David's Revenge

by Hans Werner Kettenbach

  To be sure, the police are alarmed not just by such political criminality, as you might call it. They are also concerned by the spread of “unmotivated violence”. Young people intent on snatching handbags are more and more inclined to beat up their victims, usually elderly women, injuring them badly, even though there was no need to do so to get possession of their loot. In fact it even happens now and then that someone is beaten almost to death just for fun.

  The police describe the case of an elderly man who was assaulted out of the blue by two boys and a girl two years ago on his way home at night. The girl said, “Hey, Gramps, we don’t like the way you slobber!” Then they knocked him to the ground, breaking his arm in the process. They didn’t take the cash he was carrying, just over twenty marks, but went away at a leisurely pace, laughing.

  Not that if I were looking for a straightforward explanation of the attack on Ninoshvili I’d even have to fall back on such unmotivated violence. The watch was no longer on Ninoshvili’s wrist when he was found. He was still in possession of his wallet and purse, containing eighty-six marks twenty pfennigs; Julia counted it. But as the watch was missing, it could have been a simple case of mugging. Perhaps the perpetrators were disturbed and had been going to search his pockets, but they heard a car coming, took fright, and fed.

  If my vision of Ninoshvili being attacked on his way back from an interview with Herr Unger had been fact, then one would have to ask why the perpetrators were out and about on that deserted street at the time. The question would be, had they planned the attack? But in fact Ninoshvili was found just after eight—half an hour after I had visited the scene. He was attacked on his way there.

  Perhaps he looked at his watch with pride again in the tram, and his attackers, who happened to be lounging about in the same vehicle, latched on to him, got out when he did and then followed him. He was lost in thought and not paying attention. They caught up with him in between the two faint circles of light from the street lamps, beat him up and stole his watch.

  Perhaps the doctor is right in thinking they may have been skinheads. But clearer evidence than just the nature of Ninoshvili’s injuries would be necessary to prove his suspicion correct. And even if they were skinheads, judging by all one can read and learn from Tassilo Huber’s collection of articles and other sources, thugs like that don’t need any reason to beat a man to within an inch of his life. They sometimes wield a baseball bat just for the pleasure of it. And a watch like Ninoshvili’s would certainly add to their pleasure.

  Herr Hochgeschurz, if he is really supposed to be solving this case, would have to pursue another and quite different suspicion. Suppose he’s still looking, as at least it appears, for some connection between Ninoshvili and the woman in the hotel, then it would also be his duty to consider whether it wasn’t former Stasi comrades who executed the man from Tbilisi to avenge their captain’s murder. And why might not those old comrades disguise themselves as skinheads and use baseball bats?

  No, the explanation has to be, or at least I can’t rule it out, that Ralf has met a number of dubious characters in Herr Schumann’s circle of acquaintances. But in spite of all the

  trouble my son gives me, it seems to me just about impossible that he would go around with brutal thugs and skinheads and even plot with them.

  Chapter 64

  A quarter of an hour before the long break period, there was a knock at my classroom door. The door half opened, and Frau Kintgen, Trabert’s secretary, looked round it. She kept out of sight of my students and beckoned to me in silence. I went out into the corridor to join her. Frau Kintgen told me she had an urgent phone call for me. She didn’t say who the caller was, and I suppressed any urge to ask. I was afraid of the answer. I followed Frau Kintgen into the secretary’s office and she handed me the receiver, which was lying on her desk.

  It was Julia, calling from the courthouse. When she went into the corridor outside the courtroom during a break in the current trial, Herr Hochgeschurz and a plainclothes CID man had been waiting for her. She told me that they wanted to know where Ralf had been on the evening of the attack on Ninoshvili. She said she herself hadn’t come in until about nine thirty, but she assumed that Ralf had spent the evening at home.

  Julia was in a state of great agitation. She was also in a hurry, because she had to get back to the trial. I told her to calm down and I would see about it.

  I didn’t go back to my class. I hurried to my car and drove to Ralf’s school. On the way there I tried to work out what to do as fast as I could. Once I overtook in the wrong lane, another time I jumped the lights on red, and both times angry hooting broke out in concert behind me.

  The long break wasn’t over yet at Ralf’s school. I made my way through the milling throng in the school yard, pushing aside a stubble-haired boy who was in hot pursuit of another and trod on my feet. The boy fell to the ground yelling, “Hey, are you crazy or what?” I found Ralf in the middle of a group of boys and girls sitting on the low wall around the school yard, smoking.

  When he saw me he stood up, looked at me and let his arms dangle by his sides. I waved him over to one side. He put out his cigarette and came towards me, holding the cigarette end.

  I asked him, “Have the police been here?”

  “The police? No.” He looked back at his friends, who were watching us curiously. Then he looked at me again. “What do they want?”

  “They want to know where you were on Friday evening. The evening Ninoshvili was attacked.”

  He looked at the cigarette end, scratched his cheek, looked back at me. “I was at the cinema. You know that already.”

  “Ralf, we don’t have much time left. If you have anything to tell me, do it now. The police have already been with your mother. Julia is beside herself. You must tell me what you know about that attack before the police question you—can’t you understand that, for God’s sake?”

  “But what am I supposed to be telling you?” He looked at the cigarette end. “I was in the cinema like I said, isn’t that enough?”

  “No, it damn well is not enough!”

  He turned away, took a step in the direction of the litter bin standing in a corner of the wall. I grabbed his arm. “You stay here!” His friends on the wall were watching with interest. I let go of Ralf’s arm.

  He looked at me, his mouth twisting. “Why won’t you stop going on at me?” He lowered his eyes. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Three strokes of the gong echoed over the school yard. I saw a teacher already beginning to herd the smaller children back to their classrooms.

  I said, “So you’re sticking to your story that you were at the cinema?”

  “Yes, what else?”

  “And you still say no one saw you? This is very important, Ralf, so don’t pretend to me.”

  “Damn it all, no one did!” He dropped the cigarette end, took out his handkerchief and rubbed it over his hands. “I can’t help it if I didn’t meet anyone I knew. Not in the cinema, not before and not afterwards either.”

  “All right.” The teacher was approaching. Ralf’s friends got off the wall, not in any hurry, and strolled off along the path to the school entrance.

  “Listen, Ralf. If the police ask you, don’t say a word about going to the cinema. If you can’t name any witnesses, they’ll be even more suspicious. Say you spent the evening with me. And tell your mother the same. We were at home together, understand?”

  He looked at me doubtfully. “But that’s no good. That’ll just land us both in the shit.”

  “Why?”

  He glanced at the teacher. “If we say that, how are you going to explain that you went to see Gero Schumann? Maybe they’ll ask him questions too.”

  “Listen to me, will you?” I gave the teacher a friendly nod, took Ralf’s arm and moved slowly towards the entrance with him. The teacher turned away.

  I said, “I didn’t go to see Herr Schumann until nine. By that time Ninoshvili was already in hospital. I’ll tell the police,
and your mother too, that you and I were at home at the time of the attack. We were talking and then we quarrelled. You were spouting some kind of Nazi nonsense—no, not just some kind of nonsense.” I thought for a moment, then I said, “You told me the story of Mount Elbrus and the mountain troops, and you said the German fag would still be planted on Elbrus if Army Group A hadn’t run out of supplies through sabotage and treachery. And we quarrelled violently over that. You went out of the house at nine and I went to see Herr Schumann. I thought you might have gone off to his place. I was very worked up about that Nazi nonsense, and I wanted to get him to explain himself in front of you. But you just walked around the block once, then you came home and went to bed.”

  I took his arm. “Do you understand that, Ralf ?” He nodded. “Remember every word I’ve just said.” After a brief pause, I added, “And don’t think that’s all there’ll be to it. We still have a few things to discuss.”

  All of a sudden he grinned. “About Mount Elbrus?”

  For a moment it took my breath away. Then I said, “Ralf, if you think you can be impertinent you’ve got a nasty shock coming.”

  “All right. Sorry.” He nodded. “Thanks.” Then he turned away from me and went into the school building.

  Chapter 65

  This afternoon Raphael Lohmüller kicked his football over the garden fence, I suspect on purpose. I was sitting at my desk, doing nothing and staring into space, when I heard the ball bounce on our terrace.

  I was still shaken to the core by the last few hours. After agreeing on our story with Ralf, I had just about managed to get through three trying periods of lessons. I had wondered whether it wouldn’t be better to cancel the drama group’s rehearsal I’d fixed for the early afternoon, the first rehearsal without Manni Wallmeroth. Why shouldn’t I suddenly feel ill for once? But I pulled myself together.

  I had to defend my position not only at home but in my school as well. In any event, I wasn’t about to hoist the white fag because of David Ninoshvili, either there or here, not even to give myself a little breathing space.

  I received consolation that I would rather have done without at the drama group. I just felt even worse afterwards.

  When I entered the hall they were all there already. I’d expected they would trail in gradually, as they did on the afternoon when I turned Micky Rautenstrauch out. Their wealth of invention is considerable when they don’t want to come, and even more so when they’re at odds with me.

  As if at a secret signal they began running through their parts—Günsel Özcan has an excellent command of hers—involved me in discussions that Jürgen Dahlmann kept going with inexhaustible new arguments, getting on my nerves with more and more suggestions. (Wouldn’t it be much better, Herr Kestner, if I went over to her at this line? Herr Kestner, can you tell me why I’m supposed to clap my hand to my forehead at this point? It feels silly, honest.) Whereas when they’re in a bad mood they just stand around with their arms folded, giving me dark looks.

  Nothing like that happened today. They got through their work without the commitment they show on good days, but without being bolshie either. No one interrupted when I was taking André Grothe through Manni’s part. André took a lot of trouble, he’d at least learned Benvolio’s lines over the weekend, and he even had some ideas, although the wrong ideas, about the way to perform the part.

  But none of the others laughed when at the line Blind is his love, and best befits the dark! he suddenly planted one foot in front of him and stretched out both arms, as if requesting Juliet to jump off her balcony and let him catch her in the darkness. They listened in silence as I suggested a different gesture to André, and then went on rehearsing without making any comments. I was beginning to fear I’d lost touch with them.

  During a break, in which I was looking at the text, Christa Frowein came over to me. “I think it’s going quite well,” she said, and smiled. I nodded. She moved a little closer, looking over my shoulder. I said, “Christa, don’t bother me, please!” She said, “I was just going anyway. I only wanted to tell you I’ve spoken to Manni.”

  I looked at her.

  “I met him in the street. He doesn’t know yet if he’s going to another school. They still have to accept him there. But he did tell me how kind you were to him when he came to see you at your home. He said if all the teachers were like you he’d never have done that stupid thing.” She smiled. “Just wanted to tell you.”

  I was still trying to digest this revelation when I heard Raphael Lohmüller’s ball bouncing. I stayed where I was, fiddling with my pen. After a while I noticed the suspicious silence in the garden. Was Raffy trying to climb the fence to get his football back? I got to my feet and went to the window.

  He had hauled himself up and was hanging over the fence by both arms, swaying slightly and keeping his gaze fixed on our terrace. Then he turned his head, and looked back at the windows of his own house. Apparently he didn’t dare come right over and fetch the ball; he was afraid his stern mother might catch him doing it. I felt sorry for him.

  I went out on the terrace and brought the ball back to him. He said, “Thank you, Herr Kestner,” let the ball drop in the Lohmüllers’ garden, but didn’t move from his lookout post on the fence. I asked, “Are you comfortable hanging over the fence like that?”

  He swayed again and nodded. Then he asked, “Isn’t that man staying with you any more?”

  “What man?”

  “The man from Timbuktu.”

  “Good Heavens! Can you remember a difficult word like that?”

  He nodded. After a while he said, “There’s only black people in Timbuktu.”

  “Your father is wrong there. Has he ever been to Timbuktu?”

  He shook his head.

  “There, you see?”

  He asked, “Where’s that man now, then?”

  I said, “He’s in hospital. You can tell your parents I’ll give them the address if they would like to visit him. And they should take him something nice. His favourite food is worms.”

  Raffy stopped swaying and looked hard at me. Suddenly he jumped down from the fence, picked up his football and ran indoors.

  Chapter 66

  Our front doorbell rang at six fifteen. Ralf had gone to his room, Julia was making supper in the kitchen. I was sitting in front of the TV set, trying in vain to find fresh news from Georgia. I got up and opened the door. A man with a moustache in his mid-thirties stood there, and introduced himself as CID Chief Superintendent Steguweit, showed me his police ID, and apologized for disturbing me. He had a few questions to ask me and my son about the attack on Herr Ninoshvili, he said, and he had been hoping to find us both at home at this time of day.

  I asked Superintendent Steguweit in, told Julia, whom I had already tried to reassure in the middle of the day by telling her about my alibi for Ralf, and called Ralf down. The superintendent rose when Julia came into the living room, said, “We’ve met already,” and shook hands with her. He offered Ralf his hand too. Ralf nodded rather awkwardly and sat down on the edge of a chair.

  I asked Herr Steguweit if I could offer him any refreshment. He thanked me but declined. There was a brief silence during which he took out a notebook. I asked him whether Herr Hochgeschurz wasn’t taking part in the investigation any more. “Yes, yes, he is,” said Steguweit, leafing through his notebook, Hochgeschurz just happened to have to keep another appointment. But it was very likely that he might want to come and see us again.

  Julia asked, “Why?”

  Well, said Steguweit, looking up from his notebook, it couldn’t be ruled out that the attack on Herr Ninoshvili had its background somewhere in far-right politics. She knew, of course, he said, and so did I, that Herr Hochgeschurz works for Internal Security.

  Julia said, “Yes, we know. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

  Herr Steguweit raised his eyebrows and smiled. Before he could open his mouth, I said my wife had told me that he and Hochgeschurz had wanted her to tell the
m where our son had been at the time of the attack. I was not, I said, going to conceal my surprise at this question. Our son did have contacts which I didn’t entirely approve of, but surely the authorities were not seriously thinking of linking him with that brutal act of violence.

  Herr Steguweit shook his head, smiling. “Herr Kestner, in a case like this we have to ask all kinds of routine questions. Your wife knows that, in fact she knows all about it. Herr Ninoshvili was staying here, after all. I can’t spare you and your family this procedure, but there’s no need for you to agitate yourself.”

  I said I didn’t see it like that. The superintendent turned away from me, looked at Ralf, and asked, “Where were you on Friday evening, Herr Kestner?”

  Ralf swallowed, and then replied, “Here. I was at home.”

  Steguweit nodded and made a note in his book. Julia looked askance at Ralf.

  I said he knew where my wife had been. I also assumed that that could be proved without much trouble. As for Ralf and me, I could tell him that we had both spent the hours in question at home together.

  Herr Steguweit looked up. “From when to when, roughly?” I explained that we had eaten supper together at about six thirty or a little later, and then we talked.

  “And neither of you left the house?”

  I replied I hadn’t said that, but to make his researches easier for him I was even prepared to give him more information about our private life. Herr Steguweit looked at me in silence. I said I had not only talked to my son, I had quarrelled with him, and in the course of the quarrel we parted company. Ralf left the house, and a little later I drove to Gero Schumann the lawyer’s house because I assumed that my son had gone there.