“Doesn’t it fucking just?” Dieter blurted.
“Star–crossed lovers,” Otto said.
Frans just looked at him.
“Romeo and Juliet?” Otto tried to explain. “Forbidden love?”
“Oh ja, now I’m with you.”
Dieter sat down on the edge of an adjacent headstone, swinging one leg absently. “So, Inez falls in love with Neil, father finds out he’s Jewish, goes ballistic, they run away, have to come back home, are not permitted to be together and…”
“No,” Otto said. “That old guy at the funeral said he drove Inez to Otjiwarongo because she was unwell.”
“What old guy?” Frans asked, frowning.
“Some old chap, deaf as a post, was there with his daughter. He said he was Dad’s partner here in Keetmanshoop.”
Frans nodded. “Otjiwarongo, that’s a long way from Lüderitz.”
“Ingrid says she doesn’t remember any of this,” Otto continued. “I don’t understand why Otjiwarongo, nor what was wrong with Inez.”
Frans shuffled his feet on the dusty gravel beneath their feet. “Otjiwarongo has a large German population. Perhaps your pa knew some people up there?”
“Yeah, but why send her there?”
“To get her away from Neil Solomon?” Dieter suggested with a little hand gesture towards his headstone.
“I think we should go and talk to this old partner of your pa’s,” Frans said.
Otto pulled a face and shook his head. “He’s very old and painfully deaf, Frans, and he was awfully vague on detail. I spoke to him and to his daughter quite a bit at the funeral yesterday. It was difficult.”
“They didn’t go to the cemetery?” Frans said.
“No, they went to Goerkehaus.”
“Ah.”
Dieter lifted his head. “Did Dad used to attend those Hitler bashes?” He directed his gaze first at Otto, who dreaded the answer, and then at Frans.
Frans squirmed and nodded. “Ja, to my knowledge he did.”
Otto felt a chill and looked away sharply. “The things we never knew about our parents.” Then he gazed back to the memorial stone, to the name Neil Solomon, to the residua of Father’s rigid and intolerant beliefs. He glanced at Dieter, whose head was supported in one hand, eyes staring ahead, and imagined what might have happened if Father had known about Dieter’s homosexuality. He felt a sudden pang of sympathy for his brother, who most likely sensed this, and had been forced to live a painful lie for all these years.
“Do you think Ingrid knew about this?” Otto said, inclining his head towards the headstone.
Frans and Dieter gazed at him.
“In my opinion,” Frans began carefully, “Ingrid knows more than she is admitting.”
“But why?” Otto said, trying to understand what could have motivated Ingrid to be complicit in the deception about Inez.
“That’s what I need to find out,” Frans said, wagging his index finger in the air before tapping it against the side of his nose. “And I have to tell you guys that I believe it will be connected to the body in the garden.”
Otto felt winded. Dieter paled visibly.
“You think our parents had something to do with the body?” Dieter said.
Frans studied them both without a flicker of reaction. “That is one possibility.” His unsteady eyes flitted from Otto to Dieter, like a hawk hunting a field mouse.
The silence grew uncomfortable, with not even the sound of a distant bird or the buzz of an insect to break it. The air was still, hot, and accusing. Otto did not know what to think. He was frightened to think too much. The memories from his childhood were failing him, leaving him feeling exposed and lost. What more might he discover? What might Frans, the upholder of the law, discover?
“Careful Otto, there is a scorpion near your foot,” Frans said, raising one arm.
Otto froze and looked down at the hot gravel beneath his feet. “Where?”
“Beside the plastic wreath. Just walk towards me.”
Frans beckoned with outstretched arms for Otto to approach. Once safely away Otto turned and scrutinised the wreath, its flowers bleached by the merciless sun. Adopting its customary C–shaped posture, with tail and deadly sting poised above its body to strike, a large dark brown scorpion with yellowy–orange legs sheltered on the marble chippings in the shadow cast by the wreath.
“Parabuthus villosus,” Frans said. “Very poisonous.”
“God, it’s huge,” Dieter remarked.
“Ja. Give them a wide berth,” Frans advised. He looked up at the sky, squinting towards the sun. “Let’s go and find the old man,” he said, making a move towards the gates. “I want to talk to him before we leave.”
*
The old man lived in the centre of Keetmanshoop near the Rhenish Missionary Church, an impressive Gothic construction of local brown stone erected by the German colonials. The police said his name was Klaus Abert. Once they had all settled in his parlour, smelling overpoweringly of oiled wood and unwashed linen, Otto realised that Klaus’ hearing was far worse than he remembered. Even with the Maelzel ear trumpet jammed into his hairy ear, Klaus screwed up his wrinkly face and stared blankly whenever anyone spoke to him.
“We have come to ask you about Inez Adermann,” Frans said.
“Was sagst du?”
In piecemeal fashion Klaus told them that he had been Ernst Adermann’s partner, and that he had driven Ernst’s eldest daughter to Otjiwarongo because she was unwell and needed the invigorating climate of the Waterberg plateau to convalesce.
“It took me two days to reach Otjiwarongo and two days to get back again,” he said with a grin, as if it had happened yesterday.
Otto and Dieter glanced at each other. Klaus was simply repeating what he had told Otto in the Felsenkirche the day before.
“What was wrong with Inez?” Frans asked.
“Wer?” Klaus yelled, leaning towards Frans with his ear trumpet aloft.
“Inez Adermann,” Frans repeated slowly and loudly. “What was wrong with her?”
Klaus’ eyes met Otto’s and then Dieter’s with a look of puzzlement. “Ja, I took her to Otjiwarongo for Ernst. He said not to tell anyone.”
Otto straightened. What a strange thing to say. What a peculiar request to make. “Not to tell anyone?” Otto repeated. “I wonder why?”
“Who did you take her to?” Frans yelled.
Klaus looked at him through watery eyes for a moment before replying. “Otjiwarongo!”
Frans sighed and turned to Otto. “This is pointless.”
“Like I said,” Otto replied, “I’m not sure if he just can’t understand us or if he’s forgotten.”
Frans drew breath and licked his lips, turning back to Klaus, leaning towards the ear trumpet. “Why did Ernst ask you not to tell anyone?”
“Was?”
“Why did Dr Adermann ask you not to tell anyone about taking Inez to Otjiwarongo?” he repeated slowly.
Klaus pondered this for a moment, his smooth tongue snaking restlessly around his edentulous mouth. “Dr Adermann was my partner. Ja.” His eyes flicked from Frans to Otto to Dieter, seeking affirmation.
In the background a ticking clock chimed politely four times. Frans appeared frustrated, tapping his shoes on the floor and staring at the floorboards.
“Did you ever see Inez again?” Otto asked.
“Was?” Klaus turned to face Otto, his lined face drawn in around a purplish nose.
“Did you ever see Inez again?” Otto repeated very slowly.
A sad realisation seemed to pervade Klaus’ eyes as he gently shook his head. “Nein.”
“Did Neil Solomon go to Otjiwarongo?” Otto yelled.
“Solomon… ja… was?”
“Did he go to Otjiwarongo?”
Klaus suddenly shook his head animatedly, releasing the trumpet from its purchase in his ear. “Ah – nein, nein. Solomon was eine Jüden.” He continued to shake his head vehemently. “I only took Inez to Otji
warongo.”
Otto sank back in his threadbare seat and met Dieter’s searching eyes. It seemed clear to Otto that Father had separated Inez and Neil Solomon. The illness, of which Ingrid apparently knew nothing, was probably a ruse. What plagued Otto, having just buried Mother the day before, was whether she knew about this? Was she in agreement with sending her daughter away to Otjiwarongo? And why had Ingrid so willingly conspired with both of them to withhold all of this from her brothers?
*
The long drive back to Lüderitz was filled with silences, thoughtful, disturbing silences. Of one thing Otto was certain: there was more to Father than he remembered as a child. There was more to his entire childhood than he recalled. There were quite evidently chunks that he had never known about, but then being the youngest by some margin, this in itself was not entirely unreasonable.
Were there discrepancies, however, in the bits that he could remember, or that he thought he remembered? How could he be sure after so many years? What a dreadful development, he considered, to be questioning every cherished childhood memory that he had held on to over the years.
Thirty
On Monday morning Frans fetched Dieter and Otto and drove them to the police station. They did not know what it was for, and both sat quietly in his glass office while he organised coffee for each of them. Policemen busying themselves at desks cast furtive glances in their direction. Dieter could not suppress little flashbacks to his recurring dream; that feeling of guilt, that one day the police would catch up with him and tap him on the shoulder. He felt as though every examining stare was looking through Frans’ transparent office walls into his darkest secrets, deciphering his inexplicable guilt, preparing to expose him. It seemed to him that everyone in that police station knew about his dream, that his dark secret was finally out. The day he had long dreaded was finally upon him.
“I keep thinking about that dream,” he whispered to Otto.
“What dream?”
“You know, the one I told you about – the rolled–up carpet and the body inside.”
Otto’s eyes widened as he stared at Dieter. “Christ, you don’t think you actually saw something, do you?”
“I just have no idea anymore,” Dieter said. His palms felt sweaty, and he rubbed them on his trousers. Suddenly the door burst open, startling him, as though he had been doing something illicit.
“Here you go, three black coffees.” Frans set them down on his desk.
“What do you need from us, Frans?” Otto asked.
Dieter swallowed, imagining fingerprints, perhaps a blood sample for that DNA analysis, lie detector testing. Frans moved to the steel filing cabinet and slid open the top drawer.
“I want you to have a look at this,” he said, removing the child’s reconstructed clay head and placing it on the desk between them.
Otto frowned and Dieter shuffled in his seat.
“This is a forensically reconstructed likeness built around the child’s skull that was found in your garden,” Frans explained.
Dieter did not like the word ‘your’, implying their culpability. The first image that came to mind as he looked upon the clay head was of the rolled–up green carpet. Did some neglected childhood memory circuit in his brain make a connection between the two?
“How accurate are these reconstructions?” Otto asked.
Frans pulled a face. “Not bad. We used a specialist in Johannesburg.” He leaned forward and turned the head slightly. “Do you recognise this face?” He paused. “Have you ever seen it before?”
Dieter noted the fine nose and long upper lip, and the chillingly small size of the head. It reminded him of the face from the home movies they had watched on Saturday night. But then, he considered, he was no expert on babies and they did all look somewhat alike to him.
“How old do you think this child was?” Otto asked, studying the face with curiosity.
Frans pouted his lips. “Around one year, give or take a few months either way. That’s what the forensic people have told us.”
“Jesus,” Dieter said; “just an infant.”
Dieter and Otto examined the head carefully for a few surreal moments, staring at something from 1948 that had, chillingly, almost been brought back to life, its lips slightly parted, as if to breathe. This was the face of the child they had played on top of, Dieter reflected.
“I was only tiny myself,” Otto said. “You should have asked Ingrid.”
“I have,” Frans said.
Dieter’s heart skipped a beat. “You’ve shown this to her?”
Frans nodded in a noncommittal way.
“What did she say?” Otto asked.
Dieter could feel his heart quickening. He felt sweaty. He could picture the rolled–up carpet, shadowy figures moving about with it at shoulder height, going nowhere distinct. Could it have been this child concealed inside?
“Not much,” Frans said, reaching for his coffee. As he sipped he kept his eyes on Dieter and Otto’s faces.
“I’ve never seen this child before. It’s definitely not Herero though,” Dieter said.
“No,” Frans agreed.
“Boy or girl?” Otto asked, angling his head as he studied the sculpted face.
“We don’t know yet.”
“The DNA test will tell you,” Otto said.
“On Saturday we watched the last of the family home movies, filmed here in Lüderitz. There was a small child in them,” Dieter said, gesticulating towards Otto, “but you could clearly see it was Otto.”
Dieter could not drink the coffee. It was weak and bitter.
“What now?” Otto said, half–turning away from the head.
“Well, we should get the DNA results back in a day or two. I’ll let you know.” Frans smiled. “Depending on what they reveal we’ll know… er… what to do next.”
Dieter stood up, followed by Otto. He wanted to get out, to stop thinking about his dream.
“Thanks again for yesterday, Frans,” Dieter said.
“My pleasure. It was very revealing, I thought,” Frans said. “Do you want a lift up the hill?”
Otto shook his head with a wan smile. “It’s OK, thanks, we’ll walk.”
“Jesus, that was creepy,” Dieter said once they were out of the police station.
The seaweed smell of the fog permeating Lüderitz was strong that morning, and it seemed to transmit the sounds of the harbour very clearly, as though it was solid.
“Why didn’t he tell us before now that he’d shown it to Ingrid?” Otto asked.
Dieter stared at Otto, unblinking. “You think he’s playing us?”
Otto was silent for a moment. “Frans?”
“Biggest mistake anyone can make is underestimating a copper,” Dieter said. “Don’t be fooled by his squint.”
Otto pondered this sobering thought. He did not know what Ingrid knew. He did not even know what Dieter knew. And what was that dream of Dieter’s all about?
“I wonder how Ingrid reacted to that head?” Otto said.
“Frans didn’t say much about her, did he?” Dieter said.
“She was about fourteen then. Surely she’d remember something?”
“Well, she’s given Frans the slip now,” Dieter sniped.
They walked past Felsenkirche, its steeple just visible through the asphyxiating grip of the fog. It should have made Otto think of Mother, but it didn’t. Barely two days since her funeral and he was thinking about the reconstructed clay head, about Dieter’s dream, and wondering where Ingrid was. It was as if the funeral had not even taken place.
“We need to go through all Mum and Dad’s old things at home, see if we can find anything,” Otto said. “I can’t stand this nagging question hanging over us.”
“That’s got a rather seedy feel about it, though, hasn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Otto said.
“You know, going through your parents’ things, searching for clues, for something out of the ordinary. Like we don’t trust the
m.”
Otto breathed hard as they climbed the steep hill up to Bülow Street. Dieter’s words reverberated in his mind, cutting, making him bleed at the unpleasant prospect. Father had been gone ten years already, but he could not imagine questioning his mother’s character in the way that he was now, had she still been alive. It made him feel disrespectful.
“Children inherently trust their parents, don’t they?” Otto said eventually. “Implicitly.” A vision of Max and Karl burst into his mind. He could not entertain the possibility that they would not trust him for the rest of his life. But the rest of his life was not as long as the rest of their lives.
“When was that unreserved trust first shaken for you?” Dieter asked, searching Otto’s eyes.
Otto was taken aback. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do,” Dieter chided him. “You know, parents tell you about Father Christmas and the tooth fairy, and going to heaven and all that shit.”
“Uh–huh.”
“Well, when was the first time you realised that they didn’t always tell you the truth?”
Otto was stunned by this question. They walked in silence for a few moments, the sound of their footsteps on the road clipping the eerie stillness.
“You mean before Inez?” Otto said, rubbing his temples.
“You know when things changed for me?” Dieter said. “When I realised I could not tell them I was gay. I knew I dared not confide in my own mum and dad about who I really was. They made me choose to live an invented life because it suited their ideology.”
“That’s not a lie,” Otto objected.
“Oh, it is. I didn’t mind the little things, tooth fairy and so forth.” Dieter rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “When I left for Cologne they told me my best friend was going away and couldn’t come to Windhoek to say goodbye.”
“Marko?”
Dieter nodded. “They lied. Father had threatened him that if he came anywhere near me again he would speak to the church priest.”
“Why?”
Dieter looked at Otto quizzically. “Don’t you remember Marko?”
Otto tried to remember. “Not well… he was always nice to me…”
“He was very effeminate,” Dieter said. “You were too young to notice, I guess. Marko and I were very close friends at school.” He paused, an old wound visible behind his eyes. “Anyway, Marko wrote to me, eventually, and explained about Dad and the airport. I never saw him again.”
16mm of Innocence Page 19