Somewhere in Poland, on a side arm of the Oder. The sky has long since shimmered pink, the coolness of the evening is setting in, but the men on the bank are still wearing sunglasses. They puff on their cigarettes, down beers, stare at the water. “We protect the fish here from poachers,” says one, wearing black clothes, a black baseball cap with an embroidered fishing logo, accent-free German, and fluent Polish. He seems to be the boss here.
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