It’s Winter 2013, it’s Berlin, it’s cold, and it’s dark.
Sprawling, strange Berlin. Perhaps I should revise my location. Our protagonist who we’ll call C is based in Lichterfelde, a leafy and tame suburb of the growling, exciting behemoth that is the city proper.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I will allow her to tell the story herself, in her own words. I am merely here to explain the circumstances around this remarkable text.
There’s snow on the ground, but mainly it’s dark. I am but a visitor to this strange city. I sublet an apartment in Lichterfelde in order to get some quiet. My home is New York City. I live on the Upper West Side and I work in finance. After a personal misfortune in love leading to a change in my overall performance and mien in the office, I took the (not unkind, but not kind) suggestion of my employer to take a year off. They did not need to know the details of my heartbreak to see my sudden decline. They suggested crisp, country air. My cosmopolitan needs are such that I couldn’t imagine being away from the Urban for very long. A long train of recommendations later, and I found myself in the fresh white snow of Lichterfelde, letting myself into a colleague’s summer apartment. I came here with the intention of resting and letting the cold and quiet numb my wounds. Instead I became engrossed in a story, the story of C.
These writings that I present here are the notorious and scandalous Story of C, published for the first time. Whether they are fact or fiction is unknown to me. Whether they were written by man or woman or neither is unknown to me. I only know what I have read is remarkable, too remarkable to go unshared.
I found this text in a computer that was left in the study of my temporary apartment. Any other information as to the identity of the writer is unknown. The computer was devoid of all other files, leaving only this.
We will never know who C was, and why she wrote or did what she did. But we can enjoy this strange adventure and follow her as far as she will take us.