Das rote Plakat

A scarlet broadside, flapping on a rain-lashed kiosk in 1919 Berlin, becomes both herald and gravestone: the announcement of a police-sanctioned manhunt for the anarchist printer Andreas Grünewald, whose presses have bled seditious ink across a starving city. Overnight, the placard mutates into a political Rorschach—sparking salons of bourgeois thrill-seekers who wager on capture, inflaming Spartacist cells who venerate the fugitive as a living leaflet, and seducing the circus aerialist Rosa, herself a high-wire defector from the aristocracy that sired her. While Grünewald tunnels beneath tenements like a mole mapping class fault-lines, detectives Wettmann and Lanser-Ludolff—one a cynic pickled in protocol, the other a war-maimed idealist—stalk him through expressionist alleyways where every shadow is a polygraph. Their dragnet tightens via informants, brothel receipts, and a cinematograph reel that accidentally exposes the printer’s silhouette. Yet each clue detonates unintended consequences: a raid on a basement print-shop leaves only a deaf boy clutching etched plates of a new constitution; a staged public burning of contraband pamphlets whips a funeral march into a revolutionary carnival. Rosa, torn between her trapeze partner’s jealous sabotage and her own awakening militancy, smuggles Grünewald into the Tiergarten balloon station, where a zeppelin—emblazoned with the same vermilion typeface as the poster—waits to spirit him beyond the republic’s borders. At lift-off, she stays behind, dancing on the gondola’s tether rope until a police bullet severs it, sending her plummeting into the floodlit crowd like Icarus in sequins. The final shot freezes on the red placard, now pasted atop a mountain of confiscated posters, its ink bleeding into the soil as saplings of lime trees push through—mute assurance that every propaganda sheet is merely compost for the next season’s uprising.