The police station was accommodated in an old building, a school from the 19th century.
It took me three hours to get anywhere near Benny.
They had me fill out seven forms, both sides, all identical. The policeman in charge ripped two forms apart, and I had to start again. “Hand slipped.” His comment slapped my ears. This was nothing but mile high harassment. I knew it. The police man knew it, and I tried not to get too angry.
Then they had me write down what happened from the phone call on, till now.
Time delaying tactics. Maybe they searched and bugged my apartment right about now. They must have turned Benny’s upside down already.
I tried to remember, if there was anything suspicious in my flat, something that could get me in jail.
Nothing to hide…
No political literature, beside what was permitted and encouraged. Some family photos, but I’m the only one left alive, so no danger on that end. No newspapers or magazines, no radio – lucky me. Only cigarettes, coffee and booze and dirty laundry.