erhaps those are absolutely everyday stories as could be told at any time of any class at any drama school. However， two stories of our class stand out， one sad and one wonderful.
The sad story. Eberhard Schmidt had too little time to realize his dreams. He wanted to become a great director and he had already got quite a way as assistant to some eminent directors. He died of AIDS eight years ago. I only met him once again， at Frankfurt a year before his death.
We were linked because our names followed one another in the alphabet. He was Schmidt and I am Schneider. We were called forward in couples for the six tests we had to undergo before both were accepted in the drama school. To begin with of course we were enemies， competitors for one of at most twelve training places per class. The further we got， Schmidt and Schneider， the more we hoped that the other would not be left behind. When we both got through， we embraced. For the first time. And for the second time in Frankfurt when saying good-bye forever.
The wonderful story. Sven Bechtolf is for the moment the only one of us about whom it can already be said that he has achieved even more than we all dared dream at the time. In 1996， he was chosen best director of the year. That was really something.
However， my first meeting with Sven was not very agreeable. Together with eleven others I had just got through the enhance examination. I was sitting with Franziska on a bench in front of the rehearsal stage. Sven， a year ahead of us， stood on some steps， wearing mauve dungarees， and looking us over： motionless and a little arrogant but damned goo-looking with a well-structured face， brown eyes， and blonde hair.
Then he came down the steps， right towards me， and then at the last moment swerved aside so as to ask Franziska instead of me： "What' s your name？"
Nevertheless we became friends. Three years later on the riverbank at night， when we were practising the tap-steps for our final examination in dance， he promised to give me a part in the first film he made.