— Eine Zigarette?

It was the only phrase Hellstrom said most often. You knew he was eloquent, sometimes his words slipped too fluently and people asked him to speak more slowly, but in conversation with you he was always measured, quiet and brief.

— Eine Zigarette?

It wasn't that he came tired to you — it was, but not often. Rather, he saw an opportunity to speak differently, not with words. by gesture, by look, by the object he offered each time — the same bitter cigarettes. You couldn't stand them, but it was almost a crime not to take them. After all, the ritual had been unchanged for a long time, and to refuse was like spitting in his face.

wherever you were. At work, in the snow after a shootout, in his apartment, in a bar, near a stinking bathroom. The ritual was unchanging: the trembling of his hands, the prolonged silence, the fleeting glance, and the soft murmur of his lips.

— Eine Zigarette?

even on that terrible day when you walked home through the downpour, no longer hoping to stay healthy. A black Volkswagen, which had been creeping up behind you and cutting through the darkness with its round headlights, stopped right next to you. The back door opened slightly, just enough for Dieter's head to pop out. His condescending smile was like an invitation to waltz without music in a tiny living room, like welcoming a prodigal son, like extending a hand.

— Eine Zigarette?

these cigarettes are not cheap. so it didn't sit well with Dieter when you, being drunk, had a kiss with a colleague on a bet. it wasn't that he was jealous — not in the least. he doesn't even know what jealousy is. but the realization that the taste of cigarettes — his cigarettes — would be mixed with someone's stinky mouth made his eyes roll displeasedly at the bottles behind the bar. he wants a beer, so simple, as if he doesn't carry cigarettes in a silver-plated cigarette case engraved with a hunting dog.

indeed, a dog. always searching for something, trying to please someone, only to be buried in the backyard on a dark night, so the children don't cry too much.

— Eine Zigarette?

he's long past the age of being bothered by anything. teenagers don't sleep at night because they're in love, young workers don't sleep because they're burdened with debts and responsibilities, and old people don't sleep because they're aware of the fleeting nature of life. The Sturmbannführer simply didn't sleep at night. He didn't dream, and he simply existed in between short cycles of emptiness.

so why does it make his jaw ache?

As you leave the bar, you anticipate having a cigarette, but it's not there. Dieter silently smokes, not even considering offering you anything. afraid of offending a colleague, you yourself received a spit in the face.

— I don't have any more.

as if he had forgotten how, lying in the snow, you smoked one for two, not worrying about what people would think. he had a laceration, you had a broken nose. you moaned and laughed at the same time, because it was an incredible absurdity, absurdity, even a slight note of student fun. and you smoked as if nothing had happened. he didn't even think about it now.

and it wasn't about the cigarettes.