what
this strange process really was. But why should a decent
person like Frank think about such things? He had never
become culpable and had nothing to do with criminality.