The Golden Cellar
Berlin in the early 2000s was a city of rusted iron and new glass, where the old factories had been gutted and repurposed into offices for people who managed other people’s time, and the streets smelled of exhaust and damp concrete. I was Karin Hoffmann, a junior archivist whose contract was expiring in December, and I sat in a rented room that used to be a bank vault, listening to the hum of...
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