Forging a Foothold
Johann woke to the unfamiliar comfort of a real bed, a stark contrast to his recent nights.
It was his first proper sleep in a long, long while, and the quiet stillness of the room felt like a luxury. He stretched, a slow, luxurious unfurling of his small limbs.
As he got up from the the bed, his eyes fell upon a tarnished mirror hanging above the small wooden table.
He must have missed it entirely last night in his exhaustion.
He walked closer and stared.
He saw a child's face staring back: round, soft, with a shock of messy light blonde hair and clear grey eyes.
Streaks of dirt covered his features, and his clothes were ragged, clearly marking him as a street urchin, a German child in 1715 Berlin.
A wry chuckle escaped him. "And to top it off, adorable" he muttered, the irony of his adult mind in such a cute, vulnerable form hitting him.
His innocent appearance could be his greatest weapon, a perfect cover for the sharp mind within, allowing him to navigate this dangerous new world with unexpected ease.
.
The memory of the previous day's grind, the long hours at the market, and especially Klaus's massive delivery, spurred him on.
The large quantity of scales he'd spread to dry last night would be valuable, but also a tempting target. He needed to check on them immediately.
.
He left the inn before dawn broke, pushing back the shadows., the key to his room a solid weight in his small hand.
The streets were still largely empty, wrapped in a cool, damp silence that would soon shatter with the waking city.
His bare feet were silent on the cobbled paths as he made his way back to his drying spot near the bakery wall, a place that felt both secure and vulnerable.
As he approached, his gut clenched.
The cloth scraps he'd used to cover his drying scales were disturbed, crumpled at one end.
A sick feeling washed over him.
Someone had been here.
He quickened his pace, rounding the corner to his spot.
Three boys stood over his precious bounty, their lean figures silhouetted against the pre-dawn glow.
One of them, a wiry boy with a chipped front tooth and a gaze that held too much cold knowing for a child, was in the act of pulling the entire covering cloth away.
The thousands of iridescent fish scales, laid out to dry from Klaus's delivery, glittered in the dim light.
This was the undisputed leader of this particular pack of street kids, a boy known for taking whatever he wanted.
The leader's eyes, devoid of warmth, fixed on the shimmering pile.
"Well, well. Look what the rat dragged in," he rasped, his voice rough, indicating years of shouting and harsh living.
He let the cloth fall, then nudged the scales with his foot. "Shiny. What treasure you got hidin' here, little man?"
His two companions, silent and watchful, flanked him like hungry hounds, their eyes fixed on the scales.
Johann's small heart hammered, but his face remained a mask. He understood the rules of the streets: show fear, and they would feast.
"Nothing for you," he stated, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.
"Just useless fish waste. Smells terrible when it dries. You'd gag on it." He even wrinkled his nose, trying to sell the lie.
The leader scoffed, but he didn't immediately stomp on the pile. His eyes, however, held a predatory glint.
"If it's useless, why hide it, eh? Looks like our fish waste now." He raised a jagged piece of glass he held, poised over the scales, a silent threat to destroy what Johann had worked so hard for.
"Or," Johann cut in, his mind racing,
"You could leave it, and I can tell you where a cart just overturned near the Spree. Full of discarded vegetables. Fresh. Better than any fish waste."
He pointed vaguely towards the river, a known hub of activity and potential accidents.
The smell of fresh, if bruised, vegetables would be a powerful draw for hungry boys.
The leader's gaze flickered, a primal hunger overriding his curiosity. Food was immediate.
"A lie?" he growled, suspicion clouding his face.
"Why would I lie?" Johann challenged, his tone flat. "I just want these worthless things for my own strange reasons. You want food. Easy trade."
He held the leader's gaze.
"It's near the big bridge. Go quick, before the dogs get it all."
A smirk twisted the leader's lips, a flash of arrogant amusement.
"Smart mouth, little rat. Most kids know better than to talk back to Ralf." He paused, letting his name hang in the air like a warning.
"Alright. But if you're lyin', I'll find you. And then these fish scales will be the least of your worries."
With a curt nod to his boys, he spun around, leading them away into the maze of alleys, their footsteps fading as they chased the rumor of food.
Johann slowly exhaled, the tension draining from his small frame.
He had won.
Not with muscle, but with cunning, a quick lie, and the brutal reality of their shared hunger.
The alleys of Berlin were a constant test, and every day was a negotiation for survival.
.
He then retrieved Klaus's makeshift sack from where he had emptied it near the drying scales.
With the immediate threat gone and his scales seemingly untouched, Johann quickly re-covered them, adding a few more large stones to weigh down the cloth securely.
He would leave them to finish drying throughout the day.
Now, he needed to find Klaus.
But his own ragged clothes were drawing too much attention, making him feel exposed.
A cleaner, less conspicuous appearance would be another layer of protection in this brutal city.
He quickly stopped at a small stall selling used children's clothes, paying ten pfennigs for a simple tunic and a pair of sturdy pants.
Bringing his total money to 14 pfennigs.
Slipping into a secluded alley, he exchanged his grimy rags for the slightly cleaner, more presentable garments, discarding his old ones.
..
..
Johann found Klaus near the usual market entrance, kicking idly at a loose stone, his shoulders slumped in familiar resignation.
He looked up as Johann approached, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Johann's slightly improved attire.
Johann walked right up to him, holding out the bundled, empty sack. "Here's your sack," he stated, his voice direct.
Klaus took it, his fingers brushing against Johann's, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.
He simply nodded, ready for his day's work.
Then, Johann reached into his pocket.
He pulled out six cool pfennigs, twice the amount Klaus had received yesterday, and pressed them into his hand.
"I'm giving you a raise and an early payment for today's work." Johann added, watching Klaus's face closely.
Klaus's eyes, usually so guarded, widened to an astonishing degree.
He stared at the coins, then at Johann, his mouth slightly agape.
The metallic clink of the pfennigs seemed impossibly loud in the morning air.
He closed his fingers slowly around the coins, as if afraid they might vanish.
"Six...?" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.
He looked up, a genuine confusion battling with the overwhelming gratitude in his eyes.
"But... it was three, Master."
"No 'Master'," Johann corrected softly, a rare, almost imperceptible softening in his own usually impassive face.
"It's Johann. And you earned it, Klaus. Good work deserves good pay. We're in this together."
He met Klaus's gaze, a silent message passing between them, one of respect, not just employer to employed, but of two boys striving to survive, side-by-side.
"We need more scales. You understand?"
"You did good work, Klaus," Johann replied, his tone firm but appreciative.
It was more than just a transaction; it was an acknowledgment of value, a silent promise of ongoing trust.
"You earned it. Keep up the good work. You understand?"
Klaus nodded, sharply, his earlier weariness replaced by a newfound energy.
A genuine, unpracticed smile touched his lips, transforming his usually solemn face for a fleeting moment.
He looked at Johann, a silent understanding passing between them, a shared purpose taking root.
"I understand," he said, his voice stronger this time. "I'll get more."
As Klaus turned and hurried off, sack held tight, his stride now purposeful, Johann felt a quiet satisfaction.
This wasn't just a business arrangement anymore.
It was the genesis of a rare, unexpected bond, a partnership forged in the harsh crucible of Berlin's streets, built on trust and mutual need.
.
With a new determination, Johann set out.
His adult mind, now fully adapted to the limitations and strengths of his child's body, approached the task systematically.
He wasn't looking for just any hiding spot; he needed a place that offered seclusion for his noisy grinding, security for his valuables, and discreet access.
He thought of the forgotten corners of Berlin, the places the city's bustling life often overlooked.
He began his search near the older sections of the city, away from the main market squares and the more patrolled thoroughfares.
He drifted through narrow, winding alleys, where sunlight struggled to reach the grimy cobblestones.
The atmosphere carried the dense aroma of garbage, wetness from the earth, and the faint whisper of woodsmoke, occasionally punctuated by the sharper stab of stale beer from a darkened tavern doorway or the faint sweetness of baking bread from a hidden bakery.
His bare feet were silent, his eyes constantly scanning, noting crumbling brickwork, disused doorways, and the skeletal remains of buildings that had long since given up their battle against time and the elements.
He ventured towards the canal network, where abandoned warehouses and disused boathouses often offered shadowed nooks.
The lazy current of the Spree carried the constant murmur of distant barges and the occasional, mournful cry of a seagull.
He squeezed through tight passages between leaning structures, his small stature a distinct advantage.
He peered into murky basements and tested rickety doors, seeking somewhere truly private.
Rats scurried across his path, and the cold, damp air seeped into his new clothes, but Johann pushed on.
His persistence eventually led him to a forgotten alley, barely more than a crack between two imposing, old guildhalls that seemed to be slowly collapsing into each other.
At the very end, almost swallowed by overgrown weeds and a cascade of broken tiles, was what looked like a solid, unyielding wall.
But Johann, recalling the architecture of similar old structures, noted a subtle irregularity, a faint line in the brickwork, almost invisible beneath layers of grime and clinging moss.
He pressed, pushed, and scraped, his fingers finding purchase on a loose stone.
With a quiet grunt of effort, he dislodged it, revealing a small, dark gap.
It was an old, bricked-up cellar entrance, sealed perhaps decades ago.
The opening was just wide enough for him to wriggle through, pulling out a few more loose bricks to widen it slightly.
He slipped inside, the darkness absolute, the air thick and cold.
He waited, letting his eyes adjust, listening to the echoing drip of water somewhere in the oppressive silence.
As his vision sharpened, adapting to the near-total absence of light, he could discern the rough outlines of the space: a small, dry cellar, clearly once part of a larger building but now completely isolated.
It was raw earth underfoot, with rough-hewn stone walls.
A broken wooden workbench lay against one wall, covered in generations of dust, and empty shelves lined another, making it promising storage.
Nothing of note filled the space, yet it was precisely what he needed.
This wasn't a grand office, but it was a beginning.
The air, though stale, wasn't fetid, suggesting no recent animal occupation beyond the occasional rat.
He spent the next hour working with a methodical fervor.
He swept a small area of the floor clean with his hands, creating a working space.
He then found planks to cover the opening he'd created, improvising a makeshift door.
The silence of the cellar enveloped him, broken only by his own quiet breathing.
Here, in the forgotten belly of Berlin, Johann knew he had found his true beginning, a safe, private place to grow his enterprise.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Johann's face.
.
With his new sanctuary secured, Johann took a moment to simply breathe in the cool, earthy air of the cellar.
It was dim, quiet, and perfectly his.
He ran a hand over the rough stone walls, feeling the solid, unyielding promise of the space.
Here, he could truly begin.
He had a roof over his head, a loyal, if unwitting, associate in Klaus, and now, a secret heart for his growing enterprise.
The morning had brought challenges and triumphs.
He had outwitted a street gang, subtly improved his appearance, and cemented a vital partnership.
Now, in the quiet solitude of his hidden workshop, he could envision the future unfolding.
The drying fish scales were just the beginning.
Berlin was a city of opportunity for those cunning enough to seize it, and Johann, a man reborn in a child's skin, was ready to claim his share.
He felt a burgeoning sense of purpose.
.
This was his foothold, his silent declaration of war on obscurity.
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Author's Notes:
The Spree is the river flowing through Berlin, central to 1715 Prussia and our story's setting. In Johann's time, it was Berlin's vital artery for trade, transport, and food (like the fish at the market), reflecting the city's daily life and, unfortunately, its less pleasant odors before modern sanitation. Even today, it remains a defining feature of Berlin.