I don’t have to ask myself if he enjoyed what he did. Of course he enjoyed it. He loved playing the great God, with power over life and people. He loved torture. Perhaps he wasn’t always like that. Perhaps the loss of his wife and son devastated him so much it drove him mad. Then all he had was you, Lena, who he loved, but at the same time hated for your part in what had happened. Things got out of hand, isn’t that the phrase? Things got really terribly out of hand.
“Yes,” Kirsten says, tearing me from my thoughts. “Because that’s exactly what happened. Don’t they owe it to their readers to tell the truth? I mean, he was their star journalist, who even filed reports about the case. It’s so perverted. But none of his oh-so-meticulous colleagues ever noticed anything.”
“I don’t imagine writing that would be particularly good for business.”
“The other newspapers are printing it,” Kirsten says with a shrug and takes a bite of her croissant.
She’s right, Lena. The media can’t get enough of our story. And I’m assuming it’s going to continue like this for quite a while. Until the next “most spectacular crime of the decade.” You see, that’s what they’re calling it. There are requests for interviews and even a proposal for a TV movie. Our parts would be played by leading actors, and of course we’d be on prime time. Maybe it’s something that they’re leaving your children alone and switching the focus back to you instead. I mean, it can’t hurt you anymore. All apart from the Bayerisches Tagblatt, which is quietly referring to you as a “student” again, the media is depicting you as the notorious lover who was partly responsible for her own fate. It’s about morality, of course. You mustn’t get involved with married men.
Everybody is saying that Lena Beck wasn’t the woman people thought she was, and most say it with raised eyebrows. But they’ve no idea, Lena. You were a mother who did everything for her children. Strong, that’s what you were. Strong and brave out of love for your children, right up until your death. And I admire you for that. I promise to keep an eye on your children. Not yet, though; we all need a little more time. But I know they’ll be fine. They’ve got the best therapists. Your parents are there. And I’ll be there soon too.
“Jassy? Are you crying?”
Kirsten puts the croissant down on her plate.
“It’s fine,” I say, sniffling.
“It’s over,” Kirsten says, smiling. “For good this time.” She takes my hand; we interlink fingers.
“Yes,” I say, smiling back. “It’s over.”
Lars Rogner is dead.
Less than two minutes after I’d rammed the knife into his stomach the police stormed my apartment. Frau Bar-Lev had called them. Because of the creepy, strange man she’d bumped into when she came back home from her trip that evening.
Your father, Lena.
Whatever one says or writes about Lars Rogner, at least he had the decency to tell him your story, rather than take it to the grave with him and let your father go on suffering.
He did, however, take a second story to the grave. As strange as it might sound, this was decent of him too.
It’s the story of another fickle young woman. She’d had a breakup with her best friend and was now planning her dramatic disappearance. She was going to go to the station and take the next train, no matter where it was heading, in the middle of the night without telling a soul. She just wanted to get away, switch off her mobile, give her ex-girlfriend a fright, put one over on her. That was her plan when, one late evening in May, she ended up in a bar on the way to the station, to give herself the last bit of Dutch courage. And he happened to be in this bar too. And it was she who offered to buy him a drink. And it was she who not only had a drink with him, but sat on his lap too. And it was she who whispered in his ear, “Shall we go back to your place?”
“Anything else you want to tell me?” Kirsten asks, narrowing her eyes searchingly.
“No,” I reply. “Nothing else.”
Nothing that matters anymore.
Lars Rogner is dead and I’m having breakfast with the woman I love.
“Do you think we could go past the shops later?”
“Sure,” Kirsten says. “What do you need?”
I smile.
“Hair dye. It’s time to get rid of the blonde.”
There’s one thing all the papers agree on, Lena: Jasmin G survived. And I’m slowly beginning to believe that this is the truth. A good truth.
MATTHIAS
It’s a late October day straight out of a picture book. The air is balmy. The trees are making a final show of their potency before winter, putting on their loveliest display of color. The light has a golden quality, says Karin. The perfect afternoon for a walk, she adds, reluctant to give up.
And yet both of us know that once again I won’t be leaving the house today. I’m sitting opposite her at the dining table, on my plate a piece of cake I don’t want. I’m in my pajamas, my thick, brown toweling dressing gown and my slippers. I’m unshaven and my hair hasn’t been combed. Like yesterday. Like the day before yesterday. Like all the days over the past week when I’ve done nothing but shuffle around the house. Having the odd rest, a few insipid mouthfuls at the dining table. A doze on the sofa. Or brooding in Lena’s old room, which is now empty again. Just like me. Hannah’s gone. Back to the trauma center. Dr. Hamstedt says her therapy is going better now that the story has come out; they can make a proper start now. Jonathan’s making progress too. Karin said that on her last visit he was in high spirits. He’s already calling her “Grandma.”
“More tea?” Karin says, giving me a smile of encouragement across the table. I shake my head. Push the plate away. Leave the table, say I’m going upstairs, to Lena’s room. Karin lets me go without passing further comment.
Gerd called yesterday. They’ve analyzed the fingerprints from the two letters that Jasmin Grass handed over to the police. Of course they’re mine. Gerd says he’ll see what he can do. This is, after all, the second accusation against me. Even if Jasmin Grass were to refrain from pressing charges—and she will—the fact remains that I hindered the investigation, Gerd tells me. Anything beyond a fine of ninety days’ wages and you’re considered to have a criminal record, Gerd adds with a sigh. “Why on earth did you do it, Matthias?”
I sighed too, just sighed, nothing else. Words fail me. I thought Jasmin Grass had something to hide. I thought the letters might help make her talk. Give her a bit of a fright. Remind her of Lena, who deserved the truth. But perhaps I wasn’t thinking anything. I was just in another of my blind rages, being the useless, silly ass I’d always been. I put the letters in Frau Grass’s mailbox on my way to the trauma center. Gerd asked where I got her address. I sniggered down the phone. Oh, Gerd, good old naïve Gerd. Anyone can find an address with a few clicks on the internet.
“You didn’t make it particularly easy for anyone, Matthias.”
No, I’m a hopeless case, I know that myself.
“Ah well, it’s all over now,” Gerd said at the end of our conversation. “Maybe we should go fishing again sometime. Remember? Like in the old days?”
“Yes, maybe,” I said, and, “Bye, Gerd.”
All over.
I go into Lena’s old room. The bed is made, the swivel chair is pushed neatly up against the desk. The two orchids that Karin lovingly nurtures rise up from the windowsill.
All over and now I should be at peace.
I sit on Lena’s bed, the stars above me.
Five thousand and thirteen days.
That’s how long I spent looking for my daughter, looking for answers, certain that I would find peace if I got any.
Five thousand and thirteen days, which in the end fitted into a story lasting ten minutes. Rogner didn’t take any longer than that.
Was that supposed to be it?
Yes, that was it, and it feels wrong. Unsatisfying. Who am I now? What remains of me? What remains when Lena’s dead and Hannah’s gone?
Dr. Hamstedt has said we’re ver
y welcome to visit the children, twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays, between three and four in the afternoon. Gradually, of course, the visiting hours can be extended, but right now, and especially in view of recent events, the children should focus on their therapy. Karin says that’s “sensible.”
I’m lying beneath a starry sky.
Thinking of Hannah.
My little Hannah …
I imagine how it would be if I were suddenly filled with life again. If there were hope, prospects. I would get up, because at once I would know what I had to do. It would feel like an epiphany. I’d go into the bedroom, take some clean clothes from the wardrobe. Then into the bathroom for my first shower in days. A shave. Comb my hair into a neat parting. Go downstairs where Karin’s washing up and she looks pleased to see me, dressed and groomed like a normal human being. The sight of me gives her hope. Hope for a walk in the glowing autumn afternoon. I’d kiss her on the cheek and say, “I’m just popping into the office to pick up the messages,” and Karin feels even more hope. We will cope. A few more good years together. It will be different, that’s for sure. But we’ve still got each other and finally we’ve got closure. I’d smile at her again before I leave the kitchen, cross the hallway to the garage and get into my car. The garage door opens, I reverse. Drive off. Not to the office.
To Regensburg, to the trauma center. To Hannah.
I imagine myself holding her hand and taking her out of the building to the parking lot. Putting on her seat belt in the back. Me sitting in the driver’s seat. Starting the car.
“Let’s go somewhere really far away, Grandad,” a squeak comes from the back seat.
I smile into the rear-view mirror and say, “Yes, my darling, let’s do that.”
I’m lying beneath a starry sky.
I could …
We’re not that dissimilar, Herr Beck.
EPILOGUE
LENA, SEPTEMBER 2013
Our world has solid walls. No windows, no doors. Our world is small. If you measure by putting your heel to your toes, it’s twenty-four paces from the bookshelves to the galley kitchen. Our world has its rules and punishments and its own time.
It’s about power.
You think you’ve locked us in. We are your prisoners. Isolated from everything, from outside, from people. We belong to you alone.
Yes, it’s about power.
Your power consists of four solid walls and twenty-four paces.
I know you’d love me to say your name. You practically beg me to say it, like in the past when it would fall lovingly, excitedly, admiringly or at least politely from my lips. But I don’t do you this favor, no matter how often you try to remind me of the lovely times we had. No matter whether you beat me or kick me, insult me or hurt me in every conceivable way. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve become a stranger, and I’m going to make you feel this until the end. That’s power. My power and it’s inexhaustible.
You think you’ve locked us in?
If you can only see all of this as a prison, then you’re a poor, sick man, a stranger. Every time you turn your back to me, I let a flower grow behind it, an entire field of shining yellow sunflowers. I can create bundles of cabbage-sized hydrangea flowers if I want to.
And I do. Every moment you leave us on our own here, I bring the world into our four solid walls. I create secrets and a private life. I take trips with our daughter, while our son sleeps sweetly and soundly after a cup of milk and honey, dreaming of flying. I take Hannah to our garden, to the hydrangeas. I introduce her to her grandparents and let ladybugs crawl over the back of her hand. You think we’re stuck here, locked in. Whereas we’re in Paris or by the sea or in all those places you think you’re locking us away from if you just shut the door and board up the windows.
Power. Stranger.
I can bring the toy cat to life. I can flood the room with sunlight. I can fetch the stars from the sky. And one day I know my children won’t just see all of this through my eyes and my stories. One day they will step through these doors and out into the world.
That is hope and it’s in my power to ensure it never dies.
You haven’t got us, not really.
It’s your prison, not ours.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My untold thanks go to my agent, Caterina Kirsten, without whom this book simply wouldn’t exist. Dear Caterina, I’ll never forget how you’ve fought me and fought for me. May our journey together last for many, many more years and just as many more books.
I’d also like to offer my heartfelt thanks to Georg Simader, Vanessa Gutenkunst, Lisa Volpp and Felix Rudloff, for your support, the unforgettable experience of reading to an audience for the first time, and for schnapps at the right moment.
Once upon a time there was a little author and she cried torrents of tears when her agent called; tears of joy, happiness and disbelief … this is also down to you, Claudia Baumhöver and Bianca Dombrowa. Here I’d like to tell you again, as well as all the fantastically dedicated and enthusiastic staff at dtv, just how much I appreciate your efforts and your work, and how grateful I am for this very special time in my life.
Finally my family. I hope I tell you often enough what would fill a ridiculous number of pages—I hope you know every day. You are the point of, and reason for, everything in my life.
I’d never have believed that one day my stories could be read all over the world, so I’d also like to thank my foreign publishers for now making this possible.
CV
I was born in the GDR, the child of very young and poor parents who were not especially loyal to the regime; their Stasi files were as thick as Tolstoy’s War and Peace. My cot was a washing basket with a frame made of curtain rods and a homemade canopy. We didn’t have a fridge, so we used to hang our sausages out of the window. Isn’t that how a good story begins, with a sausage hanging from a washing line out of the window of a prefabricated apartment in Halle-Neustadt?
The story gets even better, for my parents, being terrific idealists, fled with me via Hungary to the Golden West. They worked hard, carved out careers for themselves and bought me a regular bed. They taught me to believe that everything was possible; they encouraged me to be more open-minded and instilled in me what I consider my greatest strength: I have no fear of failure. I like to test myself and see how far I get. If there are any limits to what I can do then I’m the one who sets them.
This is my pet topic and I’ve been regularly writing about it since 2016 at www.mymonk.com. In my articles I talk about my time in television. How I, a girl from rural Swabia with glasses and a big bum, ended up in this business in the first place. The reason? Because nobody believed I could make it. But it was what I wanted. I wanted to be in a profession where I could meet people, listen to stories and retell them, and I wanted to make a success of my career.
I talk about how, uneducated and without any training, I became managing editor of a Munich television production company at the age of twenty-four. I talk about the programs I made and the hundreds of people I worked with over many years. The battered wives, the Somalian war refugees who brought me to tears in the middle of an interview, the neglected children and the gay Austrian farmers.
I talk about how fantastic a time this was for me, but also how I became ever harder on myself and no longer recognized who I had become. Letting go of stories wasn’t always easy. I talk about how I sometimes felt so impotent and inadequate. How I slowly lost myself.
And I talk about Karl, my young son, who changed everything. For whom I wanted to get better and reinvent the world. Television was no longer to be a sixteen-hours-per-day job, but merely an activity to keep the wolf from the door. I started working with other stories that didn’t hurt anyone. The job isn’t as exciting as it used to be, but it’s probably healthier.
Now I work at my old kitchen table rather than in an office. My workplace is no longer in the city, but somewhere where it’s not unusual to see a racoon on the terrace in the evenings, gorging on wine
grapes. I do yoga, chop wood and grow vegetables in the greenhouse.
And of course I talk about writing. About the first book that came about when, six weeks after Karl was born, I needed to process my separation from his father. And the second book that had to be written because after the first one I couldn’t imagine not writing.
I also talk about all those other manuscripts that were rejected, I talk about the doubts and tears and the resolution I made on New Year’s Eve 2006: I’m giving up; I’m never going to get anywhere. I strictly kept to my resolution until the second week in January. And finally I talk about the conscious decision I took to just keep going. Maybe on occasion you just have to convince life how seriously you mean something.
So I wrote my articles, most of which ended with: “If I can achieve all of this, so can you.” But that’s not actually true. You also have to be slightly naïve in this world, which at times can be very cruel. And I am naïve, really naïve, in fact, something I consider to be most advantageous. If you can believe, you have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. If you can believe, you don’t ask yourself why you keep going. You just do—and then you’re taken completely by surprise when your agent calls and says, “They want your manuscript.” How wonderful and exciting life is—a very grateful Romy.
Romy Hausmann
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ROMY HAUSMANN lives with her family in a remote house in the woods in Stuttgart, Germany. Dear Child is her English-language debut. You can sign up for email updates here.
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