The Storyteller

by Antonia Michaelis

  “Just because he’s in the army doesn’t mean he’ll be running around shooting people,” Anna said.

  But Bertil ignored her. “Could you?” he asked Gitta, with a strange tone in his voice. “Could you ever aim a weapon at someone, Gitta?”

  “Of course she couldn’t,” Frauke replied. “And you couldn’t either.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure about that,” Bertil said, staring into the distance beyond the garden. “If it were someone I really loathed … someone who made me so angry I couldn’t breathe anymore … if I had good reason to hate that someone … it would probably give me some kind of kick to pull the trigger. To watch them fall.”

  “But that doesn’t have anything to do with the army,” Anna said, getting uncomfortable.

  Bertil looked at her. His glasses weren’t sliding down his nose anymore. “I know how to aim properly,” he said, “even if you don’t believe it. I’m not a bad shot.”

  “You’re crazy,” Gitta said, “where would you have learned to fire a gun?”

  “My father hunts,” Bertil replied. “He’s got a hunting lodge in the woods behind the village of Eldena, not far from your house, Gitta. Right after finals, I’m getting my hunting license. Hunting isn’t as bad as you think. The animals you shoot … they don’t feel anything, nothing at all. They don’t even know, don’t understand; they suddenly just don’t exist anymore, and never had to be afraid. It’s much better than the slaughterhouse, where an animal hears other animals screaming and dying before it’s killed.”

  “Bertil,” Gitta said. “Stop it. That’s horrible. I don’t even want to think about things like that. How come we’re even talking about slaughterhouses and death?”

  The air in the garden wasn’t as blue anymore; something reddish had seeped into it. Anna thought that Bertil was trying to look taller and had ended up looking smaller instead—without realizing it.

  “Death is definitely something you should think about from time to time,” he said. “Most people don’t, you know. And then they die, and it’s too late. Then there’s no time left to think … have you ever seen someone die?”

  “No,” Anna said. The other two shook their heads. “What about you?” asked Frauke.

  Bertil nodded. “Our dog. If you watch your dog die, it’s like watching a family member. Him and me, we kind of grew up together. In the beginning, he was friendly, but then he became aggressive. It wasn’t his fault—it was in his blood; the breed is just like that, no matter how you train them, but my father learned too late. The dog thought it was his job to protect us … he attacked a jogger when we were out on a walk. If my father hadn’t stopped him, he’d have killed the guy. Unforgivable. A child would have been killed instantly … my father shot the dog in our yard.”

  For a while no one spoke. They were so quiet, the robins came back.

  “I saw his eyes,” Bertil said. “When he died, they were golden. He knew that he was dying. In the end, he knew.”

  “Golden,” Anna murmured. “A dog with golden eyes.”

  “A Weimaraner,” Bertil said. “He had a silver coat and golden eyes. A beautiful dog. Some have blue eyes, though …”

  “Let’s go back inside,” Frauke said. “It’s frickin’ cold out here.”

  “And next cigarette break, we’re not discussing death …,” Gitta added on the stairs, with forced cheerfulness. “Instead, let’s talk about the very beginning of life.”

  “Why, Gitta,” said Frauke, “are you going to become a midwife after all?”

  “I’m not talking about midwifery,” Gitta replied. “I’m talking about sex.”

  Later, in the growing darkness, they stood in front of the house, talking about meaningless things. Bertil was the first to leave. He had borrowed his parents’ car. He had turned eighteen quite a while ago and, unlike Gitta, had convinced his parents to pay for his driver’s license.

  “Gitta’s right, what a freak,” Frauke repeated. “What was it he said about shooting people? Is Bertil Hagemann not who we think he is?” She lowered her voice. “Like, is he secretly a serial killer?”

  “Bertil Hagemann just doesn’t like being Bertil Hagemann,” Gitta said matter-of-factly. “He was just acting. And he’s looking for a girlfriend. Desperately.” She looked at Anna. “Face it, little lamb. You won’t be getting rid of him anytime soon. But Anna’s got a university guy, you know.”

  “I don’t have a university guy,” Anna said and congratulated herself for her angry tone—it sounded very convincing. “I only had a cup of coffee with him. In the student dining hall.”

  That wasn’t really a lie after all.

  “How sweet,” Frauke said. “He invited you for a coffee?” She sighed. “We shouldn’t be thinking about math and physics and death. We should think about love instead. I’ve been wondering who to fall in love with for sometime now … there’s Hennes von Biederitz, but somehow that seems unimaginative. I mean, everybody’s in love with Hennes von Biederitz.”

  Gitta cleared her throat.

  “Just recently, I considered falling in love with someone, experimentally,” Frauke went on dreamily. “Somebody absolutely absurd. André.”

  “Who is André?” Gitta and Anna asked at the same time.

  “The Pole,” Frauke answered. “Our peddler with the pretty little pills. Isn’t his first name André?”

  Anna bit her tongue.

  “I’m a little afraid of him.” Frauke gave a little shudder, like a child on an amusement park ride. “But maybe he’s one of those guys with, you know, a rough exterior that conceals a heart of gold … if he wasn’t running around in those cheap clothes from the Polish market … actually, he’s quite a hot guy.” Anna felt nauseated. She was thankful when Gitta put on her helmet and got on her scooter. But Gitta didn’t leave.

  “Don’t do that, Frauke,” she said. “Don’t fall in love with that one. I already dissuaded someone else. I know a few things about our Polish friend that you don’t.”

  “Things? What kind of things?” Frauke asked, wide-eyed.

  Gitta shrugged. “Not G-rated,” she said, winking, and Anna knew that she was making something up, like she’d done when they were children.

  “A man with a secret,” Frauke whispered. “And such beautiful blue eyes. Dahling.”

  “Gee, don’t forget to invite me to your thirteenth birthday party,” Anna said, teasing.

  And that was the moment the call came.

  Before heading inside with her cell phone, Anna saw Gitta ride away on her scooter and Frauke get onto her bike. At first, she didn’t understand who was talking to her. The connection was bad. It was a woman—or maybe a child. The woman or child was afraid of something.

  “Anna?” she asked. “Anna, is that you?” A child. It was Micha. Anna didn’t know where Micha’d gotten her number, but that wasn’t important. She sat down on one of the old carved wooden chairs in the hall and put her finger in her other ear to hear better. “Micha?” she said. “Micha, is that you?”

  “Yes,” Micha answered. “I …” She seemed not to be holding the telephone properly; there was a lot of noise in the background. Something seemed to fall and possibly break. The island, Anna thought. The island is sinking; the rocks are bursting.

  “Micha, I don’t understand you!” she shouted. “Say it again! Louder!”

  “… not, what should I do?” Micha’s voice said, and now it was clearer. “I locked the bathroom door with the key. They’re fighting, Anna. I can hear them. Mrs. Margaret is in the living room, but I guess she can’t do anything either …”

  “Who is fighting?” Anna asked. “Micha … Slowly … Where are you?”

  “In the bathroom,” Micha repeated. “I have to help him, but I’m afraid. I can’t. Anna, I don’t dare open the door … There’s a note stuck to the mirror … It says ‘Anna’ and ‘Emergency’ with your number on it, so …”

  “What?” Anna asked and thought, this isn’t the moment to feel happy, but she couldn’t he
lp it. Micha was crying now; she could hear her. She also heard more things breaking or being thrown or falling into the winter sea. She tried one last time. “Micha, who is there in the apartment with you? Has your mother come back?”

  “No,” Micha sobbed. “She hasn’t, and she never will. She’s gone for good. He said that. He said that I have to live with him now; he doesn’t have a red gown, but still … Anna …”

  “I’m on my way,” Anna said.

  For a moment, she considered calling the police. But the note on the bathroom mirror didn’t say Emergency and the number of the police, it said Emergency and Anna—and surely not because Abel thought Anna would put the police on his trail. The police would ask questions: questions about Michelle Tannatek, questions about who was looking after Micha, questions about custody. And even if Rainer Lierski didn’t get custody of Micha, even if they locked him up, which didn’t seem likely … even then, Anna thought while struggling to get her coat on, even then they’d take Micha from Abel. And there wouldn’t be fairy tales anymore or hot chocolate at the pier or meals in the student dining hall … gotten with a fake ID.

  And no pink down jacket flying across the schoolyard on Friday afternoons, eager to be caught in someone’s arms and whirled about.

  By the time she had arrived at this thought, she was riding down Wolgaster Street, which seemed endless today, like a steadily growing plant. No matter how fast Anna rode, the street, with its bike lane and its cars and its traffic signs, just got longer and longer. The wind was blowing single icy snowflakes into her face. She had forgotten to put on gloves, and the cold bit into her fingers, the pain causing tears to well up in her eyes until finally she didn’t feel it anymore—neither the pain nor her frozen fingers.

  The whole way she tried to convince herself that nothing had happened, that everything was fine, that Micha had been exaggerating, that the whole thing was a misunderstanding, that you couldn’t believe everything a six-year-old child said— Amundsen Street was deserted in the halfhearted snow flurry. The door of block number eighteen was wide open. Anna didn’t lock her bicycle—why bother, if anybody could pick the lock. The staircase smelled of a mixture of beer, times past, and vomit. On the ground floor, an overweight woman with greasy hair stood inside her door with a small child in her arms, shaking her head. Her eyes were tired and without a spark of life; they reminded Anna of a fish’s. She scrutinized Anna, obviously curious who she was. But Anna didn’t have time for explanations. In the apartment behind the woman, two children screamed at each other. Mrs. Ketow, Anna thought, she’s got three small children, but they are not her children … Anna was running up the stairs now. Her heart pounded. What are you planning to do? You don’t have anything to defend yourself with, yourself or anybody else … on the fourth floor she stopped, listening. From an apartment down the hall, she heard the voice of a radio; from another one, shots sounded. She started, but the shots were accompanied by loud, dramatic music, and Anna nearly laughed: TV. Maybe a western. She went on, slowly now. Behind the door with a white nameplate that said “Tannatek,” it was very quiet. Micha had called from home, hadn’t she? Or … had she called from Rainer Lierski’s house? From somewhere else?

  Anna took a deep breath. Then she pressed the bell.

  And then Abel opened the door.

  His fist was raised, and she ducked instinctively.

  “Anna,” he said, as if she was the last person he had expected to see. “I …”

  “Yeah, me too,” Anna said, incoherently and very relieved. “Has he gone?”

  Abel nodded. “Can I come in?” He nodded again. Anna shut the door behind her. She turned on the light in the hall and saw that Micha was hugging Abel’s leg like a small creeper.

  “You can let go of me now,” Abel said. “Micha, hey! It’s all right! It’s just Anna; he hasn’t come back! I can’t walk with you hanging onto me like that! Let go, will you?”

  “If I absolutely have to,” Micha said, and Abel laughed.

  Anna looked at him. She almost wished that she hadn’t turned on the light. “Shit,” she said. “Abel.”

  The hall looked as if a search or a bombing or possibly both had taken place there. Jackets had been pulled down from their hooks, and, on one side, the coatrack had been ripped out of the wall entirely. The floor was covered with toys, shattered plates, pieces of a broken glass bottle. Abel stepped over all of this and led Anna to the kitchen. “I’m making hot chocolate,” he said. “Do you want to have a cup, too?”

  “Hot chocolate?” Anna repeated, her voice strangely dull.

  The kitchen looked like the hall. One door of the wall cupboard above the sink had been pulled from its hinges; a pot of basil was lying on the floor in front of the window, the plant crushed, the soil scattered; and, in one corner, there were the pieces of what had once been the contents of a whole cupboard. The word rage had new meaning here, Anna thought. And in the middle of the chaos, Abel stood at the stove stirring milk in a pot, completely calm. No, calm was the wrong word. His hand was shaking.

  Abel didn’t look much better than the apartment. His left eye was starting to swell, and his right temple was covered with blood, as if he had fallen from his bike—or maybe from an accelerating car—onto a gravel path. “What …?” Anna began, finally.

  Abel nodded toward the heap of broken plates and cups in the corner. “I took a fall.”

  “I hope you didn’t fall alone?”

  “Oh no,” Abel said, not without pride, adding chocolate powder to the milk. “Believe me, there’s someone else who looks just as bad as I do.”

  She realized that he was stirring with his left hand. When he had opened the door, he had raised his left fist. He held the right one awkwardly.

  “Micha,” he said, “you two could clean up the living room a bit, what do you think?”

  Micha grabbed Anna’s sleeve and pulled her into the living room, where the two ragged old armchairs and the couch had been turned over and books had been thrown onto the floor. They righted the armchairs and put the books back on the shelves in silence. Anna found several packages of pills scattered in the floor. Not Children’s Tylenol. In any case, the pills weren’t what the person who’d been raging here had wanted. Anna and Micha put the jackets back on the hooks as best they could, and Micha whispered, “He just came in. The hunter with the red coat. I was nice to him because I thought that maybe then he’d go away. And somehow, I felt sorry for him, too … he seemed so lonely. Abel had gone down to get some things at the store … we just talked, on the couch, and he said again that I could come live with him, but then Abel came home and told him that he should leave … and he didn’t want to leave, and they started shouting at each other, and then they were fighting … and the red hunter started breaking things; he just opened the cupboards and pulled stuff out … and he said that everything in this apartment is old and broken anyway, that we don’t own anything but garbage … it’s my fault, isn’t it? It’s all my fault. Abel is angry with me. I should never have opened the door and let the red hunter in …”

  Anna held Micha in her arms, in the middle of the chaos in the ravaged living room. “Don’t cry,” she said. “Oh, hell, just go ahead and cry. It’s not your fault, Micha. And Abel isn’t angry with you. I’m sure of it. He’s angry with your father. Abel just wants to protect you.”

  “He doesn’t have to,” Micha said, sniffling.

  “Yes he does,” Anna said.

  “And from what, anyway?” Micha asked, wiping her nose on Anna’s sleeve.

  “You know what,” Anna replied. “The red hunter wants your diamond heart.”

  Five minutes later, the three of them were sitting at the living room table. The table was missing a leg now. They were drinking their chocolate from water glasses because there weren’t any unbroken mugs left.

  “Abel,” Anna began, “we’ve got to do something about that wound of yours. Your face. I can see at least three glass splinters in there. We’ve got to …”


  “Later,” said Abel.

  “But getting that treated is more important than hot chocolate.”

  “No,” he said, and Anna nodded; his eyes allowed for no disagreement. “Now it’s important that everything goes back to normal and everybody calms down,” he said. “And that is why I’m going to tell you a three-minute piece of the fairy tale.”

  Micha lay down on the sofa, exhausted from fear and crying and relief, her head on Abel’s knee; and Anna remembered how she herself used to lie like that when she was a small girl, her head on her mother’s knee, her mother reading a book to her.

  “You remember that white cat we saw yesterday?” Abel asked. “When we were walking at the harbor in Wieck? The white cat you wanted to take home with you?”

  “I remember,” Micha whispered and yawned, “she was all dirty and disheveled, but she didn’t want to be petted by me … I remember.”

  “That’s good. The green ship sailed through the waves for a long time, and day by day, the little queen and the rose girl became colder. The wind was bringing snow now, real snow.

  “‘Your roses are already starting to wilt,’ the sea lion said to the rose girl. ‘Not only where I tore them but everywhere else on your body, too. They will wither. And you will freeze in the cold wind.’

  “But the rose girl wasn’t the only one to feel the cold. Mrs. Margaret and the little queen were shivering, too, now that they were standing on deck.

  “‘Maybe it’s the black ship,’ the little queen said. ‘It brings the cold with it! It comes closer and closer without ever reaching us. Isn’t that weird? I almost wish it were here and something would happen at last!’

  “‘Something is happening,’ the sea lion said, lifting his head out of the waves as far as he could. ‘Look there! There’s the next island.’

  “‘It’s all covered in snow,’ the rose girl said. But she was mistaken.

  “A little later, they anchored the ship, and there on the shore of the island stood an information board.