‘Old Zauner the murderer.’
But they hadn’t let him come home for the funeral, which was just as well. He wouldn’t have understood, just as he didn’t understand so much else going on around him recently. Every day she went to the graveyard, and she went to church on Sunday, and once a month they let her visit Johann. Every time she saw him she was more frightened than ever; he was only a shadow of his former self. He often didn’t even recognize her now when she visited him. And when Theres began talking about Afra and the child, it seemed to her that he didn’t know who she meant. To her, that state of mind was intolerable, for it meant taking her daughter and her grandson away from her for a second time.
*
Zauner’s wife pushed the watering can down into the water in the stone trough with both hands. She watched air bubbles rise from the inside of the can. At first she had meant to stay away from the procession on All Saints’ Day, but then she had gone after all. She had waited right at the back, and hadn’t gone to stand by the grave until the last people had left after the procession round the churchyard.
She took the heavy watering can out of the water and went back along the rows of graves to Afra’s. The gravel crunched at every step she took. She put the can down beside the grave, broke off the faded stems of the flowers, put them aside and watered the rest. Then she filled the font with holy water. She put her hand in her jacket pocket and was going to take out the candle to be lit for Afra’s soul, when she heard a voice.
‘Giving them a drink to moderate the torments of purgatory, are you?’
Theres turned. Hetsch was standing behind her.
‘Oh, you gave me such a fright! What are you doing, still here? The procession is over. Why aren’t you at the inn with the others?’
Theres took the candle out of her pocket.
‘Maybe there’s something driving me on? Like those poor souls supposed to walk over the graves tonight?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ The old woman gave him an enquiring look.
‘Didn’t you ever hear about it, Frau Zauner? Tonight, folk can see who the dead will come to take away next year. Or maybe it’s just a guilty conscience keeps me on the move, same as you. You did see me out there on the day it happened, didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t see anyone. I was out and about all day.’ Theres was about to turn away, but Hetsch had a firm hold on her arm.
‘But you were there, at least you were there first thing, I heard the noise.’
‘No such thing. I was in Einhausen, Hetsch. Or that terrible thing would never have happened.’
Hetsch let go of her and stood there, his fingers fumbling with his jacket. He was looking past her at the gravestone, and suddenly he looked small and thin, although she didn’t even come up to his shoulder. All the assertiveness he liked to show was gone.
‘I always liked seeing Afra, and that day I wanted to know. I wanted to know if she’d bend or break. I thought I’d stay until she said yes, but then it all turned out differently and I went away.’
‘If you saw anything, Hetsch, you must tell the police.’
Hetsch straightened up. It was as if a different man were suddenly standing in front of her.
‘I didn’t see anything. But I wanted to tell you I really did like Afra a lot. I honestly did.’
Then he turned and walked away. Theres stood there watching him go until his figure was lost in the twilight. Finally she took out her matches and lit the candle she was holding.
I shouldn’t have gone out that day, she thought. He’s right, it’s my guilty conscience drives me here. I place the eternal light here for you so that the little one won’t be afraid in the night. When you needed me, Afra, I wasn’t there.
When Theres walked back to the churchyard gate past the rows of graves, it was dark, and only the lights burning on the graves lit the churchyard up a little.
She thought of what Hetsch had said about the dead, and how they would come looking for the one who was to follow them in the coming year. But the only person Theres saw walking over the graves that evening had been Hetsch himself. She made the sign of the cross.
‘God have mercy on his soul.’
From the evidence of the police officer Hermann Irgang, now retired, eighteen years after the events concerned
There’s something else I’d like to say here. Our investigations at the time weren’t confined to Johann Zauner as the possible murderer. We kept our eyes open, we looked in all directions, even though the father had behaved very strangely from the first.
The war was only two years ago, so there were all kinds of odd characters drifting about. Many people came out from the city wanting to barter something: clothes and pictures in exchange for butter, eggs and sausage. Now and then there were some who might have frightened you, they were going around in such a ragged state. Of course we looked carefully at that sort, because we’d heard that there were two young journeymen roaming the countryside at that time. And when some people said they’d also been seen on Zauner’s farm, of course we pricked up our ears, and we did all we could to find them.
At the time it wasn’t so easy to find an itinerant. In addition, we didn’t have names, just the fact that they were two young fellows and they’d been sleeping in a hay barn the night before the murder.
I couldn’t have sworn to it that we were really going to find them, but we did manage to get on their trail.
Unfortunately it soon turned out that we’d gone to all that trouble for nothing, because they weren’t able to give us any information. They did make statements saying they’d passed the house, but with the best will in the world they couldn’t say whether it had been that particular day or a day or so earlier. And they couldn’t tell us anything else that might have helped with our inquiries.
I don’t remember now who it was that questioned them, it ought really to be in the files, but once everyone knew old Zauner had confessed the records probably weren’t written up. People weren’t as particular about such things then as they are today.
The suspect had confessed, and the young fellows couldn’t tell us anything useful about the crime, so we just let them go again. What else could we have done? There wouldn’t have been any point in questioning them again, we had no legal handle against them, and if a man hasn’t seen anything then he hasn’t seen anything, and no amount of questions are going to change that.
At the time the news that Zauner had confessed was going around like wildfire, but even without a confession everything pointed to him from the start. It wasn’t just the endless quarrels with his daughter, his odd behaviour – he had scratches on his arms that he couldn’t explain to us, as his family doctor said at the time. I can’t say whether he was also examined by a doctor from the courts. We really didn’t take the easy way out; in the end he was the only possible murderer.
Dr Augustin
‘So what titbits have been coming your way?’
Dr Augustin drew the stack of cards from the middle of the table towards him to deal new cards to his fellow players.
‘I’ll tell you, never fear. Maybe it was Max? He took a critical attitude, anyway.’
Josef Loibl, sitting opposite him, grinned mischievously at Augustin.
‘You two can’t beat us now, you’re all tensed up!’
Then he called over Augustin’s head to the waitress at the bar. ‘Bring me another half, Roswitha, with a beer-warmer if you have one around.’ And turning to the rest of the card players, he added, ‘Believe it or not, cold beer gives me heartburn. Specially when I drink it before lunch.’
‘Ah, you’re one of the delicate sort, can’t even digest a proper beer in the middle of the morning.’
Dr Augustin had dealt the cards. He picked up his own hand and arranged the cards in it.
‘Augustin, pull yourself together or I’m not playing cards with you any more. Public prosecutor or not, sometimes you’re a real know-it-all,’ replied the man he had addressed, and then, in a concili
atory tone, ‘But seeing I’m not that way myself, would you like to bid? Then I’ll say what’s trumps.’
Roswitha Haimerl brought the half that Loibl had asked for, exchanged the full glass for his empty one, and made her mark on the beer mat.
‘Any of the rest of you gentlemen like something to drink? Then I won’t have to keep scurrying back and forth.’
‘Hey, you’re in a bad mood today, Roswitha. Never mind, can you bring me a lager, and I like mine cold,’ replied one of the other card players, his eyes twinkling at her.
‘You expect a body not to be cross if she has to keep running around for every half litre?’
Roswitha Haimerl turned and went over to the bar.
‘I’ll bid if you like. Makes no difference to me, you two are going to lose anyway. I’ll bid seven,’ said Dr Augustin.
‘Seven, our public prosecutor’s putting out an emergency call. Then I’ll say hearts. Seven of hearts.’
This time the landlord, Hermann Müller, brought the beer to the table himself. He exchanged the glasses, put the used one on the free table beside the card players, and stood watching until the end of the trick, then took a vacant chair and sat down with the players, who were dividing the winnings between them. Coins of small denominations were pushed over the table, and the cards gathered into a pack again. Josef Loibl, who seemed dissatisfied with his share of the winnings, said, ‘Come to think of it, this is an illegal game of chance, right?’
Dr Augustin, to whom the question was obviously directed, tipped the coins from the little mat into his purse and replied, ‘First, playing cards and the Bavarian game of Watten in particular is no fun without a stake, and second, I’m not on duty. And so long as we’re only playing for small change no one can be cheated. Even an old miser like you can join in, Loibl.’
Then he put his purse in his back pocket, picked up his glass and drank, saying, ‘Cheers, gentlemen!’
One of the card players rose from the table, tapped it lightly with his fist, and said, ‘Well, I’m off now. First I’ll take a pee, then I’ll go home. Food’s probably on the table already in our house – and if I don’t turn up I’ll be in trouble. Goodbye, all, see you next Saturday.’
‘Wait, I’ll go with you to take a pee, and I have to go home too.’
Joseph Loibl also rose from the table.
Hermann Müller drew his chair a little closer to Dr Augustin. He put his hand in the breast pocket of his shirt, and produced a folded press cutting. He carefully smoothed it out and placed it in the middle of the table.
‘Here, Augustin, something for you. Someone lost this in here yesterday. Take a good look, that’s you in the photograph.’
Dr Augustin took the yellowed piece of paper and studied it attentively. ‘Where did you get this? All that was ages ago.’
‘Like I said, there was a guest here yesterday took a lot of drink on board, and he left the cutting here, along with his wallet and a twenty-mark note.’
The landlord searched his trouser pocket and put the wallet on the table as well.
‘He was a strange sort. At first he was calm, and then he suddenly started talking all confused stuff. He knew about a murder, he said, and the man who did it was still walking about free. I thought he was a nutcase, but first thing this morning Roswitha found the wallet. When I looked at the photo I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought that was you, Augustin, half hidden at the back there, was I right?’
‘Yes, that’s me. And you’ll laugh, I can still remember, it was my first case in court right after the assessors’ examination qualifying me. It was pretty much of an open-and-shut case. But I’d be interested to hear what your guest yesterday had to say.’
So Hermann Müller told him about the incident, and Dr Augustin listened carefully. After that Augustin sat there a little longer. He had become unusually thoughtful. He finished his beer and went home.
He behaved differently from usual for the rest of the day as well. He normally went home on Saturday after his mid-morning beer, sat down at the dining table, ate lunch and then went into the living room with the newspaper. There he sat on the sofa, read the paper with close attention, and then, well pleased with himself and the world, he lay down for a little nap. But that day he left his lunch getting cold on the table and went straight to his study. He searched the shelves for old files; when he couldn’t find what he was looking for, he paced restlessly around the room. Finally he left his study at home, put on his jacket, and drove to his office. He sat there until late in the evening, poring over old papers.
On Monday morning he told his colleagues that they ought to reopen the case.
Johann
The young police officer was shifting restlessly back and forth on the kitchen chair. Johann could tell, just from looking at him, how uneasy he felt in uniform. Beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead. Now and then he mopped his face dry with a handkerchief. Then he suddenly jumped up, saying he must go out for a moment to take a pee, and he, Johann, was to stay sitting there and not do anything stupid, because even if he had to go outside just briefly he’d still be keeping an eye on him.
At first the old man stayed on his chair and waited, just as the policeman had told him to do. But then his eye fell on Afra, who was still lying on the sofa. Her clothes were soaked red with blood. What was he to tell Theres when she came back? The woman who laid out the dead must come and wash Afra. There was so much to be done: the church, the funeral. What would become of Albert? He had to do something, he couldn’t stay on that chair letting time run away. Theres wouldn’t understand it if he only sat there doing nothing.
The old man rose from his chair. He had come to a decision, he would go over to the bedroom and fetch clean clothes for his daughter. When they laid her in the coffin she ought to be properly dressed. No one in the village must be able to say he’d let her go without her Sunday best on.
He would get the dark blue dress, the one with the lace collar, and a pair of clean stockings. He would get everything ready for the woman who came to lay Afra out. So that she could wash her and dress her neatly. He must find her rosary and prayer book, and cover up the mirror.
Theres was much better at these things, but he couldn’t wait. They might come and take his daughter away any moment now. He must have everything ready.
Johann Zauner went out of the kitchen, across the corridor and into the bedroom. It wasn’t as tidy in there as Afra usually left it. The wardrobe stood a little way open, some of her underclothes were hanging out of the drawers or lying scattered on the floor. He bent down, picked them up and tried to put them back as best he could into the wardrobe. As he closed its door he took a step sideways and came up against the bedside table. A shoebox that he hadn’t seen there before fell off it and hit the floor. All Afra’s possessions lay scattered round him. Letters, buttons, hairpins and her rosary, even the prayer book lay there open.
Johann Zauner knelt down on the floor awkwardly, picked up first the mourning pictures that had fallen out of the Order of Divine Service and put them and the prayer book back on the bedside table, where the prayer book belonged. So did the rosary. He would have to take them both into the kitchen with him. Then he tidied up the letters as well as he could, and put them back in the shoebox. He bent down to look for the buttons, and under the bedside table he found a banknote and several coins. He picked them up from the floor, straightened up, still on his knees, and took his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers; they would need every penny they could scrape together for the funeral.
‘What are you doing here? Get right back to your chair in the kitchen!’
Johann Zauner turned to the door in alarm. The young policeman was standing in the doorway, his face bright red, shouting at him. Johann got to his feet, with difficulty, supporting himself on the bed with his elbow. Confused, he held out the hand in which he was still holding the money he had picked up. The policeman was beside him in an instant, tearing the banknote from him and getting h
im to hand over the coins too.
‘This stays with me. Disposing of the evidence – that won’t do. It’s against the law. Why did you do that, Zauner? I suppose you were planning to make it look like robbery with violence, but I’m here, see? Mind you get back into the kitchen, and don’t you touch anything else in here. And you’d better give me that wallet.’
Johann Zauner apologized humbly and did as he was asked. He left the prayer book and rosary lying on the bedside table.
From the statement of public prosecutor Dr Augustin, eighteen years after the events concerned
I was a very young public prosecutor at the time, full of enthusiasm for my profession, and convinced that I was making an important contribution to the construction of a just legal system with a clean record. I was idealistic and a little naive, as one can be only in one’s youthful years.
Accordingly, the Zauner case still lingers in my memory, even after such a long interval of time. However, for safety’s sake I have called up the old files and reread them. Here I would like to summarize the image we had formed at the time of our investigation.
The old records show that when we were first faced with the crime, Johann Zauner made an entirely indifferent and apathetic impression. He did not seem to be in the least moved by the tragedy, at least to outward appearance. According to one witness statement in the files, he even made himself a mid-morning snack soon after committing the murder. He also made stupid and primitive attempts to pretend that the situation was one of robbery with violence, by scattering money and other small possessions of the dead girl around her room. When the absurdity of this act, which took place in the presence of a police officer and after the first police investigation, was pointed out to him, he initially apologized at length and said he would tidy it all up again.
Herr Zauner was questioned on various occasions in the course of the investigation. His few explanations of the act matched the clues that had been found. At the time of the investigation we never had the least doubt of his guilt. In addition, he confessed to the murder in front of an officer. A confession weighs a great deal in court, it crowns the evidence as the clearest and pre-eminent means of proof. While the investigation was in progress he never retracted his statement, nor did he offer mitigating circumstances, and not just once but several times he was offered an opportunity to distance himself from it. True, it is a drawback that he said nothing clearly about his motive, but given the very simple structure of his personality that is not necessarily surprising. He said he had been furious, and indeed, literally, that he had been ‘in a murderous mood’, repeating several times that in that state he did not know what he was doing. Asked why he also killed the child, he said that the little boy, as he put it, ‘was always getting underfoot’, and that it had been ‘all linked together’.
The Dark Meadow Page 5