“We have to wait for the time being anyway. But when we know something concrete we ought to call him, we really should, Matthias. We’ve got to do that, it’s only fair.”
I could literally see my face distorting in the reflection of the windowpane.
“I said no,” I growled to the face in the window.
“It’s all right.” Karin sighed. “Calm down. I didn’t mean to…”
Her words hung unfinished in the air, making it dry and thick.
We haven’t said another word about it since. The air is still thick, the silence is pressing on our heads. Inside them scenarios are playing out that are even worse if you don’t share them.
“So far we’ve only got some pieces of the puzzle,” Giesner said. Abduction, cabin, a woman who looks like Lena, little Hannah. I try to arrange the pieces, but the meaning defeats me. So I start prowling around the room like a caged tiger. Karin has put her feet up on the bed and is now lying, staring at the ceiling, with her hands folded on her tummy. I tell her she should try to get some sleep.
“I can’t,” she whispers back.
It feels as if we’re waiting for the results of a serious operation. I can’t take it any longer.
“I’m going to see what’s happening.”
Karin props herself up on her elbows.
“They must still be in the middle of their interrogation. They would have already come and told us otherwise.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“With what? The interrogation?” Karin laughs softly. “Oh, Matthias.”
“No, I’m being serious. What’s taking so long? Maybe they just need to twist her arm. I bet she knows exactly what’s happened to Lena.”
Karin’s eyes are like saucers.
“Do you think so?”
“Of course! Why is she making out that she’s Lena? Why is she making out to the girl that she’s her mother?” I point vaguely to the door. “The girl out there is Lena’s daughter, a blind man could tell you that! There’s no need for any DNA test.”
Karin’s feet swing over the edge of the bed.
“Do you think that woman’s involved somehow?”
“Surely you must have realized that something’s not right here?”
There is a knock at the door.
In a flash Karin leaps down from the bed and reaches out for my hand. Her fingers are flapping frantically in the air, as if she’s playing a wild piano piece. I grab her hand and pull her beside me. We stand like that, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, when a moment later Giesner enters the room to give us an update on the investigation.
HANNAH
It’s really dark outside. The trees are black and their branches are like ossified monsters’ fingers. “You can’t catch me!” Mama cries out.
As I run there’s a loud cracking beneath my feet, and the same with Mama too. That’s how I know which direction to go in, even though I can barely see her anymore in the darkness. Only when the trees are very far apart can I sometimes see a corner of her beautiful white dress that shines like silver in the light of the moon.
Suddenly there’s a lot of light, a really yellow light, like a bright stream. I see the black tree trunks and between them the outline of Mama, which is black too. Her arms are outstretched like an angel about to fly. Then there’s a huge bang and I stop. That’s what a shock feels like. I can’t see Mama anymore, only the yellow stream of light. I’m walking on tiptoe now; the light’s getting brighter and I have to put my hand in front of my eyes because they’re starting to fill with tears. I push away branches until the wood comes to an end and suddenly turns into a road. Mama is lying in front of a car. I can see her face in the headlights. Her eyes are closed.
I hear a crack behind me. I turn around and see Papa. He runs past me on to the road, to Mama, who’s lying there. “You lost!” he cries out. “Ha ha!”
Mama opens her eyes and laughs.
“That was unfair, you two!”
She holds her hands up to Papa. He pulls her up and wipes the red stuff from her face.
“Now it’s your turn, Hannah,” Papa says to me. “Try your best.”
I squeal and turn around to run back through the wood. After a few paces there’s something tugging at my sleeve. It’s Sister Ruth, who pulls me behind a thick tree trunk and says, “This is a good hiding place, Hannah…”
“… Hannah?”
The wood fades away and only Sister Ruth’s face is still there, right beside mine.
“Hannah,” she says. “Wake up, Hannah.”
I yawn and blink.
I’m not in the wood at all, but in the staffroom, in bed.
“Wake up, Hannah,” Sister Ruth says once more.
“Can we go and see Mama now?” I ask. My voice is still really tired and croaky.
Sister Ruth doesn’t say anything at first, but then she asks me if I slept well.
“Yes,” I say, “and I had a dream.”
“Was it a nice dream?”
I nod.
Sister Ruth does her silly half-smile. I know that something’s not right.
“Is Mama not well?”
Now Sister Ruth looks at the floor. “I have to take you to see Dr. Hamstedt.” For a few seconds I’ve no idea who that is, but then I remember. The tall, thin woman with short brown hair, who came into the staffroom with the policeman. The doctor who forgot her coat.
I want to ask why I have to see her, but Sister Ruth beats me to it and says, “But you can say goodbye first.”
JASMIN
Dr. Schwindt came, despite the chaos of the shift changeover. Even I could see it was necessary.
“It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!” I cried over and over again, thrashing about with my arms and accidentally ripping out the intravenous line. That shouldn’t have happened, but it did, like all those things that happened which oughtn’t to have. And certainly not—
“Try to breathe as calmly as you can, Frau Grass,” Dr. Schwindt says, emphasizing my name as if it’s something precious. The ECG has gone blank; Dr. Schwindt has to restart it. “Technology,” he says laconically, as he presses the relevant buttons. I reckon the machine has just about had enough of me and my unreliable heart that’s linked to my mood.
“In a moment you’re going to feel a little tired,” Dr. Schwindt says when the machine starts beeping regularly again. I’ve decided to like him, simply because right now I feel alone and without any allies. He’s an elderly gentleman with an elaborately waxed beard and glasses with half-moon lenses. I wish my father were here. Or anyone, for that matter.
“You might also feel a numbness in your arms and legs. But that’s completely normal, no cause for concern, okay?”
“Dr. Schwindt?” I say, my voice already slightly feeble. “Could you do me a favor?”
“What’s that, Frau Grass?”
“Could you check something in my medical file?”
Dr. Schwindt turns around as if he’s looking for something, then says, “Hmm, I think the police are examining it at the moment. What would you like to know?”
I swallow; my throat is dry.
“I need to know if I’m pregnant.”
Dr. Schwindt pushes the glasses back up his nose. They’d slipped forward when he was fiddling with the ECG machine.
“If you have any concerns about the sedative, then I can tell you it’s not harmful—”
“My concerns are more general,” I interrupt him.
“No problem, Frau Grass. I will check for you.” He nods and I like him all the more now because he doesn’t ask any further questions.
“Thanks.”
“And now you should get some sleep, okay?”
He says he hopes I get better soon and puts the little box with the emergency button within my reach before leaving the room.
Now I’m lying here and the sensation of numbness starts to tingle in my fingers and toes. But my mind doesn’t feel a thing. It’s wide awake; the adrenaline must still be having an effect
.
“There’s just one more thing, Jasmin,” Cham had said after his phone conversation and handing the mobile to Munich.
“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?” My heart was pumping in panic.
They’ve got the man. Those were Cham’s words. So what was it? Had your husband resisted arrest? Escaped, perhaps? Was he on his way here? That wasn’t possible, totally impossible. I’d hit him with the snow globe, really hard. He’d fallen to the ground. He’d collapsed and lain there without moving.
Munich sighed and looked from the screen back to Cham.
I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Just tell me what’s wrong!”
They conferred about whether to show me the photo that Cham had been sent by his people from the cabin.
“It’s not good enough for an identification,” Munich crowed.
I wiggled my hand impatiently in the air.
Cham looked at me through narrowed eyes.
“Show it to her, Herr Brühling. She’ll cope.”
I nodded my affirmation.
But what I saw, when Munich gave me Cham’s mobile … the photograph … your husband.
“It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!” I started to scream, dropping the phone in the process. It lay there, in the hollow of the duvet between my outstretched legs, the screen glowing, glowing red, everything was red. I turned my head away. His head wasn’t there anymore, or at least not really, his face, shreds, red, everything red.
Munich leaped up from his chair, grabbed the mobile, pressed the button at the top right to switch off the display and handed it back to Cham, who retrieved the photo.
“We need to check whether these injuries really are the result of a snow globe,” he said soberly. “I mean, at first glance, it looks as if, well—”
“No, no, no!” I screamed again. “It wasn’t me! Only once … the snow globe … I only hit him once…”
My voice caught in my throat in mid-scream. Now I was completely quiet. It only dawned on me slowly.
I’d broken your husband’s skull.
Broken every bone in his face.
Shredded his skin.
I must have flailed the snow globe against his face countless times, as in a frenzy. Bam! it went, just as he had said.
Bam! Like dropping a watermelon on the floor.
Nice, calm breathing, Dr. Schwindt said.
Nice, calm breathing, I repeat to myself and my eyelids are heavy. I feel myself sinking, sinking deeper and deeper into a dull tiredness; it’s gradually getting colder and colder, and the cold is creeping into my limbs, making them numb. Dr. Schwindt said that too, a numbness in my arms and legs, completely normal, no cause for concern. It’s just that I feel dreadfully cold.
Are you freezing, Mama? I hallucinate and nod weakly.
Yes, Jonathan, I’m freezing, really freezing.
Something went seriously wrong. I killed him, Lena. I killed your husband. I slaughtered him so wildly as to make him unrecognizable. Bam! it went. Bam! again and again.
My head tips heavily to the side. Was that a knock at the door? My eyelids open sluggishly.
A woman appears, either in my dream or for real; I’m too far gone to be able to tell the difference.
“Hello,” I think I hear the woman say. “Here’s someone who wants to see you.”
A movement behind her back, I blink, dream or reality. Hannah steps forward, approaches my bed, everything in slow motion. She feels in the left-hand pocket of her dress. I realize I’m beginning to roll my eyes. Under Hannah’s touch I feel my hand ball into a feeble fist. Hannah carefully prising open my fingers again, one after the other. Putting something in my palm, then just as carefully pressing my fingers back into a fist. My eyelids flickering and Hannah’s tender kiss on my forehead, right on my scar, her voice whispering, “I remember every detail.”
I slump and fall into a deep sleep.
Woman escapes after being imprisoned in cabin for four months
Cham/Munich (MK)—It is verging on a miracle. After four months of captivity, the advertising consultant from Regensburg, Jasmin G (34), missing since mid-May, has escaped from a remote cabin in the woods near the German-Czech border. The details of her imprisonment, which are slowly emerging, are beyond belief. The 34-year-old lived with her abductor, about whom the police have not yet released any information, and his two children in an enforced family unit. Initial sources are also suggesting the incidence of deviant sexual and psychological abuse. G is said to have been chained up for weeks and fed from a dog bowl. On Tuesday Jasmin G finally succeeded in escaping her tormentor, killing the as yet unidentified man in the process, Chief Inspector Gerd Brühling announced early on Wednesday morning. He also said that this kidnapping was directly connected to the Lena Beck case, the 23-year-old girl from Munich who went missing after a party in January 2004.
Like the two children of the alleged abductor (a girl, 13, and a boy, 11) Jasmin G is currently undergoing therapy. One of the two children is said to have suffered physical injuries in addition to their psychological problems, possibly abnormal development. As yet there has been no confirmation that the children also suffered the sexual abuse which Jasmin G was subjected to.
TWO WEEKS LATER
JASMIN
The sequence is three short ones, followed by two long ones.
Knockknockknock—knock—knock.
I creep across the floor, but I wait another moment to be safe. A floorboard creaks by the door to my apartment. Go on, go on; I growl silently at the thought that Frau Bar-Lev might have an ear pressed to the other side of the door, to listen for any noises inside my apartment. Not today, you old cow.
Yesterday I was so hungry that I opened the door too quickly and offered her a view of the tragic curiosity. Since then I’ve been picturing her serving coffee to a reporter in her apartment. “The poor girl’s in a terrible state. She’s much too thin. She’s stopped washing her hair, she’s wearing a T-shirt with stains on it and baggy tracksuit bottoms. You can see she’s not right.” You can see what she’s been through, she’s saying, nibbling on a biscuit with her false teeth. The reporter is busily writing. About kisses and caresses that stick to my face and body and cannot be washed off. He writes that I’ve given up showering and scrubbing my skin sore because I’ve lost the energy and, in any case, I’ll never rid myself of the cold sweat of fear. A tiny residue of logic inside my head tells me that Frau Bar-Lev would never do anything of the sort, but the images are vivid and persistent. She’s only got a small pension, so a little pocket money would surely be welcome. Stop it. In today’s paper: an exclusive interview with the neighbor of the cabin victim. Stop it!
My tummy is rumbling. The smell of freshly cooked food wafts under the door; I bet it’s stew. The floorboard creaks again, then I hear footsteps on the stairs. Frau Bar-Lev walks slowly; she’s got a bad hip. Momentarily I feel really bad. Every day since I got back home this wonderful old woman has been climbing the steps up to my apartment, which to her must feel like she’s conquering Kilimanjaro. She could have chatted to reporters all this time, but instead she’s been standing with her dodgy hip by the stove in her kitchen, cooking for me. You should be ashamed.
I wait until I hear the door click shut two floors below, then wait a moment longer to be sure that it’s absolutely silent in the hallway outside. I turn the key, press down the handle, pick up the pot from the doormat, close the door and turn the key again. My best time so far—under three seconds. With the pot in my hand, I briefly lean with my back against the locked door and breathe as if I’d just completed a marathon. Everything’s fine, calm, stay totally calm, I implore the thumping in my chest. Then I lift the lid. Goulash. I could have sworn I smelled stew.
I could have sworn I only hit your husband once.
I take the pot into the kitchen and put it on the cooker.
I’d arranged him in such a way that at first glance it wasn’t clear whether the murder weapon really could have been a s
now globe. The police officers must have searched for other potential murder weapons in the cabin, but there was no hammer that could have accounted for the violence of the blows, nor any knife that could have been responsible for the deep cuts. Well, they did exist, of course, hammers and other tools, knives, even really sharp ones, like the knives they use for gutting animals. But they were locked away and plainly out of access to me. It was only when the full forensic report came in that the snow globe was confirmed beyond doubt to have been the murder weapon. Apparently they even put it back together again, almost in its entirety. Only one piece is missing, they can’t find it.
Your husband is dead, Lena.
Your children are in the loony bin.
I should feel better, as a survivor, the victor, grateful and eager for the life I doggedly fought for over four whole months. The reality is different, however. My apartment is darkened. The sky I longed to see for so long, the sun, the tweeting of the birds—I can’t take any of it. My doorbell is switched off; I react to sequences of knocks. I’ve even disconnected my landline. I only leave my mobile on so the police and my therapist can get through to me. I respond to police queries in dribs and drabs, matters that seemingly refuse to come to an end, and my therapist says I’m doing well. I’m praised because I made it to the supermarket around the corner today, all on my own. Because I’m about to cook something delicious and then catch up on the last season of Gilmore Girls. Because I won’t be able to make my next appointment, as my mother or some close friends are coming round. My mouth is already parched from utter lies.
Do you want to know what my daily routine really looks like? I still wake punctually at ten to seven, my right arm beneath my head, the only possible sleeping position in the cabin when I was tied to the bedposts. Occasionally I try to be rebellious and close my eyes again. I change position; I just want to turn over and continue sleeping. But it doesn’t work. I have to get up and make breakfast for the children. It has to be on the table at half past seven on the dot or they start getting nervous, chasing each other around the sitting room like bouncy balls out of control and squealing until my head’s about to burst—please, children, not so loud!
Dear Child Page 10