Syndicate

After Till and I had reported on our peculiar return trip from Munich, Leo disappeared for a few days. As if she had suspected that I had planned to ask her if she knew more about it. On Monday she came back, but skilfully avoided any situation in which we could have talked in privacy. Yesterday, however, things got going without my intervention.

In the evening at the fire Till mentioned that something strange had happened to him again. Two pimply half-breeds had chased him and thrown snowballs. They had been so aggressive and persistent that in the end he had no choice but to flee. Leo sat in the corner with her headphones on and pretended not to listen. But then she said very casually: 'Maybe you should get rid of that thing in your face.

Immediately all eyes turned to her. 'What do you mean?' asked Till.

You could tell that Leo was looking for a way out. But it was too late. Everyone glanced at her expectantly. 'The scar,' she finally muttered. 'On your cheek.'

Till stared at her. 'What about it?' There was something imploring in his gaze now. 'Leo, if you know anything about it, tell me."

She lowered her eyes. I was beginning to think she would just shrug the whole thing off. But then she looked at us and anger flashed in her eyes. 'It's a sign,' she said in a loud, shrill voice. 'Is it so hard to understand? Enemies of the syndicate are marked that way. Whoever wears the chicken is outlawed. You may do to him whatever you like.'

There was not much more to get out of her. Not even about this mysterious syndicate. I'm not sure if she really doesn't know anything, or if she just won't tell. She said that she wasn't the one who came up with all this. Till should have been more careful. Her voice was harsh, as if none of this was her business. But I could feel how much she condemned herself. Till's face, on the other hand, had grown paler with each word.