The lights went out at 5:47 a.m. Katharina stood in the kitchen of her apartment in Steglitz. The water for her coffee had just started to boil. Then there was silence.

No hum from the refrigerator. No whir from the heating. Nothing.

"Power outage," she said aloud.

It was still dark outside. January in Berlin. The city was covered in snow. Minus eight degrees Celsius.

Katharina pulled her coat over her pajamas and went to the window. The streetlights were out. The traffic lights were out. It was dark in the buildings across the street. Only a few candles flickered.

She called Jan. Her cell phone still had battery.

"You don't have power either?" she asked.

"Yes. Everything's dark in Lankwitz. The news sites say it was an attack. On a cable bridge in Lichterfelde."

"An attack."

"Arson. They don't know yet when the power will come back on."

Katharina hung up. An attack. The word hung in the air. Heavy and cold.

She thought of something she had read. Hemingway had written that fear was natural. It was only a matter of what you did with it. Whether you controlled it or were controlled by it.

Katharina controlled her fear. She got dressed. Thermal underwear, a sweater, a down jacket. She would have to go to work. Somehow.

There was an eerie silence on the street. No cars, no trams. People were walking. Some purposefully, some aimlessly. A light was on in a bakery—they had a generator.

"Cash only," said the saleswoman.

Katharina had cash. She bought three rolls and coffee in a paper cup. The coffee was hot. That was good.

People sat in the café, staring at their cell phones. The batteries were slowly dying. The fear of being cut off grew.

"Forty thousand households," someone said. "Two thousand businesses. The longest power outage since 1945."

"Who would do something like that?" a woman asked.

No one answered.

Katharina thought of Thomas Mann. Of the stories about order crumbling. About civilization as thin as ice over dark water. You only realize how thin it is when you break through.

She kept walking. The subway wasn't running. The commuter train wasn't running. She would have to walk. From Steglitz to Mitte. Ten kilometers, maybe more.

Others had the same idea. A silent procession of people in winter clothes, wandering through the city. Like refugees, Katharina thought. But we aren't fleeing. We're just trying to get through the day.

A middle-aged man walked beside her.

"Do you work in Mitte?" he asked.

"Yes. Actually, Kreuzberg. But close enough."

"Me too. Prenzlauer Berg. My wife and children are at home. No heating. I told them to bundle up and stay together in one room."

"How old are the children?"

"Five and seven."

Katharina nodded. They continued walking in silence.

A group of people stood in front of the Schöneberg Town Hall. Someone had a battery-powered radio. The speaker's voice was tinny but clear.

"The police confirm: This is a targeted attack. The perpetrators have not yet been identified. The Governing Mayor is calling for calm. Power will be restored gradually."

"When?" someone called out.

The radio remained silent.

Katharina continued walking. She thought of Kästner. Of the books he had written about people in crisis. About the small moral lessons amidst the chaos. About persevering when everything collapses.

There was a dignity in persevering, she thought. A dignity that no one could see, but that was there nonetheless.

In Schöneberg, people were standing in front of a supermarket. The doors were locked.

"Without electricity, they can't open," someone explained. "The cash registers aren't working. The refrigeration isn't working."

"And what if the food spoils?"

"Then it spoils."

An old woman wept softly. "I have nothing at home. I always buy fresh food."

A young man offered her a granola bar. She accepted it gratefully.

Small gestures, Katharina thought. In times of crisis, the small gestures count.

She reached Kreuzberg around noon. Her feet ached. The office was cold and dark. Most of her colleagues hadn't come in.

"We can't work," the boss said. "No computers, no heating. Go home."

"How?" someone asked. "On foot?"

The boss shrugged.

Katharina sat down in the cafeteria. Gray winter light streamed through the large windows. She ate the rolls she had bought. They had gone cold and hard, but she ate them anyway.

Jan called. The battery was at 20 percent.

"How are you?"

"I'm sitting in the office. We're being sent home."

"It's freezing here. The temperature in the apartment has dropped to 14 degrees."

"Go to your parents' house. They live in Charlottenburg. They have electricity there."

"That's what I plan to do. I just wanted to hear your voice."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

The call ended. Katharina looked at her phone. Fifteen percent battery. She switched it off.

On the way back, the city looked different. More vulnerable. A homeless man sat in a doorway. He had a blanket around his shoulders and held his hands to a burning candle.

"Do you have anything to eat?" he asked.

Katharina had nothing. She gave him five euros.

"Thank you," the man said. "Stay warm."

"You too."

It was an absurd conversation. But it was a human conversation.

Hemingway would have understood, Katharina thought. The importance of simple words. Of clear gestures. Of the human in the inhuman.

At Potsdamer Platz, people stood and looked at the dark high-rises. The glass towers, which usually glowed, were gray and lifeless.

"This is Germany in 2026," someone said bitterly.

"This is terror," said another.

“That’s vulnerability,” a woman said. “We’ve forgotten how vulnerable we are.”

Katharina thought she was right. It’s easy to forget. Electricity was taken for granted. Warmth was taken for granted. Security was taken for granted.

Until it wasn’t.

Thomas Mann had once written about the fragility of culture. About how quickly civilized society could turn wild. How thin the veneer was between order and chaos.

But he had also written about the opposite. About the strength of humanity. About the ability to find light in the darkness.

Katharina continued walking.

It was still dark in Steglitz. Her apartment was cold. Thirteen degrees Celsius. She could see her breath.

She put on all the warm clothes she had. Then she sat down on the sofa and wrapped herself in blankets. She lit candles. The light flickered.

Her cell phone showed ten percent battery. She turned it back on. A message from Jan: "I'm at my parents' house. It's warm here. Come over if you want."

She thought about it. Then she texted back: "Stay here. Take care."

She didn't want to run away. She wanted to endure it.

That might have been foolish. But it felt right.

Night came early. By five o'clock it was pitch black. Katharina sat by candlelight and thought.

What did the perpetrators want to achieve? Chaos? Fear? Attention?

Perhaps all of the above.

But they also achieved something else. They showed people what really mattered. Not the high-rises. Not the technology. But the little things. The warmth. The light. The human voice.

Kästner would have understood. He always wrote about the little things. About the morals of everyday life. About the good in the small things.

At eight o'clock, someone knocked on the door. It was the neighbor, Mrs. Weber. An elderly woman who lived alone.

"I'm afraid," she said.

"Come in."

They sat together by candlelight. Katharina made tea on a camping stove. The tea was hot and sweet.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Weber.

"You're welcome."

They didn't talk much. But they weren't alone. That was important.

At midnight, the light came on.

Suddenly, unexpectedly. The hum of the refrigerator. The whir of the heater. The light.

Katharina and Mrs. Weber looked at each other. Then they laughed.

"It's over," said Mrs. Weber.

"Yes."

But it wasn't really over, Katharina thought. The fear remained. The realization remained. The vulnerability remained.

But something else remained, too. The memory of the small act of kindness. Of the shared tea. Of being together in the darkness.

That wasn't nothing.

Hemingway had written that a person could be destroyed, but not defeated. Berlin had not been defeated. It had been shaken. But not defeated.

Katharina took Mrs. Weber home. Then she went to sleep.

The heating was on again.

The lights were on.

The city was alive.

Outside, it began to snow. Softly, steadily, evenly.

Berlin slept.

Wounded, but not defeated.

That was enough.

S.

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