By Stefan Berg and Marcel Rosenbach
From the standpoint of the radicals living there, the notice is nothing but a provocation and a declaration of war. They see it as a confirmation of the slogan on the building's wall, the slogan about class warfare; for them it's about anarchists versus speculators, and for them the rules of engagement are clear. Black banners now hang from the front of the main Köpi building, reading: "It'll be a hot winter" and "Köpi remains a risky investment."
Statements of support for the Köpi group have begun appearing throughout Germany, on signs at demonstrations, on the walls of buildings and on the Internet. Berlin's new Alexa shopping mall at Alexanderplatz had barely opened its doors before the first "Köpi stays" graffiti had appeared on the walls.
The Köpi residents are already getting organized ahead of the coming battle. One group is responsible for PR and dealing with the press, another is looking into the mysterious buyer and his backers, and a third manages the professionally designed website.
The attendees at a meeting in the "ACC," or "Antisocial Cultural Center," in the Köpi basement seem peaceful enough, even mild-mannered. Demian, a pleasant 29-year-old with a buzz cut, is a member of the PR committee. Of course, "Blase" ("Bubble") is there, a man who, with his flowing white hair and full beard, has the look of the chief of the Köpians and could easily be Demian's grandfather. Blase's real name is Peter Rösch. He was a courageous dissident in East Germany, and he has remained fundamentally true to his principles and his critical stance toward authority. He doesn't live in the building, but in a nearby former squat. He has made the Köpi his mission, and, unlike some others, he wants to see its problems resolved peacefully.
Standing at a counter in the windowless basement, Demian and Blase attempt to explain what it is they are fighting for, what the Köpi means to them. In addition to the "ACC," the building is home to "Koma F," a cocktail bar that is also used for concerts. There is a mattress-lined room with a climbing wall, a metalworking shop, a silkscreen-printing room and even a gym where the "Köpi Fight Club" practices martial arts.
In the former East Germany, the complex was home to a bowling club and ping-pong club, among other things. The slogan "Onward on the Road of Socialism" is still emblazoned above the door. From the perspective of Demian and Blase, the building has now truly become the property of the people. The Köpi PR man calls it a "utopian experience," an alternative form of cohabitation beyond the confines of the conventional family.
Blase has a significantly more political take on the situation. For many years, he fought his battles on behalf of the Köpi in round-table discussions with the district mayor and representatives of the Berlin Senate. In the upheaval of the early 1990s, Blase and his friends managed to convince the owners to sign leases with them, contracts which they insist are still valid. When an investor began building a nursing home directly adjacent to the Köpi's walls, which would have covered up the wall with the legendary top/bottom slogan, he was forced to agree to have the slogan painted onto the wall of the nursing home -- with sufficiently large letters.
Frank, whose hair is dyed peroxide-blonde, represents the Köpians' less moderate fighting contingent. He was one of a handful of original residents who selected the building after the fall of the Berlin Wall, and he remembers that Friday in February 1990 when he and the first squatters entered the building before the last tenants and sports clubs had even vacated the premises.
Frank was there when three mountain climbers rappelled from the side of the building and painted the famous slogan. The phrase was chosen by the plenary committee, which already existed at that time.
Frank became a father during his days living at the Köpi, and it was there that he celebrated his daughter's birthdays until she was 10. That was when he moved out, but he never left completely. Today Frank is the organization's chairman, is among its most loyal supporters and attends virtually every event.
There are several factions at the Köpi with varying positions on the question of violence. A strong faction believes that the Köpi has only survived as long as it has because its residents are considered unpredictable. The group has already issued an open threat on its Web site: "If Fichtner feels he needs to terminate the lease, then we will terminate the cease-fire."
This strategy has been sufficiently intimidating until now. According to officials at the Berlin Senate, there have been more than 50 inquiries from potential buyers of the property over the years. But all of them quickly reconsidered, and a number of scheduled auctions for the building were cancelled.
To nip these sorts of problems in the bud, the new owner opted for a more cunning approach. First he sent Besnik Fichtner and his intimidating bodyguards to Berlin. The legal correspondence came later, from Kosovo. He reasoned that perhaps ethnic Albanians from Kosovo could manage to drum some respect into the anarchists, and that intimidation is the best way to fight intimidation.
No one in the radical community believes that the Köpi was in fact sold to a buyer in Kosovo. In fact, Fichtner is merely a trustee. The real new owner has his offices only a few kilometers away, in an opulent building on one of the city's main shopping thoroughfares, the Kurfürstendamm. Siegfried Nehls, 43, who likes to put a "Dr." before his name, is an old hand in the Berlin real estate renovation business and operates a network of several interrelated companies.
Nehls and his partners underestimated the radical left-wing community. The Köpi residents hired an experienced attorney, Moritz Heusinger. Their research team obtained information about the Nehls empire from government offices and the courts and got hold of the relevant documents from the local corporate registry. It didn't take long before the identity of the real new owner was discovered.
Just one week after the auction, a group of Köpi residents showed up in the front yard of Nehls' parents' house in a Berlin suburb. Nehls' father was open to discussion and even invited the Köpi delegation into his house, but Siegfried's brother called the police. A few of the uninvited guests were charged with trespassing and were even arrested for a short time.
In addition to the squatters, investigators have their eye on the new owner of the building. Nehls has been peppered with lawsuits since the late 1990s -- from subcontractors and many buyers of his condominiums. According to the Berlin public prosecutor's office, several pending cases involving charges of fraud have now been put together. Nehls and his partners are accused of having defrauded construction companies of their revenues, a charge they deny.
One month after the Köpi auction, dozens of police officers raided Nehls' offices and his apartment. Fichtner's office and about 20 other apartments and offices were also searched.
Real estate developer Nehls is a giant of a man with a deep voice, and yet he prefers to respond to SPIEGEL's inquiries in writing. His statement comes from a company called Vitalis Beteiligungsgesellschaft für Altbauten mbH (Vitalis Holding Company for Old Buildings). Nehls is registered as the company's managing director. The letter explains, in smooth-talking real estate terms, that the company is interested in Köpenicker Strasse 137 because it is in "a highly appealing neighborhood" where properties, in the coming years, "will become increasingly attractive, in light of their charming potential for mixed-use residential and commercial development."
The letter also explains the reasoning behind the abstruse Plutonium-Joles-Vitalis purchasing setup: "From the standpoint of the State Office of Criminal Investigation, closing this center poses a not insignificant danger." Despite the fact that the sale was handled through the trustee, the letter continues, "our office, as well as employees and family members of the managing director, have received personal threats."
Vitalis also provides, for the first time, detailed information about its plans for the site: It intends to develop "approx. 150 apartments with almost 12,600 square meters (135,000 square feet) of living space," adding that it can be assumed "that it will not be possible to preserve the existing old buildings."
The man at the Berlin Senate who is responsible for managing such problematic cases is Ralf Hirsch. He is in charge of a project dubbed "Social City" -- and he comes across as somewhat helpless. Hirsch was caught unawares by the auction plans, just as the Köpi residents were. He invited Nehls and his attorneys to his office for a preliminary discussion, but he had little to offer as a mediator. "The only alternative," says Hirsch, "would have been for the state or the residents to purchase the property."
But Berlin is broke. The Senate's formerly deep pockets, into which it was able to reach to calm down the owners of more than 100 squatted buildings in the German capital by paying them subsidies, are now close to empty. Nevertheless, everyone involved senses that Berlin will be paying a high price for the controversy, one way or another. The policing costs are already in the hundreds of thousands of euros. If nothing else, there is one thing that Hirsch hopes to avoid if at all possible: individual evictions, which would take place apartment by apartment, tenant by tenant. "It would mean a state of permanent war," he says.
It's obvious that Hirsch doesn't even want to imagine the scenario. He represented the city during the long years of round table discussions with the Köpi, and he has a closer relationship with the residents than many would imagine. He knew Blase in the former East Germany, where both men were members of the dissident community.
"The truth is that everyone wants things to remain the way they are," says Hirsch. That may be the case for Demian, Blase and the other Köpi residents -- but it certainly does not apply to Nehls, the real estate developer.
Faced with the current stalemate, city officials nervously anticipate even more volatile times ahead. May 1 is normally considered a potentially explosive date -- far-left anarchists have a tradition of rioting in Berlin on that day. This year, many fear May 31 could also be a tad too lively for comfort: Inspired by current events, the Köpi cinema recently added a series of films about "liberation struggles" to its lineup.
Translated from the German by Christopher Sultan
Post to other social networks:
Stay informed with our free news services:
| All news from SPIEGEL International | Twitter | RSS |
| All news from Germany section | RSS |
© SPIEGEL ONLINE 2007
All Rights Reserved
Reproduction only allowed with the permission of SPIEGELnet GmbH
