When they’ve left, Karin says, “What the hell’s going on here?”
LENA
Briefly I consider escaping from here, but how would I manage that? I can still barely move, I’m hooked up to devices that might give off an alarm if I fiddled with the electrodes and on top of this, there’s always someone coming into my room. It’s as if they’re trying to keep me awake with their hustle and bustle. To begin with it’s just people from the hospital, popping in to change the intravenous bags or check the ECG. That’s bearable—I just keep my eyes closed and breathe.
But then the two policemen turn up and decide to take up permanent residence beside my bed. One of them, as I can make out from their whispered conversations, has come especially from Munich, whereas the other belongs to the Cham force. They keep saying, “The girl.”
Hannah. So I didn’t imagine her—she was there, she came with me in the ambulance. Here to the hospital. Hannah’s here.
I overhear words such as “abduction” and “cabin.” The ECG I’m wired up to registers my sudden agitation with a nervy sequence of sounds. Right beside my head one of the policemen—“Cham,” I think—presses the emergency button. I hear them scurry on either side of my bed as they wait for one of the medical personnel.
A man arrives, who first checks the ECG clip on my middle finger and then presses a cold stethoscope bell to my chest.
“Everything’s fine,” he tells “Cham” and “Munich.” “Maybe she just had a bad dream.” One of the two policemen mutters a reply.
I hear the door click shut—the nurse has gone again—then a chair scraping its way across the floor to my bed, followed by a second one. They seem intent on sitting here for as long as it takes for me to regain consciousness so I can answer their questions.
It’s precisely what I’ve spent many a night thinking about when his closeness, his hot breath on my neck and his sticky skin on mine has kept me awake. What would I say if I ever got out of this hole?
Then I sorted the details. From the outset some were piled together with the unsayable things, the indescribable perversions that made him a monster and, in particular, me his victim. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life as the poor woman from the cabin. I would be strong, sit up straight and tell them the bare minimum, with a clear focus. Silently I count three breaths, like one last little reprieve, then I wrench open my eyes. It’s time, Lena.
A policeman, the one in the gray suit, rushes immediately into my field of vision. The other one gets up from his seat too. Both are now bent over me, their questions already present in their expressions. The ECG goes mad.
“Hello,” the one in the suit says. “Please relax. Everything is absolutely fine. I’m Frank Giesner from Cham police, and this is my colleague, Gerd Brühling, from Munich. Do you understand? We’re from the police.”
I try to nod, but fail.
“Can you hear me?”
“I think we should get the nurse back in here,” Munich says, pointing at the emergency button. Cham takes him up on his suggestion.
“You’ve been brought to hospital because you were hit by a car. Could you tell me your name?”
I roll my eyes and groan in pain.
“Listen, we know about the cabin. We’re already looking for it. Nothing’s going to happen to you. You’re safe here.”
The door opens; it’s the nurse coming back into the room. Cham and Munich step away from my bed in sync.
“She woke up,” Munich tells the nurse, who checks my pulse and says, “I’ll get Dr. Schwindt to come and give her an injection. It might take a while, though, as it’s the shift changeover, and that’s always chaotic.”
I open my mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a noise, a strange noise, somewhere between an exhausted gasp and a hysterical giggle. By the time I’m over it the nurse has gone again. I need to stay clear-headed; that’s all I can think about.
“Have you found him?” I say, my voice cracking.
Cham makes a vague movement with his head, while Munich can’t stop staring at the scar on my brow.
“Like I said, we’re still looking for the cabin. But please don’t worry. You’re absolutely safe here. Would you tell me your name?”
I convince myself that it’s a simple and perfectly logical request. There’s nothing sinister or threatening about it. On the contrary, if the police know who I am they can notify my relatives. Tell my mother that I’m still alive and that she should come and pick me up. Take me away from here; I just want to get away from here. And I’m ready to talk to them; I’ve taken a deep breath and opened my mouth. But again nothing comes out except for a few more hysterical sounds. I’ve swallowed my identity and I giggle once more.
This goes on for quite a while, and the policemen are very patient. On their faces I now see another expression apart from bafflement: pity. As far as they’re concerned, I’m the poor woman from the cabin. When I realize this, the laughter subsides. Not immediately, but in fits and starts. For a moment I sound like a stuttering engine. Finally, there’s silence. Followed by my answer.
“Lena. My name is Lena.”
HANNAH
I recognized him at once, from that party in the garden, the first trip I did with Mama. He told me about ladybugs and how they’re lucky. I remembered his gray hair and his very bright blue eyes, which are the same color as one of Mama’s Sunday dresses. Although the dress has white stripes as well. But then I wasn’t quite so sure, because the people he was standing with in the hospital corridor were all talking so loudly that they frightened Sister Ruth and she took me back to the staffroom. We walked so quickly that I had to push my toes upward so I didn’t lose the big pink rubber shoes.
She’d actually promised that we’d go and see Mama, but now she closes the staffroom door behind us and says, “I think we’re going to have to wait a little longer before we can see her, Hannah.”
I look at the floor and see a fuzzball. It’s purple, probably from Sister Ruth’s colorful cardigan which I’m still wearing.
“Don’t be sad, little one,” she says, lifting my chin. “We’ll go and see her as soon as we can, I promise. But first I want to find out what was going on out there.” She takes her hand away and pushes me further into the room, back to our table. “They’ve all gone a bit nutty.” I think she’s saying that to herself rather than to me, because now she’s babbling away weirdly and not looking at me anymore. You always have to look at people when you’re talking to them. “Making such a row and frightening people. As if you hadn’t been through enough already. Who do they think they are?” She shakes her head a few times. “Go on, Hannah, sit down. I’ll make you some tea and then I’ll find out what all that nonsense was about.”
I nod and sit down. Sister Ruth goes over to the kitchen unit. Behind me I can hear her turn on the tap and fill the kettle.
“I think I know,” I say.
“Hmm?” Sister Ruth didn’t hear me because the tap was running.
“I think I know!” I shout, but the tap’s now been turned off.
“What do you mean, Hannah?”
Clack: the lid of the kettle is shut. Click: the kettle is switched on.
“I think I know who they are,” I say.
Now it’s silent behind me. Sister Ruth doesn’t understand again.
“I think that was my grandfather who was shouting.”
“Your…?”
“A grandfather is the father of either parent or, colloquially, an old man.”
I turn around to Sister Ruth so I can see from her face if she’s understood. She hasn’t, of course. She’s just gawping again. I sigh.
“They also shouted Lena,” I tell poor, stupid Sister Ruth. “That’s what my Mama is called, don’t you remember? And I recognized him too.”
I don’t bother waiting for Sister Ruth to try and think this through herself. Instead I start telling her about our first trip. Mama and I drove down the shimmering road to the garden where the lawn smelled like ou
r washing powder and there were hydrangeas with flowers as big as cabbages, and where there were only unhealthy things to eat. And I told her about my grandfather who sat on the grass with me and talked about ladybugs.
“Ladybugs are very useful creatures because they eat greenfly and spider mites,” I say, repeating what he told me. “They’re also said to bring good luck.”
Sister Ruth scuttles back from the kitchen and flops on to her chair. The water in the kettle has already boiled and I bet it’ll be cold by the time she makes my tea.
“Are you telling me you’ve actually met that man before?” she asks when I’ve stopped talking.
I nod.
“We did many trips together, Mama and I. We went to the sea and to Paris. The Eiffel Tower was built to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the French Revolution and it’s 324 meters high.” I lean over the table and whisper to her, “But you mustn’t tell anyone that.”
“I don’t understand…” Sister Ruth babbles away again.
“You mustn’t tell anyone that we went on trips. It’s a secret. Otherwise we’ll get into trouble, Mama and I.”
“With your Papa?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Mama is so silly. She can’t even turn on the cooker on her own. Papa would definitely say it’s much too dangerous for her to drive a car, and with me in it, and so far away. And I bet Jonathan would be cross too.”
I didn’t want to think about Jonathan again. I feel so sorry for him because he’s got to scrub away at those silly stains on the carpet. To distract myself I smooth down my dress. There are pockets on either side. The bottom seam of the right-hand pocket is coming away, so I can only put things in the left-hand one.
“Why should he be cross with you? Didn’t you take him with you on your trips?”
“He wouldn’t have enjoyed them at all.”
Sister Ruth cocks her head.
At first I don’t want to tell her, because I’m slightly ashamed. But then I think it’s not my fault I’m Mama’s favorite child and she prefers going away with me alone.
“It’s more that … I think he’d be cross if he knew we slipped him sleeping pills,” I say, preferring to keep my eyes fixed on my dress rather than looking at Sister Ruth. Mama really will have to sew up my pocket when we’re back home.
LENA
It was a Thursday in May when I vanished from the world. Alice was pushed down the rabbit hole, tumbled head over heels and was knocked out when she hit the bottom. I reckon he must have injected me with an anesthetic before whisking me off to the cabin. The first thing I remember is the stench of sweat, urine and stale air. Then, as if from far away, the noise of a key turning in a lock and the click of a light switch. I didn’t flinch until he jabbed at my leg several times with his foot.
“How are you, Lena?” asked the man standing there, smiling down at me.
My eyes darted across the room, taking in shelves that filled most of the wall opposite: provisions, preserving jars, sacks of potatoes, a dark object which from the shiny silver zips I identified as my overnight bag, then several canisters, a pile of wood in the corner. I looked up at the bulb hanging from the ceiling, and down to my ankles, then my blotchy jeans and my sweat-soaked top, down my arms to my wrists, which were bound to the waste pipe of an old sink with a sort of loop made out of cable ties. Finally, my eyes returned to the man, who was still smiling and repeated his question with a patient voice: “How are you, Lena?”
Lena, that wasn’t me, that wasn’t my name.
The cogs in my brain started whirring. This was a misunderstanding; he must have got me mixed up with someone else. I whimpered into my gag like a beaten dog as I tried to understand the mix-up that had clearly happened here, all the while tugging so wildly at the cable ties that they cut into my wrists.
He shook his head sympathetically, turned around and went toward the door. Click: the light. Then the door, metal scraping in the lock, the key turned twice.
Me, alone, in total darkness. I started to scream and kept tugging at the cable ties—both pointless. With the gag in place my screaming sounded like a throttled grunting, and the cable ties were secure. I’d been abducted. Shackled to a waste pipe. A dreadful mix-up. And the darkness too, making the whole situation here even more terrifying. It seemed as if the room had dissolved. I was drifting in a formless black sphere, unable to anchor my thoughts. I conjured up the man’s face. His gray eyes, his slightly crooked nose, his smile, his dark, wavy hair. I’d seen him only fleetingly and yet the image was quite clear, etched into my mind, just like his voice.
How are you, Lena?
Lena, Lena, Lena … I knew a Lena. A trainee in the advertising agency I’d worked for. A spoiled, cocky girl. Rich parents, very rich parents. Now it dawned on me. It was her he was after! The Lena with the rich parents. A ransom, that was the point of all this. What would happen next? Would he kill me if he realized his mistake? Let me go? Demand a ransom for me instead? I pictured my father stacking bundles of banknotes into a briefcase. A briefcase he no longer possessed, and money he’d never had anyway. I saw my mother in black clothes and a black hat, chewing her bottom lip as she wondered what else there was to say about me, apart from the fact that I’d been a disappointment to her for most of my life, and Kirsten, who for the first time ever was in agreement with her. I even thought of old Frau Bar-Lev from the second floor, joining the squad of those shaking their heads and complaining about how sloppily I’d cleaned the communal stairs in our building. The devil comes for wicked girls. My thoughts went round and round in circles, raging, spinning, unable to anchor in this black sphere with just the stench of sweat, urine, stale air; I drifted, drifted, I was away.
* * *
I woke up. I was back. Still here.
With tears in my eyes I blinked at the light bulb dangling from the ceiling on a cable which had been tied to make it shorter.
“How are you, Lena?”
He had returned and was standing over me, smiling, like before.
I calculated that I’d been his prisoner for just over half a day now, although my senses and my intellect were at odds over this. In the darkness time stood still. And yet I still felt just about okay, so couldn’t have been here much longer. I was tired and had a headache, which I interpreted as an initial sign of dehydration, but my brain was still functioning. Even if all it could offer me was: after two or three days without water, you’ll be dead.
“Have you calmed down?”
I resisted the impulse to scream and just gave him a silent nod.
“Very good,” he said, then turned around and went to the door.
I waited for the click of the light switch.
It didn’t happen. The light stayed on. And he even left the door slightly ajar when he went out.
Forgetting to breathe, I stared at the door, open. I tugged fitfully at my shackles, without taking my eyes off the door, the open door, just five or six strides away from me, beyond reach.
I blinked away a few stupid tears. I wouldn’t get very far in any case. He must be coming back soon; why else would he leave the light on and door open? All I could do was wait. With great difficulty and so far as the restrictions of my shackles would allow, I tried to change the position I was sitting in. My body had become uncomfortable. A rough wooden wall pressed into my back. My legs felt swollen, my neck stiff and my shoulders were burning from my arms having been stretched out to one side for hours. The sink I was bound to lay on my right. The position of my arms was similar to that of a baseball hitter waiting for the ball. And waiting. And waiting. My heart was racing. Where was he?
He was fetching the knife.
* * *
This was what they did, wasn’t it? The madmen. The psychopaths. They went to fetch a knife, an axe, a chainsaw, with a smile on their lips. They had their own mad code, and his question “How are you, Lena?” had in reality been a very different one.
In his reality he’d asked me whether I was ready to die, and I’d shown
my acquiescence with that silent nod. I’d given him my permission. At this very moment he was probably admiring the long, broad blade of his favorite knife. Angling the handle so he could see his face reflected in the metal. Imagining how easily it would slice through my flesh, how effortlessly it would sever stubborn muscles, arteries and veins.
I hyperventilated into my gag. At any moment he would step through the door with a knife in his hand. I would be dead before the hunt to find me had even been launched. “Typical,” my mother would think, when yet again I failed to turn up for coffee at the weekend as promised. Just “typical,” not “something must be wrong.” What about Kirsten? Kirsten might even believe I was not coming on purpose. “She’s always been a drama queen…” I heard her voice say in my head.
At any moment.
Now. The door. He was back.
My eyelids began to flicker. My heart and my breathing were going so quickly that I felt dizzy. I drew my legs up and shuffled backward against the wall. As if through a thick pane of frosted glass I saw him come closer, closer, until he was standing right in front of me, holding something—not a knife.
“Are you thirsty, Lena?”
It took a few seconds before I realized what he was saying and saw that the object in his right hand was not a knife, but a bottle of water.
“Are you thirsty, Lena?” he said again.
When he held out the bottle I nodded in time to the intense thumping inside my chest, and growled like a greedy animal in the hope that he would remove the gag. But he just stood where he was, towering over me, waving the bottle in front of my eyes. And smiling.
I shook my head helplessly. He lowered his right hand, then held out his left, which was holding a packet of hair dye. The woman in the picture looked delighted with her new, bright blonde hair. The sight of her triggered a feeling, a bad feeling that started in the pit of my stomach and gradually engulfed my entire body.
He nodded thoughtfully.
Dear Child Page 6