Class Trip ’95 (Part 1) by KF_NDN

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In the summer of 1995, a class from a comprehensive school in West Germany sets off on a weeklong trip to Thuringia, in the former East. Officially it’s a "historical education program," but in truth it’s a brief taste of freedom — a journey into a landscape still carrying quiet traces of a divided country.


Chapter 1 â€" Arrival and First Encounter

The bus rattled along frayed country roads, its speed uneven, the roof vibrating with every bump. Through the open vents came the smell of hot rubber and paper. Inside the crowded cabin, cassette music mixed with laughter, the rustle of chip bags, and low, half-whispered conversations.
Summer 1995. A class trip from a comprehensive school in West Germany â€" one week in Thuringia. Officially a "historical education program," in truth a glimpse of freedom.

Jonas sat by the aisle, his knee pressing against the back of Robin’s seat. Robin was staring out the window. Fields flashed past outside, and now and then, small abandoned houses. Philipp drew lines in the dust on the windowpane; Leo laughed at some joke nobody had finished. Max, the tallest in the group, slept with his arms folded.
When the bus finally stopped in front of the youth hostel, the air seemed to hold its breath. The building stood at the edge of a shallow valley, where a disused railway track vanished into knee-high grass. Everything smelled of dry resin and sun on metal.
"Great," muttered Max as he got off. "Looks like a border post."
Jonas grinned. "Yeah â€" but no math test."
They carried their bags up the stairs, over squeaky steps into a hallway filled with light and the stale scent of old varnish and dust.

That afternoon, the path led down into the village. It ran parallel to the old track, rusty and half-swallowed by the forest. Down on the road stood a bus stop, a kiosk, and a small workshop with its gate open.
Five boys lingered in front of the workshop. Older, maybe seventeen or eighteen. They looked different â€" not in posture or size, but in everything around them.
Their clothes were sharp and exact: jeans tight and cuffed neatly over their boots; polo shirts tucked in cleanly, suspenders laid over their shoulders. No loose details, nothing extra.
And above all: their heads.

In a summer when every teenager wore bangs or long sides, these haircuts looked almost unreal.
The nape â€" bare. Over the ears, just smooth skin.
One had only a soft fuzz on top â€" a velvety shimmer that caught the light gently. Another’s hair was equally short, but the lines were so sharply drawn it looked as if someone had marked the edge with a ruler. Two looked almost shaved; only a faint, pale shadow hinted at the contour.
"Look how short their hair is," whispered Leo.
"Almost nothing left," murmured Jonas.

It wasn’t mockery â€" more like fascination. The plainness had something cool, defined, almost brave about it. They stood calmly, hands in pockets, none of them saying much. Even their silence seemed orderly.
Then one of them turned sideways. Reddish stubble on his scalp caught the light; the skin beneath shone pale in contrast. His gaze brushed briefly over the group â€" steady but curious, as if to see who would look away and who would not.
Instinctively, the boys turned aside, pretending to read the price tags in the kiosk window.
"They really do look different," said Robin.
Philipp nodded slowly. "But somehow… strong."

Two days later, with the heat canceling all planned activities, the group wandered back down to the village. The air under the concrete blocks hung heavy and still. More of the strangers were there this time â€" eight or nine at least â€" some sitting on the low wall near the bus stop, others at the corner across the street. It wasn’t noisy, just the hum of conversation and the faint clack of a bottle cap.
The red-haired one from before stepped forward a little. "You’re the ones from up there, right?"
"Yeah," said Max, "we’re on the class trip."

He nodded slightly. A pause, a faint friendly curve at the mouth.
"Back there, second alley on the right," he said casually. "There’s a little barbershop. My brother works there. We hang out sometimes in the afternoons â€" it’s quiet there. If you feel like it, drop by."
It sounded neither like an invitation nor a warning. Just a sentence left resting in the air. Before anyone could ask more, one of his friends called from across the street, and they walked away.
What remained was the pale sign at the corner, clearly visible once you looked for it:
Men’s Barber â€" simple letters on faded paint, hardly noticeable, yet impossible to ignore.

That evening, heat dripped in through the open window. Crickets sang. The dormitory smelled of detergent and varnished wood.
Jonas lay awake, listening to the steady breathing of the others, thinking of the boys down in the village â€" how clean their hairlines had been, how calm their faces.
No one said it aloud, but each of them knew they would go there the next day. Not because anyone had decided, but because none of them could explain why they wanted to.

To be continued.

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