Inseparable

by Heldt,Dora

  In spite of that, she was still my best friend. We still walked to school together every day, sometimes hand in hand. But after a while Linda started shoving her hands in her jacket pockets, saying that we weren’t babies who couldn’t walk by ourselves anymore. I was a little sad, but admitted she was right.

  We didn’t play with our dolls anymore either. Klaus was too good for Barbie. So instead, we jumped rope and played cootie catcher. But sometimes Linda still seemed very different.

  She suddenly seemed to think her big sister was great. She was helping Linda with her homework every day; her parents were too busy in the shop.

  Six months later my father was transferred and we had to move from Flensburg to Hamburg. I was very sad and didn’t know how to tell Linda. In the end, my mother came with me to her house. Our mothers sat in the kitchen and drank coffee with cream, while Linda and I sat on the steps in front of the shop door. Devastated, I tried to find the words to tell her, and then started to cry. Linda looked at me, curious. After a while I managed to get out the words moving, Hamburg, and another school. My heart broke, and Linda picked at the scab on her knee. After a while our mothers came back outside. My mother gave me a tissue and stroked my back. While she said good-bye to Mrs. Love, Linda ran into the shop.

  I slowly started to make my way home with my mother, and then suddenly Linda was stood in front of me again. She was holding a hotdog in her hand. “Here,” she said, holding it out to me. “And when I’m in the second grade, I’ll write to you.” I ate the hotdog on the way home. It comforted me.

  My third wish came true, too, by the way. Two months later, my mother had a baby girl. Ines. My little sister.

  I never did get a letter from Linda Love. But every time I eat a hotdog, I still think of my red patent leather shoes. And of my first ever friend.

  “Linda Love!” George shook his head, laughing. “That really is a beautiful name.”

  He was sitting in Ines’s kitchen and eating cheesecake. His little sister found that baking marathons helped her relax after a stressful day at work. The previous day, she had helped twenty students through their care-of-the-elderly, exams, and the result was three cheesecakes. She had ended up calling her brother. Luckily, he liked cheesecake.

  While he was eating, Ines read the column from the May edition of Kult out to him. She had to clear her throat several times in the process; stories about childhood always choked her up a little.

  “It seems really sad to me that Christine never got a letter from Linda. Can you remember her?”

  Georg thought about it. “Only very vaguely, I was only four at the time. I think she was very small, had yellowy hair, and always smelled a little like sausages. Let me look at the magazine will you?”

  His hand reached out for it, but Ines pulled it away.

  “You’ve got really sticky fingers; I’ll end up with marks all over it.”

  She smoothed it flat, tore the page out carefully, then straightened off the rough edge with scissors and stood up. From the cabinet she took out a clear plastic cover, slipped the article into it, and smoothed it flat once again, then handed it to Georg.

  “Just make sure you don’t bend it.”

  Her brother looked at her, amazed. “But I used a cake fork to eat with. Do you always do that with columns?”

  Ines pulled the binder out of the cabinet and put it on the table. “Only Christine’s. I’ve saved them all.”

  “And always in plastic?”

  “Of course. Otherwise they’ll go yellow and look bad.”

  Georg shook her head. “You’re such a typical civil servant’s daughter.” He scanned through the text then handed the page back to her with mock, exaggerated caution. “Here, you’d better put it away quick in case it gets ruined.”

  Ignoring him, Ines filed the article away in the binder, then put it back in the cabinet. She sat down at the table and pushed the cake plate back toward her brother.

  “Another slice?”

  Georg laid a hand on his stomach. “I’ve had three already; I can’t manage any more. Doesn’t Christine have to help?”

  “I phoned her, but she’s busy. She has an appointment but didn’t want to tell me what for. She might come by later. Luise is coming in a minute though.”

  “Luise? Why? Has she decided to throw in the towel at the publishing house and take up caring for the elderly?”

  Ines laughed while she covered the cake with foil. “I highly doubt that. No, she called last week. She wants to talk to me about something. Christine’s colleagues are trying to arrange a surprise for her birthday, so I guess we’ll find out.” She looked at her watch. “She should be here by now actually.”

  And, with that, the doorbell rang. Ines opened it, and Luise, a bunch of tulips in one hand and an edition of Kult in the other, came into the hallway.

  “Hi, Ines, it smells great in here; is that cake? It’s great that you’re free today. These are for you.”

  She pressed the flowers into Ines’s hands and followed her into kitchen. Georg had stood up.

  “Luise, lovely to see you, it’s been a long time.”

  “That’s true; the last time must have been Christine’s birthday meal at the Italian place.” They hugged. “It’s good that you’re here, too, actually.”

  She sat down at the kitchen table and put the magazine down in the middle. “Have you already read your sister’s enchanting ‘Linda Love’ column?”

  Georg nodded. “Of course, and it’s already been preserved in plastic for an eternity.”

  Luise looked at him, confused. Ines explained.

  “I save the columns in plastic sleeves. Georg thinks that’s a little too much.”

  “Why?” Luise looked at Georg. “That’s a good thing; otherwise they’ll go yellow and look bad.”

  Georg rolled his eyes. Ines took the cover off the cheesecake and put a plate in front of Luise. As she ate, she told them both about the conversation at Prüsse, of Christine’s seeming restraint when it came to female friendships, and of Ruth’s idea of trying to find Christine’s old friends in time for her birthday.

  “Ruth was over the moon when Christine sent the column to her. She’s looking for Linda Love already.”

  Georg looked skeptical. “First you’d need to find out who you’re really looking for. Perhaps Linda Love is now called Linda Müller. And if she is, it’d be like finding a needle in a haystack. And who and where are the others?”

  Luise looked at him. “That’s exactly what we want to find out from you. Who was Christine friends with? Twenty years ago, ten years ago?”

  “Antje, but you can forget that,” said Ines and scrunched up her face.

  “I know.” Luise swept the name away with a wave of her hand. “I know the story, but that’s exactly what this is all about. You can’t distrust others just because one friend let you down. Antje was an exception; it’s not always like that.”

  “One was called Frauke. They were both in love with David Cassidy. They used to sit around on Christine’s bed and giggle like fools.” Georg was making an effort to remember. “Christine must have been about twelve, an awful age. I was nine and hugely embarrassed by her at the time. Then there was Gudrun, around the same time. Christine used to go riding with her. And, oh yes, Dani, she lived with her when she was in her mid-twenties.”

  “Christine played volleyball for years.” Ines was searching her memory, too. “For a while she coached a team together with a girlfriend. What was her name again…oh, that’s right, Lena. She did her training exam on my eighteenth birthday, which means she was twenty-five at the time. And Lena was one or two years older.”

  Luise took a notebook from her bag. “I knew you guys would remember.” She sounded excited.

  Ines rested her chin in her hand. “Hold on, Luise, I don’t know a single surname. Do you, Georg?”

  Her brother shook his head slowly. “Frauke…Schröder or Schneider? And they were all from all over the place. Flensburg, Hamburg,
Bonn, Cuxhaven. Dani lived in Vienna for a while, she came to Christine’s wedding. She had really long hair. And Gudrun had a horse. Well, of course she did; they’re kind of essential for riding. I can’t think of anything else. I’m sorry.”

  Luise sighed. “That can’t be it. Come on, Ines, Georg, think harder.”

  “Lena was really tall and scored the most baskets. She moved away from Cuxhaven at some point. Christine was already married to Bernd at the time. I don’t know where she moved to. I didn’t used to see Christine that much back then. Hmm…”

  The three of them looked at each other, at a loss for ideas.

  “I’ll call Mom. She’s got a memory like an elephant; perhaps she’ll be able to remember some surnames.”

  At that very moment, a few streets away, Christine sat in the editorial office of the women’s magazine Femme. The confident bleach blond receptionist had led her into a small waiting room, given her an espresso and an ashtray, and asked her to wait for a few minutes. Christine flicked through a few editions of the magazine that were arranged on the glass table.

  It was a typical women’s magazine and didn’t claim to be anything other than that. Fashion photos, makeup tips, how to find the love of your life, horoscopes, recipes, book of the month—which always seemed to be about the same thing—and a column, “Marion’s View of the World.” Christine had read two of the columns, finding them amusing, by the time the door opened and a red-haired, freckled woman in her mid forties came into the room and walked up to her with her hand stretched out.

  “Frau Schmidt? I’m Ellen Wagner, pleased to meet you. Shall we go into my office?” As she spoke two dimples danced around on her cheeks. Christine liked her instantly.

  The office suited her; it was spacious and sunny, with a glass writing desk and a few chairs in the corner. There were also two large bouquets of flowers, piles of books and papers, and photos and children’s drawings on the walls.

  They sat down opposite one another in two wicker chairs. On the table in front of them were fresh cups, along with the latest edition of Kult.

  Ellen Wagner noticed Christine’s glance at once. “Exactly, that’s what we’re here to discuss. May I call you Christine?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. “So, Christine, we’ve had ‘Marion’s View of the World’ as our column for the last four years. The magazine comes out every two weeks, as you probably already know. Now, this is the situation: Marion Korn has been approached by a publishing house that wants her to write a novel. That’s great for Marion but bad for me, because I want to keep the column. Marion won’t be able to handle both the novel and the column. Now, have a guess which publishing house we’re talking about.” She didn’t wait for an answer this time either. “Exactly, the one you work for.”

  She smiled at Christine triumphantly. Christine smiled back and waited. But she didn’t have to wait for long.

  “I was at the Literatur Haus recently with a few friends of mine for an event. I ran into Mathias, your director, in the cloakroom. ‘Mathias,’ I said, ‘you’ve stolen Marion Korn away from me, so you’re going to have to write me a column.’ He used to do that, you know, write columns for a college magazine back when we were students together. He’s embarrassed about that now, though—they were pretty awful.”

  Christine suppressed a laugh. She had an idea of what was coming, and really hoped she was right.

  “So, to cut a long story short, Mathias sent me the last three editions of Kult so I could take a look at your column. My favorite was the ‘Linda Love’ one. Would you be interested in writing a twice-monthly column for us as well?’

  Christine thought quickly. She would have to speak to Ruth first. Ellen seemed to read her thoughts.

  “Oh, I forgot to say: I spoke to Ruth Johannis on the phone this morning; we’ve known each other for a long time. She said I should ask you whether you feel you can take it on, and if so, it’s fine with her.”

  A jubilant chant started whirling around in Christine’s head: “I’m gonna be published in Femme, I’m gonna be published in Femme, I’m gonna be published in Femme.”

  “Christine? What do you think?”

  Christine shook the melody from her head and pulled herself together. “Of course, I mean, it would be an honor. I hope that…”

  What was she saying?

  “I mean, I’d love to do it. I just don’t know…” At the last moment she stopped herself from saying it. That she didn’t know whether she could. She cleared her throat.

  “Well, I mean…yes. I’d love to.”

  Ellen laughed. “I caught you off guard there, didn’t I? Could you bring me your portfolio of columns by Wednesday? I’d like to read a few more of them.”

  The horrified inner cry at hearing the word portfolio was resolved by the comforting thought Ines! When she saw Ines’s folder of her collected columns for the first time, she had collapsed into laughter, despite feeling somewhat touched. Now she gave inner thanks to her sister and her obsessive compulsion to file things away in plastic sheets. She was so organized. The world’s best little sister.

  “Sure, that’s no problem. I can bring it by tomorrow.”

  They discussed formalities like contracts and invoices; then Christine left the editorial office. She felt unbelievably important.

  Ruth sat at her desk, talking on the phone. Seeing Gabi standing in the doorway, she gestured at the chair opposite her and put her finger to her lips.

  “I think it’s great, Christine.” She winked at Gabi. “This is a huge opportunity for you…of course you can do it. Just imagine, a column published nationwide every two weeks…oh come on, you can put it together in one evening a week. Did she read ‘Linda Love’? She did and she liked it? Of course she did. Then just do more columns about your old girlfriends.”

  She gave Gabi a conspiratorial look. Gabi rolled her eyes and signaled to her to cut the conversation, at which Ruth looked disappointed.

  “You think that’s boring? Oh, I don’t think so. But fine, OK, Christine, I have to go now, I’ve got an appointment. Have a lovely afternoon off, see you soon.”

  “’My God, Ruth, it doesn’t get much more obvious than that, more columns about her friends. Great. Why don’t you just ask her for their names while you’re at it? I mean, seriously!” She looked at Ruth reproachfully. “I’ve already heard about Femme; Mathias told me about it in the canteen. That’s great news.”

  “I think so, too.” Ruth shoved piles of papers into her bag. “What about you?” She looked at Gabi. “Have you found anything?”

  Gabi shook her head. “Nothing, the Internet search was fruitless, no Linda Love, no Love Butchers. Luise was planning to see Ines today, so maybe she’ll be able to get some leads from her.”

  “Hopefully. After all, we don’t have much time left until November. OK, I have to make a move, see you soon.”

  Ruth rushed past Gabi, who watched her go, irritated. She only hoped Madame Ruth would pitch in on the search, too, and not just get her coworkers to slog away on it.

  Meanwhile, Ines was dialing her parents’ number and looking back and forth from Luise to Georg as she listened to the dial tone.

  “Schmidt.”

  Ines put the telephone on loudspeaker so the others could listen, too.

  “Hi, Mom, it’s me. Listen, you’ve got such a great memory, do you remember what Frauke’s surname was?”

  “Frauke who?”

  Georg sighed loudly and mimed having a breakdown. “Well, that’s a good start.”

  “Ines, was that my son? If it is, tell him he left a shirt behind here and I can’t get the stains out.”

  Georg looked up and spoke loudly toward the phone.

  “There weren’t any stains.”

  “Oh, Then I must have dyed it accidentally. Was it expensive?”

  Ines gestured to Georg to stay quiet. “Mom, listen, we’re trying to find Christine’s old friends, and one of them was called Frauke; she had long curly hair, it was back when they were in l
ove with David Cassidy. You must remember her.”

  “David Cassidy. Yes, that’s right, he was in that TV show with the Partridge Family. Shirley Jones played his mother. I liked her, she had such lovely blond hair.”

  Georg pitched in again. “Yes, but it’s not about them, Mom; we want to find out Frauke’s surname. And the shirt was from Hugo Boss.”

  “Really? You buy expensive shirts like that? Well, I guess you’re right, they fit better. Why are you shouting? Wait…Frauke, her mother was a bit strange I think, I can’t quite remember. What was her name? Erdmann or Erdemann, no, hang on, that was Marie.”

  Luise sat up straight. “Marie who?”

  “Who’s that there with you?”

  “It’s Luise. Hello, Mrs. Schmidt.”

  “Luise, how are you? Marie was one of Christine’s friends; they used to go to dance lessons together. She was such a sweet girl. She was actually called Annemarie, but everyone called her Marie. Her parents come to Sylt on vacation now, and I see them now and then, but I haven’t seen the girls in a long time. Why do you want to know? Has Christine gone missing or been kidnapped or something?” She giggled. “If so, I very much doubt that Christine is hiding away at Frauke’s. Is that what you think?”

  Ines’s voice sounded reprimanding. “’Mom, be serious, will you? We want to find all of her old friends so we can arrange a surprise birthday party.”

  “But that’s the kind of thing you do for someone’s seventieth, don’t you think?”

  “Mom!” Georg called out impatiently. “Just have a think about your daughter’s childhood friends. OK? Look through some old pictures; I’m sure a few names will come to mind.”