Berlin at night, under the new order, was a study in clean lines and quiet efficiency. The graffiti was gone, the streets were spotless, and the people moved with a calm, purposeful rhythm. But beneath the surface, in the forgotten places, old currents still flowed. In a boarded-up basement beneath a defunct printing press, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, cheap coffee, and a desperate, simmering anger.
Former Bundeswehr officer Klaus Weber stood before a map of Europe taped to a damp concrete wall. About two dozen men and women crowded the space, their faces pale under the single bare bulb. They were engineers, students, a former journalist, a nurse. Ordinary people who missed the beautiful, terrifying noise of being free.
