Dear Child

by Romy Hausmann

  “It was like a slap in the face when you asked me that, Jasmin. At that moment something broke between us.”

  I assured her a thousand times that I’d just been tired and overwrought, but Kirsten wouldn’t believe me, even when she smiled and said, “Fine.”

  We bumbled on for another few months, then she moved out.

  “I can’t live with you anymore, Jasmin. I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t work.” And: “We can stay friends.”

  The last time I heard that was on the night I disappeared. We can stay friends. And yet, judging by the look on her face, she just wanted to close the door again when I turned up that evening, an idiot with bread and salt and an overnight bag. Bread and salt as a moving-in present, even though that had already been a few weeks earlier and I was still waiting for an invitation to come and see her new apartment. So that evening I’d just turned up unannounced. With the essentials in my overnight bag. I could have stayed the night with her. Or, if we’d got into another fight, jumped on the next train to spend a few days away, get some distance, take a step back, mobile off, come to terms with it, just as Kirsten wanted me to.

  “You’ve got to come to terms with it, Jasmin! I don’t want any more calls or messages from you. And I certainly don’t want you just turning up outside my front door, okay? I need some time to myself at the moment. Please understand that.”

  I shake my head to banish the memory of that terrible evening. That evening doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that she’s here now. She’s come back to me and I’m no longer thinking about the circumstances. She’s here.

  A clatter of crockery comes from the kitchen, while a strong whiff of coffee wafts through the open bedroom door, a strong whiff of normality. I lean back against the pillow and close my eyes. I’m probably just dozing because for a while I’ve been hearing the irregular knocking at my front door, whereas Kirsten only stops what she’s doing when the knocking becomes constant. I hear her footsteps cross the laminate in the hallway, the click of the lock as she turns the key and then the surprised “Oh, hello, good morning” of a man’s voice I recognize at once.

  “Frank Giesner, Cham police,” the voice says.

  “Kirsten Thieme,” says Kirsten, who also seems to have registered Cham’ surprise that a stranger has opened the door. “I’m a friend of Frau Grass,” she explains without being asked.

  “Frau Thieme, oh yes. Your name is familiar from Frau Grass’s case notes. You were the one who reported her missing.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, I’d like to speak to her, please.”

  I carefully lower my head into the pillow and close my eyes. I don’t want to talk to Cham now, certainly not in Kirsten’s presence.

  “I’m afraid she’s still asleep.”

  “Maybe you could tell her that it’s really very important.”

  “I understand, of course. But she’s not feeling particularly well. She had a difficult night and is in urgent need of rest. Would it be possible for her to call you later?”

  Cham is hesitant to answer.

  “Of course. But perhaps you might be able to spare me a minute of your time? You’re very close to Frau Grass, aren’t you?”

  I freeze. Everything in me freezes.

  “Yes…” Now Kirsten sounds surprised. “Do come in, Herr…”

  “Giesner. Thank you.”

  I feel sick. Cham is inside my apartment. Cham, who wants to talk to Kirsten. Kirsten, who now pushes down the squeaky door handle to close the bedroom door. Because the poor woman from the cabin needs her rest, or because the police inspector mustn’t get a glimpse into a room where the walls are for some sick reason covered in newspaper articles about Lena Beck. I know I ought to get up, but instead I pull the duvet over my head, screw up my eyes and breathe, in and out.

  I must have fallen asleep again. Kirsten was right: I’m in need of sleep as well as peace and quiet. I still haven’t recovered from the night before last in particular, when I’d researched and printed out the articles. I wake with a start and listen. I can’t hear anything, neither Kirsten nor Cham. Awkwardly I haul myself out of bed and plod over to the bedroom door. Before pressing the squeaky handle, which would give a clear sign that I’d woken up, I put an ear to the door to make sure, but still I can’t hear anything. It’s silent in the sitting room.

  I find Kirsten sitting at the kitchen table, painting her nails dark red.

  “Hello, Sleeping Beauty, you’re awake!” she says, smiling and looking up at me. “Fancy some coffee? There’s still some in the pot. But you’ll have to help yourself,” she says, holding up her left hand with its freshly lacquered nails by way of explanation.

  I fetch myself a mug from the cupboard.

  “What was so urgent?”

  “What do you mean?”

  My hand, which has just grabbed the coffee pot, pauses in mid-air.

  “I heard a knocking at the door, but then I fell asleep again.”

  I turn around to Kirsten and raise my eyebrows.

  “Oh yes. That was your neighbor. Maja, I think. From the second floor. Nice girl.” Kirsten gestures toward the cooker before resuming painting her nails. “She brought you lunch.” I spin around and see a little pot on the cooker. “Chicken noodle soup,” Kirsten explains. “I told her she doesn’t need to come anymore now that I’m here to look after you. She left her mobile number anyway, in case there’s anything she can do. It’s on the fridge.” And there it is: a pink Post-it with Maja’s name, a sequence of numbers and a smiley face she drew beneath. “Oh yes, she brought the post too. It’s on the cabinet.”

  The coffee pot now feels heavy in my hand. I put it down on the work surface.

  “No, Kirsten, I’m talking about Frank Giesner. He was here. I heard him.”

  Kirsten looks up again and sighs. It might only be a matter of seconds but these stretch into infinity, as I start to feel a burning behind my forehead. The heat trickles out through my pores, covering my face with a damp, hot film. My apprehensions create bubbles. Kirsten, who’s about to tell me that I merely imagined Giesner’s visit, his voice; I just imagined it again. It was Maja knocking at the door. The pot on the cooker and the phone number on the fridge are proof.

  “Yes, he wanted to talk to you about the facial reconstruction,” Kirsten says eventually, and I laugh with relief before I understand. My abductor has a face again now and they want me to look at it. Identify him. Reanimate the pictures inside my head. Look into a pair of eyes that are accusing me. What kind of a monster are you?

  “Why didn’t you say that straightaway?” I ask to drown out the other thoughts.

  “Because I didn’t want to upset you again. Come on, have some coffee and let’s wait until you’re properly awake.” It doesn’t escape my attention that she sounds slightly irritated. I pour myself a mug of coffee.

  “Did he show you?”

  “The picture? Yes. But I couldn’t be sure if I’d ever seen the man before. I mean, we used to have a lot of people over here, do you remember?”

  Yes, I do. People others had brought along, and who liked to party as much as we did. Fewer than a dozen and it wasn’t a party.

  I suppress the wistful feelings welling inside me and nod.

  “I reckon you need to take a look at it yourself, Jassy. There’s nothing for it.” Kirsten looks concerned. “Do you think you’d be up to it?”

  I manage a smile at least, even though it feels slightly artificial.

  “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  I take a few sips of my coffee. Swallowing is difficult. With another sigh, Kirsten screws the cap of the nail polish back on with her fingertips. I wonder if she regrets coming back to look after me. Whether she can put up with me.

  “Giesner’s waiting for you to call to fix an appointment for the identification. He said you don’t have to go to police HQ if you don’t want to. He’d be very happy to come back here. Any time, even after work if necessary.”


  “That’s nice of him,” I say hoarsely.

  “I’m wondering whether it might not also be a good idea to make an appointment with your therapist now. Who knows how you’ll react when they show you the picture of your abductor?”

  “She can’t help me either.”

  “Well … you have to want to.”

  “You think so too, do you?” I say softly, putting my mug down on the work surface. “If I’m getting too much for you, feel free to tell me. I’d understand.”

  Kirsten rolls her eyes.

  “Come on, Jassy. Don’t be like that. Really.”

  “You don’t owe me a thing.”

  “Just stop, would you? This isn’t about us, it’s about you coming to terms with things.”

  “Coming to terms.”

  “Learning to live with what happened to you. It’s not going to work if you keep on like this. You need professional help.”

  “I feel better with you here.”

  Kirsten clicks her tongue. I see her chew her bottom lip for a few seconds before deciding to resume the conversation.

  “You wet the bed.”

  I think I’ve misheard her at first, perhaps I’m even laughing.

  “I…?”

  Kirsten slides back in her chair to get up. Then she stands beside me with sad eyes and her head angled to one side.

  “You wet the bed,” she says again slowly. “Last night. You must have been dreaming. You were kicking with your legs and thrashing about with your arms. And you were screaming. That’s not a bracelet, Hannah! Those are handcuffs! Open them, for God’s sake! I tried waking you, but you were out of it.”

  I shake my head. I didn’t dream last night.

  “Yes, Jassy, that’s exactly what happened. When I realized the sheet was wet I pulled you out of bed. I was going to put you on the sofa in the sitting room so you could continue sleeping while I changed the bed. But you held on tight and screamed at me not to leave you alone and you were terrified that some sort of machine might stop working again.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Well, you slept.”

  I shake my head again, while Kirsten’s sad eyes widen with concern and she just keeps nodding, as if hypnotized.

  “That’s what happened, Jassy. Just that. And it’s a sign that you’re not actually much better. Don’t you understand? I can be here. I can go shopping for you and change the bed. I can hold you in my arms and listen to you when you need to talk. But I’m no therapist.”

  I push past her without saying anything. I go out of the kitchen, away from her concerned look, her closeness that now pains me. My goal is the sitting room, to be alone there, just for a moment, to be able to think, to try to reconcile the feeling of peacefulness I felt when waking up with the terrible night I’m supposed to have had.

  “I don’t mean any harm,” I hear behind me, and I turn around. Kirsten has followed me into the hallway and is now facing me, both hands up, her fingers waggling in the air. The nail polish isn’t yet dry. “But we’re not going to manage it alone.” She puts out her arm to touch my shoulder, but then thinks better of it, presumably because she doesn’t want to smudge the nail polish. “Please let’s call your therapist.”

  I turn away.

  “Come on, Jassy. Why are you making it so difficult for me to help you?”

  My gaze alights on the post piled on top of the cabinet. I see it at once.

  “Do you think you deserve to suffer like this?”

  A plain white envelope without a stamp.

  “Nobody deserves this.”

  It’s half concealed beneath yesterday’s newspaper, which means I can only see part of the address. But it’s the same handwriting, I’m sure of that.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll call her right away,” I say in a monotone voice. “Could you see where I left my mobile? I think it’s in the sitting room.”

  Behind me I hear Kirsten give a sigh of relief before she shuffles off.

  “I’m just popping to the bathroom!” I call out, grabbing the letter.

  I steal into the bathroom, lock the door and lean against it. I pull at the flap of the envelope with trembling, sweaty fingers, but then am briefly distracted by the rattling of the washing machine. When I realize that it must be the soiled bedclothes from last night going around and around, a lump forms in my chest. I take the piece of paper from the envelope.

  The same large, black, bold, accusatory letters. But different words, three this time.

  TELL THE TRUTH.

  MATTHIAS

  The conversation I’d had with Giesner I could have had with Gerd, only we would have been on first-name terms, and afterward he would have called me an ass and I would have called him an idiot. Policemen are all the same, interchangeable, templates. They all say the same things. Personally connected. I just can’t get over this. The expression accompanies Hannah and me on our drive home. It has filled the car like the sticky, stale, heavy air, and it’s squashing my skull. None of them believe I ever really knew my daughter. They think I closed my eyes and spent the last thirteen years—perhaps even longer—in a semi-doze, lulled by my love for my girl. But I do know my daughter. I knew her very well.

  I sniff noisily and glance in the rear-view mirror. I can only see Hannah’s eyes and her hairline: they could be Lena’s. Right now I could be driving my little Lena to gymnastics or to a friend’s house.

  “Papi,” the squeaky voice would come from the back seat. “Shall we stop quickly and get an ice cream?”

  “Sounds good. Who’s paying?”

  “You are, of course, Papi! I’m still little and I don’t have a job.”

  “Yes, of course, I’d totally forgotten. Okay, Lena. But only because it’s you.”

  One day Hannah might ask me the same question: “Shall we stop and get an ice cream?” What I would give to see this day.

  “Shall we have a quick stop at the next services, Hannah?” I say into the rear-view mirror, a hopeful smile on my lips. “It’s still another half an hour’s drive. A short break would be a good idea, what do you think?”

  Hannah looks out of the side window, without giving me an answer. Trees and uncultivated fields fly past on either side of the motorway. The weather report was wrong; a sad, gray veil has now covered the sky which was still blue a few hours ago. I wish I could look inside Hannah’s head. I wish I had the courage to ask her what she’s thinking about right now as we tear along the motorway at 80 mph. Whether she finds it frightening or exciting. Whether she’s looking forward to getting home. But it is as it always is when we’re alone. Something inhibits me from asking about the really important things, maybe for fear I’ll upset something.

  A BMW that rudely pulls in close to me tears me from my thoughts. A sign to the right announces a service station in three miles.

  “Hannah?” I try again. “What do you think? A short stop?”

  “I’d rather go home without a short stop, Grandad.”

  “Okay, that’s fine,” I say as cheerfully as possible to conceal my disappointment, then mutter unwittingly to myself, “Probably a stupid idea anyway. Someone’s bound to whip out their mobile and take the next photo of zombie girl.”

  “What did you say, Grandad?”

  “That you’re absolutely right, Hannah,” I say louder, smiling at her again in the mirror. “Let’s hurry home instead.” I crane my neck so I can see the whole of Hannah’s face in the mirror. Now she’s smiling too. My little Lena …

  * * *

  My heart is pounding when I turn our old Volvo into our street, which is in a traffic-calming zone. On either side of the street, separated by neatly trimmed hedges, stand lovingly cared-for houses, their front doors hung with clay tiles bearing greetings and the name of the family that lives there. Each house has its own little front garden with climbing frames or rose bushes like little islands in the lawn. The perfect environment in which to raise a child.

  I steer around the bend that takes t
he road to its end, and I’ve just caught my breath to tell Hannah that we’re here, when I see them. Around a dozen people on the street outside our house. Half a carpool lining the pavement.

  “What the…?” I say, bringing the car to a stop.

  Behind me Hannah sits up, slides forward on the seat and clutches the headrest of the passenger seat.

  “What’s wrong, Grandad?”

  The mob has spotted our car. Heads turn in unison to the Volvo, which has come to a halt in the middle of the street about twenty yards away from them. My jaw clenches. My shoulders tense. My entire body becomes painfully wooden. My hands are holding the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles stick out white beneath the skin. I hold my breath.

  “Grandad? Who are all these people?”

  My right foot twitches above the accelerator. An idea briefly flashes in my mind: foot down, straight into the crowd, peace at last.

  “Grandad?” Hannah’s voice has lost some of its usual monotony; she’s almost sounding slightly tearful now. Can’t you see you’re frightening the girl? I want to shout, but then I think of my granddaughter, who doesn’t need any more cause for alarm at the moment. It’s obvious that this bunch of people are all journalists. I can see clipboards and cameras, even a television camera and boom mic. A red-haired woman in a light blue coat breaks away from the pack and takes a few tentative steps toward us.

  “Fucking Rogner,” I snarl, but Lars Rogner doesn’t appear to be among them. Not in person, at least, but I bet he’s sent one of his people. Maybe the woman in the light blue coat who’s approaching our car, slowly but steadily. A few others follow her. Now they’re about ten yards away.