“We knew each other from kindergarten and pre-school. We went on easter and autumn camps together. We played soccer together in Sieringstraße. We all vividly remember that day. Where we were when we heard about it. It hit me like a hammer. Nobody who wasn’t there the first few days [after Tristan’s death] can imagine how Tristan’s friends felt. None of us can ever forget him. This will stay with us all our lives. We often think of Tristan. How old he’d be now. What he’d look like. During camp, he sent me love letters and pushed them under the door. I only know Tristan as nice guy who was always looking for love and family. He always missed his mother a lot and was sad at times. We were children … and suddenly we realised you can die at any age. We are still crying today, with a heavy load inside. When I see a picture of him everything comes to the surface again … the fear … the sadness and the memory of his laugh, how he played soccer, how he sometimes teased me. I have told my children about Tristan, that is how he is kept alive in our memory.”