Papierkrieg

What is der Papierkrieg? Literally: "paper war." Paperwork. There is probably not a more fitting word in the language.

Germany, like any country, has a range of stereotypes. There are positive ones: the quality of their engineering (putting "Made in Germany" on a box adds value to any product, even if the component "made" there might be very small - such as only the screws having been put in while in the country). And efficiency. The trains do run mostly on time, and when they don't, there's even a chance you can get a partial refund. Rubbish bins in parks get emptied quite regularly. After Karneval, the streets were quite clean by noon the next day. There's a sense of clockwork energy going on in the background.

But there's another side to all of this.

What does Papierkrieg mean?

Der Papierkrieg means "paper war" - the German term for dealing with bureaucratic paperwork. If you live in Germany, you will fight this war. For the purpose of brevity, I'll focus on my most recent battle.

What is it like visiting a German Finanzamt?

After filling in numerous forms, putting pressure on others to fill in forms they have to fill in for you, you believe you're set up. You have various numbers and identity codes and strange bingo-like PIN options for your debit and credit cards. But then, despite having asked your employer if alles in Ordnung was, and them saying ja, alles gut, you find you're still missing a certain "number" due to the nature of your employment contract.

The quickest fix, you're told, is to go in person to your local Finanzamt (tax office).

I spend a couple of hours beforehand finding the right form online. There are even a few guides in English on how to fill it in. I take the completed form with me the next day.

It's freezing cold downtown. The Finanzamt is just around the corner from the Hauptbahnhof. Nice. I get there just after one o'clock in the afternoon - only to discover they're closed "to the public" on Wednesdays.

Strike one.

They're open for half a day on Thursday mornings. I have a Friendly Fluent German available on Thursday to back me up. I figure that since the average Aldi shelf-stacker is fluent in three or four languages, surely a government official who only seems to work every third hour will be too.

Still freezing on Thursday. But I get through the door. The first door. The foyer looks like the entry to a high-security prison in the 1950s. Stone walls. A few green vinyl chairs that look sun-bleached even though the sun could never force its way in here. A man behind bulletproof-looking glass says something in German over a loudspeaker. My Friendly Fluent German doesn't understand him over the static. After a few goes, she manages to communicate what we're there for. He tells us a floor number and room number, then presses a button. A large buzzing noise. The sound of some huge steel lock releasing like a piston.

I almost say: "Taking it off here, boss!"

We need to go up a couple of floors. There's a 1950s DDR-looking tarnished steel elevator. But right next to it is something I've only seen in movies: a working Paternoster! A constantly moving open-doored elevator you step into and out of as quickly as possible. Der Paternoster also means the Lord's Prayer - probably what many people inwardly say while stepping in and out. My Friendly Fluent German is not suicidal, so we take the more contemporary option.

We find the right room in a dark corridor that's turned from vinyl green to vinyl German-mustard yellow. A very modern-looking lady with a very modern series of computer screens on a huge wooden table. She seems friendly enough, but objects to me approaching too close to the screens. Unlike the Aldi shelf-stackers, she can't speak English. My Friendly Fluent German takes charge.

The form is filled in correctly. It'll take three weeks for the number to be sent by mail. Then I can get paid. I'm given a bible-thickness slab of reading material and we make our way back through the Kafkaesque corridors.

We try to use a toilet, but they're locked down. Checkpoint Charlie behind the bulletproof glass gets very enthusiastic about the idea - like it's some interesting challenge he can tell his buddies about at the pub. A further series of door locks are released dramatically so we can get some release.

Back on the street, it's still freezing. But a battle in dem Papierkrieg has been won.

If not yet the war.