The Work

Savage and brilliant with a wavering moral compass that ultimately leads to the human heart.

Berliners—prequel to The Greater Good—is a darkly lyrical novel that reaffirms the resilience of the human spirit. Set in Germany in 1933, it follows a troupe of cabaret performers as they navigate a nation descending into totalitarianism. Told in a haunting third-person plural voice—at once intimate and communal—the story explores how the light of courage and altruism endures, even in the eclipse of degradation.

Appended to this edition is The Notebooks of Montag Deitering, a recovered diary written by one of the troupe’s surviving members. 

Composed in the months following the events of Berliners, the notebooks trace Montag’s slow descent from innocence to self-delusion as he attempts to make sense of love, guilt, and survival in a collapsing world. Where Berliners speaks in the collective voice of moral witness, The Notebooks turns inward, revealing the fractured consciousness of a single soul who can no longer tell the difference between confession and performance. Together, they form a diptych of moral ruin and human tenderness—two testaments from the same darkening age.

Praise for Berliners

Ludmin Krause’s Berliners and its companion, The Notebooks of Montag Deitering, together form one of the most unsettling and humane moral portraits of the early twentieth century. Set amid the dissolution of Weimar Germany, these works trace the transformation of art, conscience, and desire under the pressure of totalitarianism.

Berliners—told in a haunting third-person plural reminiscent of the collective choruses of Faulkner and Woolf—chronicles a troupe of cabaret performers who struggle to preserve dignity and kindness as their country slides toward barbarism. Its tone is both lyrical and ironic: the decadence of Isherwood tempered by the spiritual gravity of Mann.

In contrast, The Notebooks of Montag Deitering turns that chorus inward. 

Written as the confessions of one surviving performer, the diary abandons the stage for the mind’s claustrophobic theatre. What begins as self-mocking reportage descends into moral exhaustion and hallucinatory beauty. Krause evokes the psychological density of Dostoevsky, the irony of Camus, and the sensual precision of Nabokov.

Across both works, Krause reveals how the will to aestheticize life can itself become a form of complicity—and how, even in collapse, the human spirit flickers with absurd grace. These novels stand as a single act of remembrance: not of heroism, but of frailty illuminated by art. Together they are among the most original literary meditations on conscience and survival to appear in recent years.