“You can set up the chessboard, Jonathan,” I heard, then, “Lena…”
Once more the sofa cushion sagged under an additional weight.
“Open your eyes, Lena. I know you’re awake.”
I blinked.
“You look beautiful,” he said, sweeping a strand of hair from my face. His eyes were fixed on a particular spot on my forehead. “It’s come out well, I think. I did go over it again with the knife, then I stitched it up straightaway.”
A dry sound emitted from my throat.
“Oh, come on, Lena. You were out cold anyway and didn’t have a clue what was going on.” He smiled. “It couldn’t have gone any better for you, could it?”
I raised my trembling hand to touch my forehead. I felt the stitches and the sharp end of a thread that stabbed my fingertip.
He grabbed my hand and moved it down again.
“Don’t touch it, Lena, or the wound really will get infected. We can take the stitches out in a few days.”
I began to sob.
“Please, you’ve got to let me go. I want to go home.”
He leaned so far forward that the tips of our noses almost touched; his weight was painful on my torso that had suffered his kicks and punches.
“You are home, Lena,” he whispered back, brushing my forehead with his lips.
I turned my head away and buried my face in the cushion of the back rest. Its slightly musty smell reminded me of the furniture in my grandparents’ house. He thrust his hand roughly between the cushion and my cheek, and turned my face back, forcing me to look him in the eye.
“Do yourself a favor and think about this carefully, Lena. Ask yourself if I’m joking. If I’m just trying to frighten you. Or whether I’d be capable of killing you.”
“Not joking,” I wheezed. I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe under the weight of his body. But at least my brain seemed to be sort of functioning again. The thought that it now conveyed was a very definite one, a thought that had probably been there for a while, but had become entangled in the jumble of other thoughts: the clothes I was wearing.
“I’m only going to tell you once, Lena, so listen carefully.”
The underwear, the tights, the skirt, the blouse and especially the shoes—all of them too small for me. They’d clearly belonged to someone else.
“From now on you’re going to be a good mother and a good wife. And you’re going to stick to my rules. Do you understand?”
“Where is your son’s mother?”
For a moment he actually looked surprised.
“Where is his mother?” I asked again, more insistently this time. My heart had flipped up from my chest and was now beating in my throat.
“You’re his mother.”
He sat up. I inadvertently sighed with relief when I was finally able to breathe freely again without the weight of his body on me.
“And get up now. That’s enough rest.”
* * *
There was another child, a girl. I first became aware of her when he helped me sit up. As stiff as a poker, in pajamas that were far too big for her, and with a serious, pale face, she stood in the frame of an unhinged door. How long she’d been there, I didn’t know. The girl seemed to be clutching something to her chest. I could make out a spotted red coat. And ears. A little animal.
“Hannah,” he said. “Mama’s woken up.”
The girl’s expression didn’t change. I guessed she was slightly younger than the boy. She was shorter and a little more delicate than him, with the same pointy chin and the same thin hair, but hers was blonde.
“Oh, come on, Hannah,” he said, waving impatiently at her to come in. “Don’t be afraid, come here and bring Fräulein Tinky with you. Mama’s finally come back home.”
The girl narrowed her eyes. Of course she must realize that something wasn’t right here. There was a strange woman hunched on the sofa in their sitting room. Surely she could see I wasn’t her mother. My lips silently mouthed, “Help me.”
The girl stared at me, her eyes still narrowed, without blinking. Then she turned around and disappeared into a hallway or a neighboring room.
I slapped my hand over my mouth in disbelief and panted into it, while my body was suddenly seized by cold panic. There was a roaring in my ears. As if from a great distance I heard him say, “The children have really missed you. You’ve all got a lot of catching up to do.”
“But that’s … that’s not possible,” I said, my voice sounding distorted and alien.
“They’re your children. I’m your husband. We are a happy family.”
“Those aren’t my children,” the distorted voice whimpered.
“We’re a happy family. I’m your husband,” he kept saying. “I’m your husband and they are your children. You don’t have anybody anymore, apart from us. You’ll feel better when you understand that.”
I wobbled my head clumsily, meaning to shake it, but out of the blue I seemed to have forgotten how. His hand shot forward, grabbed my mouth and squashed my cheeks hard. His pupils darted about, he ground his teeth. A predator, a hunter, a monster and from now on my husband. My husband who didn’t joke, something which right now he seemed to be intent on reminding me: “Do you know what it sounds like when you bash someone’s head in, Lena? It’s like dropping a watermelon on to the floor. Bam!”
I recoiled in horror.
“That’s what it sounds like: bam! An interesting sound.”
* * *
The policemen say nothing. They’re just sitting in silence, their faces suddenly vacant; I can’t read anything in them. I’m gripped by the absurd fear that I’ve said something wrong. And now there’s something else, too, something cold, wrenching: guilt. I feel guilty because I’m wearing the scar that belongs to you.
“He abducted me to give his children another mother,” I say in conclusion, then sink back exhausted on my pillow, maybe to evade their looks too. I stare at the ceiling. “What’s the date today?” I ask.
HANNAH
Sister Ruth has made a fresh cup of tea and is now buttering some bread for me. With a knife from the cutlery drawer that someone must have forgotten to lock. I told her it isn’t time to eat, but she probably got a fright when my tummy gurgled. As a nurse, though, she really ought to know that it’s just air I’ve got in my tummy, not anything dangerous that’s going to make me sick. But I don’t think she was listening properly when I tried to explain to her why your stomach rumbles and what it means. Instead she just kept apologizing for not having given me anything to eat till now, even though I’ve been here for several hours.
“There you go,” she says, putting the plate in front of me, right on top of the picture I drew of my family. Only Papa’s head with the red patch on the side is peeping out from beneath the plate, because he’s the biggest of us. The rest of us have disappeared beneath it.
“The cafeteria opens at seven, we can get something else then. On Saturday they always have fantastic apple cake. You’ve got to try it.”
I say thank you. You always have to be polite.
“Go on then, tuck in, Hannah,” Sister Ruth says.
I pick up the folded slice of bread and nibble it. Papa always gets bread when he goes shopping, but only ever one loaf because bread soon goes moldy and mold isn’t good for your health.
Sister Ruth stands beside the table, watching me eat.
“When you’re finished, you should have a little lie-down,” she says, nodding to the bed on the left-hand wall beside the big metal cupboard. “You’ve had a long night. A little rest would do you good.”
“But I thought we were going to see Mama,” I say, putting the bread back on the plate.
“Yes, of course we will. But I want to talk to the policemen first.”
“Because of Grandad?”
Sister Ruth picks up the bread on my plate and puts it back in my hand.
“That too. Please try to eat something, Hannah. I know you’re probably too upset to get much down you, but
have a few mouthfuls at least, hmm?”
I take five mouthfuls, because I reckon five’s a good number. One for each member of my family. One for Mama, one for Papa, one for Fräulein Tinky, one for me and an especially big one for Jonathan because he’s got to clean the carpet.
“Can’t you manage any more?” Sister Ruth says.
I shake my head. The bread has now got the outline of Africa. After Asia, Africa is the second largest continent on earth. Lions, zebras and black-backed jackals live there.
“Come on, then,” Sister Ruth says, pulling my chair back so I can get up.
The bed in the staffroom is nice and hard. It just has a sheet. Sister Ruth fetches a pillow and a rolled-up duvet from the metal cupboard and tucks me up. My eyes close at once, but I don’t want to sleep or I might miss going to see Mama when it’s finally time. Sister Ruth sits next to me on the edge of the bed. I feel her stroking my hair and I imagine she’s my mama.
LENA
It’s 16 September, Cham replies to my question about the date.
Four months.
Your husband kept me captive for four months, Lena. Maybe you think that’s nothing. You stuck it out with him for years. Bore him children and played family.
I remember that first evening, sitting beside him on the sofa, rigid with disbelief. Peering at him from the corner of my eye, unable to do anything but admire his disguise. A good-looking man who’d got changed for “our special first evening,” no longer in jeans and faded T-shirt, but dressed smartly in dark trousers and a light blue shirt. He looked as if he’d just come home from the office or was about to go out on a date. This was no disheveled, stinking monster from a horror film. I also remember gazing at your children, who also looked normal, totally normal and at the same time not. How could they chatter away so cheerfully as they sat by the stove, warming their hands? Even the girl, who earlier had stood in the door frame, staring suspiciously with narrowed eyes, was now cackling gleefully as she put her cat on her brother’s bare toes.
“Bite him, Fräulein Tinky!” the girl called out, and all I kept thinking was: this isn’t possible. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real.
I remember mourning for you too that evening, Lena. Mourning for the woman whose shoes I now had on. The poor woman from the cabin, who must have been here before me. Who, so far as I understood, was now dead, her skull bashed in, bam! Your shoes were the starkest warning. And yet I knew at once that I wasn’t going to go along with his crazy, sick game. I had to compose myself and summon all my strength, recover from his attacks, his kicks and punches, and then find a way out of here. Him or me. One of us—the inevitable end was probably clear to me that first evening.
I’d already discovered the exit. The door in question was made out of wood and secured with two locks. There was a metallic jangling in his trousers whenever he moved, so I assumed he kept the keys on him the whole time. The door was to my left, about ten feet from the sofa we were sitting on together. There was no hallway or separate entrance area; the door opened straight into the room we were in, a mixture between kitchen and sitting room. On the other side, further into the cabin, I imagined there was a hallway leading to the bedrooms and storeroom where I’d woken up after having been abducted. There was probably a bathroom too, or a toilet at least. Although I couldn’t wait for him to show me the rest of the rooms, so I could get a better idea of the layout and look for other escape possibilities, I also had a strong inkling of what would ensue when he brought the evening to an end and took me to bed. I briefly harbored the foolish, slight hope that he’d simply take me back to the storeroom and bind me to the sink overnight.
From the word go I had to exclude the windows as an escape opportunity, at least those in the sitting room. They were boarded up with insulation panels. He created day and night. Like God. The very idea of it made me taste bile. From the corner of my eye I’d counted the number of screws—more than forty per window. Without the appropriate tool I’d never manage to get them out.
The door on my left—so far that seemed the only possibility. It led out, to wherever. All that mattered was it led out. I had to get my hands on the keys. Or kill him. But for that I’d need some sort of weapon. My eyes darted over to the other side of the room, to the dining area. The four chairs arranged around the table seemed to be made of solid wood. And they were screwed to the floor with metal brackets. The wall behind was taken up by a galley kitchen. I noticed the empty work surfaces and the padlocks, padlocks on every fucking cupboard. I briefly put my hopes on the drawers, imagining myself taking out a knife, preferably one of those really sharp knives that cut through everything, including meat. But in truth I already suspected that they were empty.
I heard myself sigh.
“Are you tired, Lena? Would you like to go to bed?”
I flinched.
“No, no. I’m fine, thank you.”
He lifted his heavy arm from my shoulder and checked his watch. I glanced at the face. Just after half past seven.
“Children, Mama’s right. It’s late. Time for bed.”
The children moaned.
“No buts! When your mama says something, you have to listen.”
The girl turned her head to me and scowled.
“They could stay up for a while longer if they want,” I said cautiously.
“No, it’s late.” He got up from the sofa and shooed them away with his hands. “Go and brush your teeth!”
The children obediently got to their feet.
“Can Fräulein Tinky sleep with us, Papa?” the girl asked.
“No, she stays in the sitting room, otherwise you won’t sleep again.” Turning to me, he said, “Are you coming?”
Somehow I managed to stand up, to maneuver this outsized wound which was my body into a vertical position. Your husband reached for my arm to support me. Walking carefully I followed the children out of the sitting room and into a narrow hallway.
The children stopped beside a locked door on the right. He squeezed past me, reached for the key on top of the door frame and unlocked the door. The children hurried in. He turned to me, grinning, slipped the key into his trouser pocket, then gestured with his head for me to go in.
The bathroom was very narrow, barely big enough for all four of us. To the left, a washbasin was fixed to the wall, beneath which a water canister was standing ready. Straight ahead was the toilet, which looked like a small, white barrel, and to the right stood an old zinc bathtub with no taps. Above the tub, just an inch below the ceiling, I noticed a fist-sized hole in the wall, into which a section of tubing had been inserted. I suspected this was some sort of vent, but it didn’t seem to be working particularly well, as the air was sticky and musty. There was no window and, as in the storeroom, a bare bulb just dangled from the ceiling.
The children reached for their toothbrushes, which were in two colorful plastic mugs on the shelf above the basin. I found the sight of these two mugs perverse. As I felt with my tongue the new gap between my teeth, I imagined this man, your husband, like thousands of other customers, standing by the toiletries and lovingly choosing designs that would appeal to your children. On the boy’s blue mug, a knight on a horse, and on the girl’s pink mug, a princess dancing in a meadow full of flowers. I pictured this man standing at the checkout, paying for the toothbrush mugs and nobody suspecting that they weren’t destined for a normal home, but for this hole where the inhabitants were locked up.
“Cleaning the bathroom is, of course, the housewife’s job. But no worries, I’ll see to the toilet myself.” I only realized later what he meant by that. As there was no running water in the cabin, we used a compost toilet where the feces went straight into a container filled with bark mulch, which had to be emptied from time to time—outside. Obviously he couldn’t leave this task to the housewife, because outside didn’t exist for her anymore.
“Right,” he said, looking at his watch. “The three minutes are up.”
As if on command, the child
ren spat froth into the basin in sync. Then, one after another, they washed their faces with water from the canister.
“Mama’s going to take you to bed tonight,” he told them with a lavish smile.
“Yay, finally!” the boy beamed, patting his cheeks dry with a towel.
Your husband led me outside into the hallway. The girl followed us, closing the door behind her. I had no idea why we were waiting until the boy came out and the girl took his place in the bathroom. I realized he was allowing them to go to the bathroom unsupervised, and this gave me the whiff of another escape opportunity. Even though all I could think about was the toothbrush mugs with the childish designs. If I could break them somehow. Broken plastic can be very sharp—a weapon.
* * *
The children shared a tiny room with just about enough space for a bunk bed. The wooden walls were filled with paintings and spidery drawings the children had done themselves. I tried to make out the subjects of these pictures, but the light, again coming from a single bare bulb, was too dim. A window: boarded up, of course. The boy climbed up a ladder to the top bunk; the girl crawled into the bottom one.
“You have to sit here,” the girl said rather robotically, patting a space beside her. “That’s what you always do.”
I looked over my shoulder at your husband, who leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed and a smile on his face. Tentatively I approached the bed and sat down, my head bowed and back bent, so as not to hit the top bunk.
“And now you’re going to tell us a story. As always.”
“I—”
“Look, Mama!” The boy’s head suddenly appeared beside mine. He was dangling head first over the wooden board that prevented him from falling out at night. “I can fly!”
“Stop it, Jonathan,” the girl hissed. “That’s dangerous. And we want to hear a story now.”
“Okay,” he grumbled, swinging his torso back upward. Above me the mattress bulged through the slatted frame as he got himself into a comfy position.
Dear Child Page 8