Dear Child

by Romy Hausmann

  My apartment is indeed empty, Kirsten already gone. I toddle into the kitchen, still feeling sluggish, fill a glass with water from the tap and take my painkillers, half a tablet more than necessary, as ever. Yesterday evening is still playing as a loop inside my head. My meeting with Dr. Hamstedt. I’d never intended our conversation to go the way it did. I just wanted to tell her why I’d hit on the idea, which must have sounded utterly ludicrous at first, that the letters might be from the children. I didn’t want to come across as crazy, not like someone who for good reason would be better off in a room without a door handle. All I wanted to tell her was that the children, especially Jonathan, had very good reason to be disappointed in me. Hate me. Send me letters reminding me of my guilt. I had abused Jonathan’s loving gesture, the greatest act of his life, his gift and his trust, to kill his father. Then, without looking back, I’d run to my freedom—in front of a car, perhaps—but I’d run away. First I’d taken everything from the children—their father, their mother, who they’d accepted me as, their home—and then I’d abandoned them.

  As I told Dr. Hamstedt of my escape, I drifted ever further away. I’d become so drawn in to my own story that I felt as if I were experiencing the whole thing again. I ran through the woods. I felt the uneven ground beneath my feet, which made me stumble, the branches hitting my face and scratching my skin. I could hear the cracking of the undergrowth, my own, laborious panting, and everything was so real. The moment when I emerged from the woods on to the road. The car that hit me. The bright flashes exploding before my eyes. The hard, muffled thud when my body landed on the tarmac. I blinked when I heard the voice of the driver, bent over me, as if I were under a bell jar.

  “Frau Grass,” I heard him say several times before realizing that there was something not right about his voice. Of course he couldn’t have called me by my name. The person really talking to me at that moment was Dr. Hamstedt, trying to haul me back to reality.

  “Frau Grass! Nice and calm, now, Frau Grass!” I heard her say emphatically, and felt her hands around my shoulders. I hadn’t even twigged that as I was telling my story she’d got up from her chair on the other side of the desk. “Are you all right, Frau Grass?”

  “Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, I…” I grabbed my head and realized I was burning hot. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

  “No need to apologize, Frau Grass. Would you like a glass of water, perhaps?”

  “No, thanks. I’m better now.” I hardly dared look her in the eye, so I searched for another, more innocuous object to focus on. The notepad, which lay on Dr. Hamstedt’s desk beside the two letters. But then I realized what I was staring at. Dr. Hamstedt had been taking notes.

  “You’ve been writing?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, but she was smiling. “You were incredible, Jasmin. I know similar things from therapies that work with hypnosis techniques. But you went back of your own accord and without my help, and relived the day of your escape. And you mentioned something…” She picked up her notepad and tapped with her finger on a particular place. “Here,” she said, looking almost excited. “You said your abductor wanted your baby to be called Sara or Matthias. Do you know that Lena Beck’s father is called Matthias?”

  “Yes,” I said, but neglected to tell her that I had my extensive research to thank for this detail, the research that covered the walls of my bedroom. Dr. Hamstedt didn’t appear to think I was crazy and I wanted it to stay that way.

  “That could be an important piece of information, Jasmin. It may even help establish the identity of your abductor and his motive. It sounds very personal somehow, don’t you think?”

  “Or maybe he just read the reports in the newspaper and was having a bit of fun.”

  “Possibly. But I think you should talk to Inspector Giesner as soon as possible.”

  “Do you really think it might be so important?”

  Dr. Hamstedt nodded.

  “Why should the abductor want to call your child after the father of his first victim?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he was a sick bastard?” With the tip of my tongue I felt for the hole in my jaw, which had healed, but was still there. “You’re the expert. So, what was he? A sadist?”

  Dr. Hamstedt rocked her head from side to side and said, “For Lena Beck, Matthias would have had a significance. It would have probably been torture for her, having to call her child by her father’s name all the time, a constant reminder of the life she’d had. But for you, Jasmin, the name would have had no meaning at all during your time in the cabin. You only found out that Lena’s father was called Matthias after your escape. So as far as I’m concerned, there’s definitely a personal aspect here. Even if he couldn’t torture you with the name, it must have satisfied him in some way or other.”

  “Well, he did think I was Lena.”

  “He tried to turn you into Lena. There’s a difference.” She pursed her lips pensively. “Maybe he knew him.”

  “Who did he know?”

  “Lena’s father. Although…” she said, still thinking this through. “So far as I know, Herr Beck didn’t recognize the perpetrator from the facial reconstruction. But you’d best discuss these things directly with Inspector Giesner.”

  The facial reconstruction. All at once I felt sick, the same feeling that’s overcoming me now. I try to convince myself that it’s just a picture, a piece of paper, but that doesn’t help. My stomach cramps; my cheeks suck inward at the sour taste in my mouth. I slam my water glass on the kitchen table and hurry into the bathroom, where I kneel beside the toilet bowl, my fingers clutching the rim. I kneel there for a while and the reflex won’t come to an end, although by now my stomach’s empty and all that’s coming up are deep, hollow sounds.

  “I beg you, Jasmin,” Dr. Hamstedt said, picking up the letters from her desk, folding them and slipping them back into the envelopes. “Do call Inspector Giesner. Talk to him. Tell him about the letters too,” she said, holding them up pointedly. “Although it’s out of the question that the children could have been involved, I think Inspector Giesner ought to take a look at them.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, yes. I promise I’ll give him a call in the morning.” I got up from my chair and offered her my hand to say goodbye, but noticed a hesitation in her movements which unsettled me fleetingly.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?” I said.

  “For the time being I’ve left Hannah in the care of her grandparents.”

  “She’s … out of the clinic?”

  My heart started racing. Dr. Hamstedt realized that I was worried by what she’d said.

  “Please give Dr. Brenner a chance, Jasmin. I’m sure it’ll be of help.”

  * * *

  She’s out of the clinic … I crawl over to the sink and pull myself up weakly. There are still cramps in my stomach; I try to breathe. I turn on the tap and wash my face. The woman in the mirror looks sick. Her complexion is gray, dark shadows circle her eyes. Nonetheless she nods at me determinedly. You should ring Cham. I know. He can check the letters for fingerprints and then you’ll have certainty. But he’ll take the opportunity to show me the facial reconstruction too, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to take that. What if I lose control like with Dr. Hamstedt yesterday evening? The last morsel of control I still possess? What if I see the reconstruction, then everything surfaces and I simply start talking, telling him everything, unable to stop? I shake my head. I will ring Cham, but not till later and only when Kirsten’s here. Kirsten, who thinks you’re sick. Who’s right. For whom you’re a burden. I slap the side of the sink and breathe out the resulting pain through clenched teeth. All of a sudden the woman in the mirror looks up. Someone’s here.

  JASMIN

  I dash out of the bathroom and into the hallway. I know at once that it’s not Kirsten. She must have taken the key because it’s not in the lock. And the knocking on the door isn’t our signal. I’m expecting it to be Cham, who must have taken the
decision of whether and when I’m going to talk to him out of my hands. But then I hear the voice in-between the knocking.

  “Frau Grass? It’s Maja here. I’m a bit early with lunch today!”

  I pause.

  “Frau Grass?”

  As I quietly approach the front door, Maja starts knocking again.

  “Frau Grass, it’s Maja here!” The floorboard outside my apartment creaks several times. Maja’s getting impatient. I take a deep breath and open the door.

  “Did I wake you, Frau Grass?”

  “No, it’s fine.” I sigh.

  Maja holds out a Tupperware container with a green lid. There doesn’t seem to be any post.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to warm the food today,” she says. “My microwave is broken.”

  “That’s fine, don’t worry. Thanks.”

  I take the container and am just about to turn around to put it on the cabinet when Maja pushes the door and is now inside my apartment.

  “No, Frau Grass, it’s not,” she says so firmly that I flinch. “I gave Frau Bar-Lev my solemn promise that I’d look after you, and now I’m bringing you cold food. She’ll kill me if she finds out.”

  “I won’t tell her,” I say briskly, still trying to comprehend that Maja has just entered my flat and right now is shutting the door behind her as if it’s completely normal.

  “No way.”

  She grabs the container from my fingers, which are still stiff with fear, and hurries past me. “I’m just going to quickly heat this up for you. You’ve got a microwave, haven’t you?”

  My eyes, which can’t believe what they’re seeing, are fixed on the doorway to the kitchen where Maja has just gone. A moment later I hear her call out, “There you go.”

  When I enter the kitchen she’s turning the timer on the microwave, which starts humming.

  “I hope you’re hungry, Frau Grass. It’s vegetable gratin today. I chose it myself, I hope it’s okay.” She spins around and gives me an overly sweet smile. “In my freezer there’s still a pasta bake and something with mince. At least I think so. Frau Bar-Lev’s handwriting isn’t that easy to decipher. So you can decide what you’d like tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Maja. I think I’ll manage now.”

  “I could wash up if you like?”

  “That’s not necessary. My friend will do it later.”

  “Oh yes, Kerstin. I met her yesterday. I hope you liked the chicken soup.”

  “Kirsten. Her name’s Kirsten. She told you she’s moved in here temporarily. She’s a very good cook, so I won’t starve.” I turn to the hallway, encouraging her to leave. “Well … I don’t mean to throw you out, but I’d really like to have a lie-down. I don’t feel so well today.”

  Maja is still smiling, though now there’s something stiff and unnatural about her expression. As if she were a sculpture created by an artist who’d never seen a real smile and had fashioned it merely on the basis of what they’d heard and using their own imagination. As if Hannah had done it.

  “But first you’ve got to eat something, Frau Grass.” The microwave beeps as if on cue. “Ping!” Maja says, imitating the sound. “Look, it’s already done.”

  She turns her back to me and I watch her open the kitchen cupboards and drawers in the search for a plate and some cutlery. She’s too close, I think. Too close to the knife block. It would take a single swish of the hand. I carefully take a step backward.

  “Where did you vanish to so quickly last time, Maja? When I came from the kitchen with the dishes you were gone.”

  Maja darts to the other side of the kitchen, to the microwave and away from the knives.

  “Smells delicious,” her cheery voice says.

  I take a further step back and bump into the kitchen door.

  “Maja?”

  “Last time? Oh yes. I remembered I had a pizza in the oven and there’s nothing worse than burned pizza. Although that’s not true, is it? There’s much worse, isn’t there, Frau Grass?”

  I grab my throat, which suddenly feels constricted.

  “My friend’s going to be back soon.”

  Unfazed, Maja empties the contents of the Tupperware on to the plate.

  “Sit down, Frau Grass.”

  The kitchen door is pressing into my back. Just one step to the side and I could back into the hallway, but my body’s not working; it seems to be uncoupled from the synapses inside my head, it just stands there rigidly. I stare and croak, “She’s just gone to fetch a few of her things. She’ll be back any minute.”

  “I’m sorry, Jasmin.” With the plate in one hand and the knife and fork in the other, Maja turns around to me. “I’m afraid there’s only enough lunch for one.”

  HANNAH

  Some things aren’t right. The garden, for example. It’s not huge, it’s not at least five hundred steps in every direction. And there aren’t any hydrangeas, either, with flowers as big as cabbages. I know, because I’ve peeked through the gaps in the roller blinds. All that’s outside in the garden are a few thin, crooked rose bushes and people with cameras.

  Grandma’s not right either. She’s not that nice and she hasn’t told me a goodnight story yet.

  Only Grandad is right, exactly right. He’s very polite when he knocks on the door to Mama’s room.

  “Hannah, open up, please,” he says. You always have to say please and thank you. You always have to be polite.

  I turn the key and he comes in. “Why did you lock the door, Hannah?” He looks really horrified.

  “Because you forgot to, of course,” I say. “The adults always have to lock the children up before they argue.”

  “Oh,” Grandad says. He puts a hand on my back and pushes me over to Mama’s bed. “Sit down, Hannah.” I obey him, even though I’d rather sit on the swivel chair. It’s very comfortable, Grandad was right. And you can roll on it from one end of the room to the other.

  “Listen, Hannah,” Grandad says. The mattress bounces when he sits beside me. “Your grandmother and I weren’t really arguing. We were just discussing something we have different opinions about. That’s perfectly normal and there’s nothing bad about it. You don’t need to be afraid.”

  I look up to the stars on the ceiling. Usually this makes me think of when I used to lie in bed at home with Mama beside me, moving my finger along the slatted frame of Jonathan’s bunk from one star to another until they were joined up by invisible lines. Mama would smile and say, “That’s a very well-known constellation, Hannah. The Plow,” and I would smile back, even though some time ago I’d read in the fat book, which is always right, that the Plow isn’t a real constellation, but it’s made up of the seven brightest stars of the Great Bear.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For goodness’ sake,” Grandad says, looking even more horrified. “You don’t have to be sorry, Hannah, my love. Your grandmother and I, both of us are delighted to have you here with us. Grandma just got a bit upset because there are so many people outside the house.”

  “But there aren’t that many. Only six. Yesterday there were many more.”

  Grandad coughs but I think it’s meant to be a laugh.

  “Hannah…” he says, but then pauses until he’s taken a tissue from his trouser pocket and wiped his nose. “You can’t choose your family. And you can’t replace anyone either.” He scrunches up the tissue untidily and puts it back in his pocket. “But believe me when I say that your grandmother, Karin, is the best grandmother you could hope to have. She just has to get used to everything first.”

  “That’s what Papa always used to say.” I smile, although I feel slightly sad when Grandad makes me think of Papa. Grandad appears to be sad too. He presses his lips together so tightly that all I can see of his mouth is a thin line.

  “Do you know what, Hannah?” he says after a little while. “How about we go back down and see Grandma? I bet she’s calmed down now and is wondering where we’ve got to. We could have a look at some photos of your mama when she
was a little girl.”

  I nod.

  “Just one more thing, Hannah. Please don’t shut the door anymore. Leave it just a tiny bit open so I know you’re all right. Okay? Promise, Hannah?”

  I nod again.

  Grandad smiles, first at me, then up at Mama’s stars. “You got a star sticker from the dentist. You can put it up there if you like.”

  I shake my head.

  “That wouldn’t work, Grandad. The constellation wouldn’t be right.”

  “I see,” he says. “Oh well, it was just an idea.”

  * * *

  When Grandad and I come down the stairs, there’s a large package in the hallway and Grandma is closing the front door.

  “They’ve gone,” she says, sounding cheerful. She’s holding a letter. “That was outside the door.”

  “Yes,” Grandfather says, taking the letter from her. “One of the journalists put it there earlier. But I thought she’d taken it away again after I kicked it down the path.”

  “What’s in it?” Grandma asks.

  “No idea.”

  There’s a rrrrip when Grandad tears open the letter.

  “Aha,” he says when he’s skimmed the note. “They’re things for Hannah and Jonathan. It says:

  Many of our readers are concerned about your grandchildren and would like to help. We’ve put together the things they’ve sent to us over the past few days or dropped off at our offices. Best regards, the editorial team from Bayerisches Tagblatt.”

  “How lovely!” Grandma says, tearing a length of brown sticky tape from the box. “Come over here, Hannah. Let’s take a look.”

  I step closer.

  Grandma takes items of clothing from the box one by one.

  “Look,” she says, holding up a dark blue knitted jumper. “Do you think Jonathan would like that?”

  “He likes blue. His favorite trousers are blue.”

  “He’ll definitely be pleased about the jumper then.”

  “More charity stuff,” Grandad says, scrunching up the letter in his hand. “Great,” he adds, although it doesn’t sound as if he really thinks it’s great.