We are best friends. And co-authors. When writing his biography, Atze and I had to grapple with one question: How honest is memory?
Hamburg, some day in December: I’m standing at the window of the Hotel Madison and looking at the dark Elbe at Baumwall. Gray sky, gray clouds. Bad weather in Hamburg, it’s been raining non-stop for hours. My friend Atze Schröder, the comedy legend with the Minipli and the blue aviator glasses, is sitting on the sofa in the penthouse suite. With the laptop on his knees, he talks and at the same time picks at the keyboard like a stork in a salad. He is annoyed. I am too.