Not Her

by Noah Fitz

  The ringing of a bell and a loud curse startled her.

  “Move!” said an old man on a lady’s bike.

  He squeezed past her and just scraped past a black SUV. “The sidewalk doesn’t belong to you!” he shouted, wobbling a few meters before regaining his balance.

  “There’s a cycle path for that,” Eleonora said. She turned right. Much too early, but she wanted to lose the man with the gray eyes. In the shadow of an elm tree, she stopped, trying to calm her pounding heart. You are paranoid, Ele. And now you’re talking to yourself. Again. Just listen to yourself. You bumped into a man, and now you’re panicking. It’s not like he had a knife to your throat.

  She stood there for two more heartbeats and then decided to keep moving. She didn’t see the man again. Despite looking around carefully several times, she did not recognize anyone. Finally, she stood in front of the wooden door that stank of dog piss and spray paint. The graffiti on the walls was fresh.

  Eleonora pressed the button with her elbow, but nobody opened. The engraved name plates and the dented intercom system of the apartment building listed twelve residents. Eleonora didn’t know most of her neighbors, and she rarely saw the others. Once again, she pressed her elbow on the bell next to her name.

  “Peer!” she said. “Open up!” Her bunch of keys lay in her pocket. The plastic bag hung on a thin thread and threatened to tear again. “Damn it!” She set everything on the top step and rummaged in her pocket for the keys.

  Chapter 3

  In his room, Peer sat on the floor in front of the door. The music blasted in his ears, and his head bobbed to the fast beat of the bass. His cell phone lay on the carpet next to a pair of pliers and two short cables. A message popped up.

  He swiped the display with his thumb and quickly entered the four-digit PIN to unlock the screen. A sound pulled his attention away for a second. He concentrated in case it happened again. Had it been his imagination or had someone rang the doorbell? Regardless, he looked back at his phone and watched the short video sequence.

  When it was over, he pressed Play again. The screen remained black, and he thought of Yara and her death. A quiet shiver crept down his back.

  Peer tousled his reddish hair and filled his lungs with stale air. He waited for another message.

  The Play icon lit up on the black background.

  The number of spectators increased every second. It would be showtime in a moment.

  He pressed the button. Text flowed across the screen, like in Star Wars. He pored over the instructions and memorized every detail.

  Peer then set about stripping the cable ends. He checked the knife blade and then used it to cut and remove the plastic sheathing. Again and again his eyes flitted to the wall socket, where he would plug the cabling in.

  “Damn it,” he said, looking down at his hand. He had cut his thumb with the narrow blade. What a bummer. He examined the wound. No blood.

  He sucked on the rough skin, which tasted like scorched cable.

  Once again, he looked at his phone. Under the instructions, a short description explained how long he needed to hold the two wires together with his thumb and index finger. A whole two seconds. He also needed to record everything.

  Peer inspected the lens of his cell phone and aligned the small device so that his hand and the power outlet were exactly in focus. “Two seconds,” he said and bit his lower lip.

  Again, the carpet knife slipped off the shiny wire and this time left a deep wound in his left index finger. With his finger in his mouth, he ran into the kitchen and wrapped a bandage around it, which immediately soaked through with blood.

  I have to hurry, he thought, and ran barefoot back to his room.

  A digital display appeared on the cell phone. A countdown slowly running backwards. He only had twenty seconds.

  With shaky fingers, Peer inserted the bare wires into the wall socket and adjusted the position of his smartphone. The camera did not provide the best picture, but it had to suffice. The display in the foreground began to blink.

  The number of spectators continued to rise.

  Nine…

  Eight…

  Seven…

  He counted the seconds. His forehead shone with sweat.

  He closed his eyes. He knew what was happening to him was not a dream, but ugly reality.

  In his ears, Eminem screamed and urged him to finally go through with it.

  He opened his eyes.

  Three…

  Peer needed the next bracelet. He wanted to be accepted by his schoolmates. Yara had been in Peer’s class and had died trying to complete her task. Now it was his turn.

  Eminem fell silent. The song was over.

  “Peer?” said his mother. She sounded angry yet frightened.

  Hastily, he locked his door and returned to his task.

  “Peer!” his mother screamed and kicked the door violently. Peer began to tremble…

  Zero…

  He grabbed the wires.

  Chapter 4

  Yara’s funeral

  My father had always said, “If I had to hide a handful of grass, I would do it in the barn.” I did not understand the meaning of this sentence for a long time. Now I sit in church, in the midst of all the mourners. I don’t stand out because I have mingled with the people. I’m not particularly religious, but every now and then I pass by here, like today.

  The priest preaches and speaks of Yara. “This service is dedicated to the poor girl who was torn from life at such a young age,” he says. “We have all gathered here to accompany this innocent child on her way to the Kingdom of the Lord.”

  I only half listen.

  Two rows in front of me, Yara’s mother sobs. Her husband strokes her back and presses her against him. His shoulders sag. An older woman next to me dabs her eyes. She smells of an elderly woman’s perfume. Her husband is asleep, and snores softly.

  Yara’s mother cries a little louder. She looks around. Her face is swollen and red from all the crying. “Why?” she whispers. “She was so young.” Her gaze drifts toward the door.

  The priest starts a prayer, but only a few people repeat the words. I move my lips.

  Mrs. Michel looks around again.

  They had wanted to divorce. Now the death of their daughter has reunited them. But no, getting their parents back together had not been the reason to take Yara’s life. Mrs. Michel rests her head on her husband’s shoulder.

  “Amen! Aaamen!”

  The priest falls silent.

  A murmur sweeps through the crowd. Today the small church is half filled. This unity has strengthened the pastor in his belief in the good, even if such a terrible tragedy is the reason for such great attendance. Nevertheless, he is pleased to welcome the congregation to God’s house.

  The murmur gives way to a collective cough and sniffling. The mourners stand up and open hymn books. The old man next to me is torn from sleep by his wife’s violent elbow. He winces, looks up, clears his throat, and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

  “Page 220,” his wife tells him. She licks her thumb and noisily flips through the second prayer book, which she then slams against her husband’s chest. He looks down and suppresses a yawn.

  Little by little voices join in song. The priest sings badly, but louder than all of us together. I don’t sing along because I don’t know the lyrics, but I move my lips anyway, for fear of being scorned by the old lady. She considers me with a prudent look and looks skeptically at the hymnal in my hands. She is already pushing at her glasses. I close the book and sing the chorus almost as loudly as the priest, because I’d picked up this current passage in a horror movie some time ago.

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice the woman’s satisfied smile.

  “Amen!” I warble along with the last word, dragging it out before sitting down again.

  “We remember all those who have passed away,” the pastor says. “Today we have gathered to say goo
dbye to Yara Michel and to give her parents strength and courage to get through this difficult time. Each one of us can be struck down by a stroke of fate, so we are ready to give you our helping hand and support you. I always have an open ear for all people.”

  I no longer listen to the priest with the crooked voice. Instead, I sink into my own thoughts, to wait until the service is over so that I can express my condolences to Yara’s parents. I want to look into their eyes and see the pain tearing them apart inside. I want to hear their souls crying. I want to see them perish from despair and guilt.

  The little old man next to me has fallen asleep again. His wife, who wears a hat like Queen Elizabeth, is now also dozing away. The two have dressed up very nicely. I actually know them. Karl used to be a banker, and she had raised their four sons. Now they are alone because their children no longer live in our little town and rarely visit their parents.

  Once again, the crowd rises. The older couple remain seated. I squeeze myself past them and join the queue.

  Mrs. and Mr. Michel stand before the altar. Yara smiles at us from a photo bathed in the twitching glow from tea lights. The community consoles the parents and presents Mr. Michel with black envelopes. I have no letter or card. I just want to shake their hands and remind them how terrible the death of their own child was. After all, it contradicts every law of nature when children are buried before their parents.

  Mr. Michel’s hand is damp and cold, like a dead fish. His eyes are dull. The hair on his temples is gray. He is shorter than me. His shirt stretches over his stomach and one of the buttons is open. I pat him gently on the shoulder. “My sincere condolences,” I say and let go of his hand.

  Mrs. Michel has to be supported by her husband. Her eyes are swollen, her fingers tremble. She sniffs and dabs her nose with a shredded handkerchief. Tiny bits of tissue flutter to the ground. Her soul is already beginning to fall apart. Her dark blond hair, marked with a black strand, hangs untidily in her face.

  Her hand twitches in my grip. “I’m sorry,” I say in a choked whisper. I can hardly contain myself. I would love to burst out laughing, but I have to pull myself together. “She was so young,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says and tries to break free from my clutches. I squeeze firmly. Her knuckles crackle, and then I let go and move on.

  “Wait.” Her plaintive voice indicates she’s about to break down. I take a deep breath and turn around slowly. The woman’s troubled look is not for me, though. It’s for her husband, so I take my leave.

  Outside in front of the gate, a few men have formed a circle. A small, hunchbacked bald man in a green jacket stands in the middle, smoking, speaking in a subdued tone that makes the others smile. But nobody laughs very loud. It sounds more like mumbling. Someone is coughing. Others turn away and look around. The joker tugs at his cap and pulls it over his bald skull. The sky drizzles.

  “Wait, wait!” he says. “I know another one!”

  The men squeeze out their cigarettes. Nobody wants to be caught cracking jokes during a memorial service. The little man takes a long puff from his self-rolled cigarette. He makes another remark, which is not well received and is only acknowledged with the vague laughter of two men. The rest of the group breaks away.

  The little man turns to me and tries to straighten his cap, which now sits crookedly on his skull. “Hey, you knew Yara well.” He is at least one head shorter than me and tips his head back. He wobbles slightly with every step, and I can smell alcohol. He hasn’t lived here long and nobody seems to like him very much. In a year he has not yet found a connection in the community.

  He wrinkles his nose, raises his right arm, and smells his armpit. I turn away.

  “Hey, wait!” he calls.

  A short scraping.

  Fast rustling of shoes on asphalt.

  I turn around.

  He falls. With outstretched hands he lands on the ground. Moaning, he rolls onto his side. His hands are dirty and wet with blood.

  Others move past me and rush to the drunk guy’s aid.

  I move toward the gate.

  Powdery white virgin snow has settled on the cars lined up in front of the green hedge. The leathery leaves covered with hoarfrost crackle under my steps. Some cars have left behind black squares of asphalt. There will be no funeral feast, and soon nobody will talk about the tragic death of the girl, because in a short time the community will weep for another child.

  Chapter 5

  Police Headquarters, Berlin

  Gabriela Meierbach stood up and went to the window. Through the blinds she took a quick glance at the parking lot.

  So far autumn had been mild, but gradually the days grew cooler. The gray sky weighed on the city. Fine snow crystals beat silently against the windowpane.

  Every time she tried to swallow the anger, her larynx hurt. I shouldn’t have shouted so loudly. She pondered the thought as she plucked the lapel of her dark-blue jacket. For more than ten years, she had headed the homicide department. On the whole, she enjoyed the work, except for Marc Wulf. He was a good cop and one of her best investigators, and usually the two got along well. In and of itself, everything was in perfect order.

  Gabriela Meierbach took a deep breath.

  “Actually, I don’t feel like another confrontation with this man,” she said to herself and again peered across the parking lot to the red Audi 80 that had just rolled into an empty parking space. Wulf got out, straightened the collar of his black leather coat, and walked quickly to the entrance.

  Gabriela went through all the points again, trying to get the words right, knowing that this mental preparation would not help much when the conversation took its course.

  Marc Wulf was not only a good policeman, he was good at arguing. He could easily twist the words in your mouth so that even Gabriela, in the end, never really knew who was to blame when their meetings inevitably escalated. She sat back at her desk and took a sip of water. Her throat was dry.

  Behind the door, she heard footsteps. Gabriela reached for a ballpoint pen to keep her fingers busy and nearly fumbled it when the door flew open.

  “You wanted to see me?” Marc said. No greeting. He just threw the door shut and sat down on the edge of her desk. He reached into a small glass bowl and threw two M&M’s into his mouth. He chewed with a serious expression and looked at Gabriela, waiting. His dark hair usually fell openly onto his shoulders, but today he had tied it up into a ponytail. The silver shining temples, his prominent nose, and angular chin gave the suggestion of something archaic. His citrusy scent further underlined the overall impression.

  He was not freshly shaven, either, Gabriela noted, pressing herself deeper into the upholstery. He was simply untamable, but today she wanted to tame him. Last year he had spent his forty-sixth birthday in court because his wife had filed for divorce. Since then, he had not listened to any woman.

  “Are you trying to read my mind?” Marc asked. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you, it doesn’t work on me. I’d have to have a mind first.” He threw the rest of the colored candy back into the bowl and rubbed his hands together. With a sigh, he got up and went to the window and opened it without asking.

  Gabriela also stood up but remained standing next to her chair. With her arms crossed, she stared at his broad back. To have a conversation with this man without the fur flying was almost impossible, especially when it came to pointing out his mistakes.

  Marc scratched his stubbly cheek and looked outside. “Glorious!” he said and took a deep breath.

  “You’re suspended,” Gabriela finally said.

  Marc turned. His bushy eyebrows contracted into a line. “Have I ever told you that your jokes are completely humorless?” He sat on the ledge of the window.

  Gabriela’s heart stopped for a moment. The man apparently did not know the word fear.

  “You injured a suspect in your last arrest,” she said.

  “He was not a suspect—”

&nb
sp; “For the time being,” she said.

  Marc laughed boldly. “For the time being,” he repeated and shook his head. The expression on his face betrayed that he had already expected it. “Is that why you called me? To give me a lecture? I still don’t find the suspension funny. What’s the punch line?”

  He laid his hands on his unshaven cheeks and stroked the grayish sideburns, which made his prominent chin appear even more masculine. He took a deep breath. “Had I not taken drastic measures, the two girls would be dead now. Elsa and Lisa. Eleven and eight years old.” He slipped back a bit, further into the open window. The cold wind tore at his collar and hair.

  “You put a needle in the man’s leg!” Gabriela said. She had to pull herself together; she wasn’t allowed to yell.

  Marc’s intense gaze went through her. “Who told you this lie?”

  “It’s not a lie,” she said.

  “The guy is an impertinent piece of shit. He sneered at me and refused to cooperate.”

  “You’ll have to tell that to the judge.”

  “Your grandson is eight, right?”

  Gabriela Meierbach felt the sweat on her scalp. The spots on her cheeks probably matched the color of her hair.

  “Why? Why in God’s name did you ram that thing into the suspect’s leg?”

  “Because I didn’t have a knife with me.”

  “You know exactly what I mean, Chief Inspector Wulf.”

  “Because the motherfucker claimed he couldn’t feel his legs!”

  “It is wrong. It is against all morality…”

  Marc’s laugh dried up. “Morality? That wanker locked up two kids in his basement and was toying with us as if we were village policemen. Did you take a look at him? Dressed up to the nines, pinstriped suit, and that smile…” Marc jumped from the windowsill and approached Gabriela. His black Doc Martens left wet prints on the bright, polished floor.