The Vanishing of Katharina Linden

by Helen Grant

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Pia?” said Herr Schiller. He was holding a small cup of coffee out to me.

  “Sorry.”

  I shook my head as though to clear it, wondering how long he had been holding the cup out, then carefully took it from him.

  “You have a lot on your mind today, Fräulein,” said Herr Schiller drily.

  “Mmm.” I sipped the coffee gingerly; I was anxious to consume it without visibly choking, but it was about as thick and pungent as I could bear.

  “And how is life in the big school?”

  “Umm…” I hesitated, wondering whether to give the standard answer, fine, or to tell the truth, which was: about the same-I’m still the girl whose grandmother exploded.

  While I was pondering, Stefan sprang in with, “It’s good, but we have a lot of work.”

  “Ah.” Herr Schiller looked at us both over his coffee cup, his bushy eyebrows raised. “A lot of fieldwork, oder?” Looking at our blank faces, he broke into a smile which creased his craggy face in a hundred places. “I have seen you farther up the street, examining the houses.”

  I shot Stefan a glance. Had everyone in the entire street seen us outside Herr Düster’s house? I should have known it, of course-Bad Münstereifel is one of those towns where closed-circuit television cameras would be totally redundant. Hours of videotape could tell you nothing that the neighbors couldn’t.

  “Oh,” said Stefan offhandedly. He shrugged. “We were thinking of doing a project about old houses… but it didn’t work out.”

  “A pity,” said Herr Schiller, but he didn’t pursue it. That was another thing I liked about him-he didn’t harp on about things like other adults did. If we had told my mother the same thing she would have wanted to know why we were abandoning a project we had already started, and what the deadline was, and whether we had a suitable new project, and what the others in our class were doing for theirs…

  “Herr Schiller?”

  “Yes, Pia?”

  “Have you told us all the stories there are about Bad Münstereifel? The ones with ghosts and things, I mean?”

  “Why, are you going to do a project about those?” asked Herr Schiller.

  “No,” I said. “I’m just interested.”

  “Hmmm.” Herr Schiller leaned back in his armchair and felt about for his pipe. Fascinated, I watched him stuffing tobacco into the bowl of it. It looked disgusting, but he kept on smoking, so I supposed he must like it.

  My gaze moved from the pipe up Herr Schiller’s face and I realized that his eyes were upon me. Between puffs, he said, “I haven’t told you all the stories there are about the town. I don’t suppose anyone can. But,” he added, perhaps seeing my face fall, “I can tell you one of the stories you haven’t heard already. If you have time, that is, between your studies.” There was an almost imperceptible twang of humor in his voice.

  “Of course.” I was not eager to pursue the topic of my studies any further. I shuffled a little farther back into my chair and looked at him expectantly.

  “This,” said Herr Schiller slowly, “is a story about our old friend Unshockable Hans.

  “One evening, Hans was standing outside the mill with his pipe in his mouth watching the sun setting behind the hill, when he saw from a long way off a figure coming toward him. Oddly enough, it carried over its head a large basket, the sort they used to put fruit in.

  “There was something about the figure that made Hans narrow his eyes and take a longer look. Perhaps it was the way that it seemed to glide through the wet grass without once sticking fast in the muddy earth or stumbling over a clump of weeds. Or more likely it was the way that basket sat so low upon the shoulders of the figure-unnaturally low, one might think, considering that the person’s head must fit underneath.

  “Hans took his pipe out of his mouth and knocked out the ashes on the stone wall of the mill. Then he put it away, and stood there with his hands on his hips, waiting for the approaching figure to reach him. It was dressed in a curiously old-fashioned costume for that date. The fabric, indeed, had a rusty look about it, as though it had discolored from age and hard wear.

  “‘Guten Abend,’ said Hans to his visitor.

  “The stranger said not a word in return, but reached up with his hands and lifted off the basket that covered him. Now Hans saw the reason for the curious appearance of the basket, so low upon the man’s shoulders. He had no head. Where his shirt collar rose out of his rusty-looking jacket there was a nub of skin and flesh, like the stump of a chicken’s neck when its head has been cut off, and protruding from the middle there was a little nub of bone. But as to chin, face, or cranium, he had none. There was simply nothing there.

  “Another man would have taken one look and fled shrieking back into the mill to bar the door. But Hans, as you know, was made of stronger stuff. He had heard his grandmother speak of the headless ghost of Münstereifel when she was a wrinkled crone of eighty and he a fresh-faced little boy of six or seven. Where another man might have died of fright, Hans was filled with simple curiosity. He determined to address the ghost and ask it its business.

  “‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ he asked boldly.

  “Then the ghost gave a great sigh, and it was a strange sound, because it came from the stump of his neck, and it seemed to echo deep within his torso.

  “‘Dear Hans,’ he said in an oddly resonant tone, ‘for the sins of my lifetime I was condemned to wander Münstereifel, a fearful thing with no head, until some soul braver than the rest dared to ask me who I am and what I seek. Long have I wandered, knowing no rest. When I began to walk here, there was an ancient town and a castle high upon a hill with the flag of a feudal lord flying over it and soldiers marching along its battlements. The castle fell and the town dwindled, and the woods covered the ruins. Still I walked among the broken stones and the grass and weeds. At last a new town sprang up in place of the old one, and still I walked, and no one dared to speak to me.’

  “‘Lieber Gott,’ said Hans. ‘What can you have done to deserve such a fate?’

  “Then the ghost came closer to him, and told Hans his sins, and Hans, who feared neither man nor spirit, grew pale and silent to hear such a catalog of evildoing.

  “‘I thought,’ said Hans at last in a low voice, ‘that no one could have done so much evil as to deserve such a punishment, but I see that I was wrong.’ And he crossed himself like the good Catholic he was. ‘I am sorry for you,’ he said.

  “‘Do not pity me,’ said the voice of the ghost. ‘By speaking to me, and asking me who I am, you have freed me.’

  “And then Hans saw that in his hands the ghost was holding a head, the head of a man of fifty winters, seamed with wrinkles, the features bearing the stamp of a long and wicked life. The ghost’s fingers were entwined in the grizzled hair. As Hans watched, the ghost lifted the head onto his shoulders and settled it there, and when he seemed quite satisfied that it had stuck fast, he made a low bow to Hans and vanished.

  “And,” added Herr Schiller, “since that day he has never been seen again, so it seems that Hans really did free him.”

  Stefan shifted restlessly in his chair. “He just vanished?”

  “Doch.”

  “And what were the sins that he told Hans?”

  “Nobody knows,” said Herr Schiller. “Hans never told a soul what he had heard. The story goes that the ghost’s crimes were so terrible that they were better left between him and God.”

  “Hmmm.” Stefan sounded disappointed.

  “I know,” said Herr Schiller drily. “It is rather unsatisfactory, is it not?”

  “I wish I knew what the ghost had done,” said Stefan.

  “Better not to know, that was the idea,” said Herr Schiller.

  “It can’t have been that bad,” said Stefan. “Nothing’s that bad.”

  “It’s good to believe that, when you’re ten,” said Herr Schiller gently to Stefan.

  “I’m eleven-”

&nbs
p; “But I’m afraid that when you get older, you will discover some things are that bad.” Herr Schiller sounded sad.

  With a hot feeling akin to guilt I wondered whether he was thinking about his daughter, Gertrud, about what might have happened to her, and whether the person who did it would ever be punished.

  “Some things are better left untold,” he added, as though he had read my mind.

  I tried to catch Stefan’s eye, to somehow telegraph to him that he should shut up before we upset the old man and got ourselves thrown out again, but he was deep in thought and not prepared to notice my significant looks. That was one of the things that always irritated me about him, and continued to relegate him back to the position of StinkStefan: he never knew when to let something drop.

  “If it was that bad,” he persisted, “then how come the ghost would be freed the minute anyone asked him who he was? Supposing the first person who ever saw him did it? Then he wouldn’t have been punished at all.”

  “But they didn’t,” I pointed out. “He spent years and years, probably hundreds of years, wandering about before Hans asked him.”

  “Yes, but if,” said Stefan stubbornly.

  “Then his sins would have caught up with him some other way,” said Herr Schiller softly. “They always do.” He shook his head. “But I fear you are missing the point of the story.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The ghost was freed only because someone dared to speak to him. That is the point of the story. Hans dared to address the ghost. Most people would have run for their lives.” Up went Herr Schiller’s bushy eyebrows. His eyes were bright. “Hans was the only one who could put aside his own fears, and act.”

  “So the story means you shouldn’t be frightened of anything?”

  “The story means that if something needs to be done, then you should do it. Even if it is something that most people would find difficult. Even if you are afraid.”

  Walking back to my house in the Heisterbacher Strasse with Stefan, I could still taste Herr Schiller’s coffee in my mouth, a dark and acrid taste that made me think of ashtrays and bonfires. Neither Stefan nor I said anything for a long time. Stefan had his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his coat and his breath showed in little clouds. It reminded me of Boris smoking, the way the white wisps of breath drifted out from between his lips. I was thinking about Herr Schiller, and about Unshockable Hans, and about the ghost with no head.

  If something needs to be done, then you should do it.

  We had decided to go back to my house via the Salzmarkt and the bridge, passing King Zwentibold on his fountain. So we did not pass Herr Düster’s house, but still I was aware of its location in relation to myself, just as though we had been two gigantic red points on a map of the town: you are here and here it is.

  “Pia?”

  I glanced at Stefan, but he was looking at the cobblestones, not at me.

  “Yes?”

  “What did you think of the story?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know.” I realized that Stefan had stopped walking, so I stopped too.

  Stefan looked up at the sky. A first tiny flake of snow drifted down and settled on his upturned face, melting instantly. He looked at me. “Don’t you think Herr Schiller was trying to make a point? Like the moral of the story or something?”

  “I suppose.”

  I didn’t feel ready to commit myself. The thought that perhaps we, perhaps I should be the one to do the thing that needed to be done was still too uncomfortable to be examined closely.

  “He was,” said Stefan. “I know he was. He thinks we should do something.”

  “About what?” But I already knew the answer.

  “About Katharina Linden, and the other girls,” said Stefan with a trace of impatience in his tone. He lowered his voice. “About him. Herr Düster.”

  “He can’t really want us to do anything about Herr Düster,” I protested. “He’s cool, but he’s still a grown-up. He’s not going to tell us to break into someone’s house or anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there would be a huge row if we got caught, and he’d get in trouble too.”

  “Maybe he thinks it’s worth risking it.”

  Now I was really uneasy. “But it’s not him who’s got to do it. And, anyway,” I added, “he didn’t do anything about it when his daughter disappeared, did he? Frau Kessel said he was too much of a Christian. So how come he’s now telling us to do it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Stefan. He raised an arm and then let it drop in a gesture of frustration. “Look, even if he wasn’t trying to tell us to do it, it’s still-it’s still a good idea, isn’t it?”

  “A good idea?”

  “Well, a right idea, anyway.” Stefan’s mouth set in an obstinate line.

  “Stefan, we’re two kids, we’re not Batman and Robin.” I shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “If we get caught, he’ll kill us.”

  “Well then,” said Stefan. “We won’t get caught.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Christmas was coming, and the shops were suddenly full of Advent crowns again.

  “Nearly a year,” said my father lugubriously.

  My mother was more pragmatic. “We won’t be wanting one of those.”

  Inevitably, the appearance of the Advent crowns signaled a renaissance in interest about Oma Kristel’s untimely death. Suddenly I was the object of unwanted attention again. Stefan was irritating me a lot-he was forever harping on about Herr Düster and what we should do about him. I remembered why the name StinkStefan had seemed so appropriate-he had a habit of hanging around like a bad smell. And now I was forcibly reminded of the reason why he was the only person I could consider a friend at school.

  My former friends, such as Marla Frisch-who had dropped me so rapidly for fear of being contaminated by the Incredible Exploding Family-were now the chief broadcasters of Oma Kristel’s grim story. Children from the grades above, who had not been at the same school as I was when Oma Kristel died, were now eager to hear the sorry tale from the lips of those who had been.

  In a way I could not blame them; it was too grotesque to be taken seriously-it was more like a made-up horror story. All the same, this did not alleviate the distress caused whenever I walked into a classroom or into the girls’ toilets and heard whispered conversations stopping dead at the sight of me. It could only be a matter of time before they all started to refuse to sit next to me again.

  My parents, meanwhile, were involved in planning the first year’s memorial Mass for Oma Kristel. My mother, who was Protestant, and lapsed at that, was somewhat removed from the planning of the church service, but the burden of the catering was to fall upon her shoulders, much to her disgust.

  The great debate was when exactly the service should be held. Oma Kristel had died on the last Sunday in Advent, but to hold the service over Christmas was a depressing idea. My mother said that it was a good thing really; we could hold the memorial Mass in January. It would be just what we needed to cheer us up when Christmas was over. My father, who never could understand my mother’s gallows humor, was offended; but he couldn’t suggest a better time.

  One afternoon I came home early and found my father’s car wedged into the paltry cobbled rectangle that served as a parking space for our house. When I saw the car I assumed my parents were embroiled in yet another summit meeting about which music to have, and whether to have white roses or lilies. Discussions could become surprisingly heated on such topics, but even so I was taken aback when I opened the front door and heard my father bellowing like an enraged bull.

  I put down my schoolbag very carefully, wondering whether I should simply sneak back out again. The next second a gust of icy wind sucked the door shut, and it slammed with a sound like a gunshot. I was still standing there half stooping with the strap in my hand and a guilty expression on my face when the kitchen door opened and out came my mother. Her cheeks were rather blotchy and her dark hair was very
rumpled, as though she had been raking her hands through it.

  “What are you doing home at this time?” she snapped.

  “Frau Wasser was off sick,” I stammered. My father’s bulk filled the kitchen doorway behind my mother.

  “Don’t shout at her.”

  “I wasn’t bloody shouting.” Now she almost was.

  “You’ve done enough already.”

  “I haven’t touched her,” said my mother, as though he had accused her of beating me.

  “I’m not talking about touching.” My father was as literal-minded as ever, even in the heat of an argument. “You think it won’t have an effect on the children, when you-”

  “Wolfgang!” My mother’s voice cut across his, a clear note of warning in it.

  I glanced at the staircase, weighing up my chances of escaping.

  “Pia.” My mother sounded calmer but her voice had steel in it. “Come into the living room with me.”

  “Pia, stay where you are.” That was my father. He glared at my mother. “I’m not having you telling her your side of the story.”

  My mother put her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m not letting you do it.”

  “Do what?” I asked, bewildered.

  “Go into the living room please, Pia,” said my father. Reluctantly I did so, picking up my schoolbag as I went; if they were going to insist I shut myself up in there while they argued, I might at least get on with my homework. I started to spread the files out on the coffee table, but it was difficult to concentrate; the muffled sound of raised voices was too clearly audible from the hallway outside. I selected the English exercise to do first. Opening my exercise book at a clean page, I carefully wrote “A VISIT TO ENGLAND.” Then I stuck the end of the pen into my mouth and stared at the page.