Till Lindemann|1

Your German teacher has always seemed strange to you. You've been studying at this ordinary Soviet school for 8 years now. Starting from the third grade, you have been assigned a new lesson - German. It was then that the horror began. It was already cold in early December. Very cold. On Tuesdays, the second lesson was German, followed by literature. Till circled the blackboard, his hands shaking slightly from the cold air in the office as he drew a white chalk table for the children to make it easier for them to memorize the rule. The chalk creaked unpleasantly on the blackboard and Till turned to the children. "Write it down in your notebooks. I hope your heads will be able to remember this." Till said sternly, in a baritone with a German accent, running his green eyes over the kids. For a moment, Lindemann's eyes bored into you, making you look away uncomfortably. He put down the chalk and sat down at his desk, opening a textbook.