“It’s fucking humiliating,” Dieter said. “Our father, a bloody Nazi criminal. We’ll all be shamed and ostracised.”
“Not around here,” Ingrid retorted with a snort.
“I guess now we know why they chose to settle here,” Otto said.
“The far end of the bloody world,” Dieter added.
The fog curled around them, its tentacles at certain times appearing to separate them, at other times encircling and embracing them as one.
“Did you ever see anything?” Otto asked, feeling his skin crawl at the very implications of his question as he glanced at Ingrid.
Ingrid turned to him briefly. “In Hamburg, no. There were Wehrmacht soldiers at the house from time to time, but then we were at war, so…” She shrugged, appearing to reminisce. “Sometimes a fancy staff car would call for Dad and take him off, but…” she frowned, “we never saw him in uniform, had no reason to suspect he was anything other than a doctor.”
“What made you think he might have been a Nazi then?” Otto asked, remembering her response when he had called her in Windhoek.
Ingrid met Otto’s eyes, and in her gaze he could see deep, brooding resentment.
“His manner, his behaviour: he was so strict, so formal, so unyielding. Not an ounce of compassion in his bones. He destroyed Inez. He… killed her.”
“Because of Neil Solomon?” Dieter said, concentrating on his footfall over the rugged pathway.
“Obviously!” Ingrid said. “I tried to talk to him, I begged him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“And Mum?” Otto asked.
“What about her?” Ingrid said.
“What did she do?”
Ingrid glared at Otto as though it was he who was to blame. “Not enough,” she said.
The sea breeze had calmed, the waves were less angry – it was as though the fog had induced serenity over the land. Otto wanted to ask about the body in the garden but felt it would be a reach too far. Not yet, he thought, it’s going too well. Don’t push it.
“We were wondering if we should tell Frans,” Otto said.
“About Dad?” A look of horror was evident on Ingrid’s face.
Otto nodded.
“No,” Ingrid said quickly. “Not yet. What did he call about?”
“He said they were having difficulties with… you explain, Otto,” Dieter said.
“They’re struggling to extract sufficient intact DNA from the old bones for the analysis,” Otto said.
“Meaning?” Ingrid stopped and turned to face Otto, her eyes locked on his.
“It may take more time… or it may not even be possible,” Otto said.
She stared at him, her eyes darting about his face, her breathing deep and rhythmic. “Well I’m not hanging around this fucking dump indefinitely, if that’s what he’s suggesting.”
“They just want to get to the bottom of this, Ingrid. If you know what happened, tell us, tell Frans, and then we can all go home,” Dieter said in tempered tones.
Her eyes flicked to Dieter and narrowed, lingering on him for longer than Otto could ever remember her looking at their brother.
“Do they teach you about traumatised childhoods at medical school?” Ingrid said.
“Come on Ingrid, you were only a child at the time, no–one will ever blame you for what happened. Just talk about it. Tell us the truth we are so desperate to hear,” Otto said.
“The truth?” Ingrid said with a dismissive smirk, looking away.
“Yes. Who are you protecting?” Otto asked.
Ingrid’s resolute gaze faltered and she looked down at the stony pathway, turning a pebble over with the point of her shoe. Otto studied her profile, sensing within her a titanic struggle – perhaps the fearful little girl nervous about repercussions, grappling with the bitter and resentful adult she had grown up to become.
She looked up and drew breath. “I am as appalled and sickened by what I saw on that film as you guys are.” Her eyes filled again momentarily. “Dad and I had our differences over the years, yes, some of which I can never forgive him for. But Jesus, I never realised what a monster he was. It’s… indescribable.” She bit her lip and dabbed at her eyes, the gathering fog softening her tightly clenched jaws. “And he got away with it as well – escaped justice.” She faced Otto again, determination in her eyes. “Well, not this time.”
She drew a deep breath and shuddered slightly. “Let’s invite Frans over. Show him the film first, and then I’ll tell you what I can remember.”
Otto could not believe his ears. He wanted to smile and thank her but fought against this inappropriate effusiveness in the midst of her evident emotional turmoil, feeling within himself as well a sudden quickening of his heartbeat.
“You won’t regret it, Ingrid,” Dieter said, trying to sound encouraging.
“Don’t bet on it,” she said without looking at him.
Otto was on the verge of stepping forward to embrace his sister when she spoke again.
“But tonight I want to be left alone to think,” she said, and for the second time that week abandoned Otto on the esplanade as she sauntered off into the mouth of the fog, pulling her coat up around her neck.
Forty–Three
Ingrid struggled with her thoughts as they sat and watched the grainy, lined footage of Father in his SS uniform, strolling regally around Neuengamme in the company of notorious Nazi figures – Trzebinski, Pauly, Heissmayer. Ingrid imagined momentarily that she could detect a smirk on Father’s face as he stood, hands on hips, basking in the contagion of his notorious collaborators.
Frans sat to her right, his jowly face cupped in meaty hands as he watched with piscine eyes staring widely at the flickering images. The muscles of his jaw worked tirelessly beneath his fleshy fingers. Dieter sat on the floor, knees drawn up to his chin, and Otto hid behind the projector, his eyes downcast, seemingly unable to look at his Nazi father for a third time.
*
Frans had welcomed Ingrid back to Lüderitz effusively when he arrived. “You have made the right decision to come back, Ingrid. Thank you.”
“Did I have a choice?” Ingrid said.
“I want to get this investigation wrapped up and begin handing over to my successor. I’m retiring, you know?”
“Are you now?” Ingrid said derisively.
“Ja. Anyway, Willem Krause needs to execute the will and in the absence of those test results from England you are the key to helping us sort out this mess.”
Ingrid stared into his eyes as they darted about disobediently. She could not believe that the runt of the Laubscher litter had become the Chief of Police, and that she was now answerable to him.
“Watch the film that Otto found first. Then we’ll talk,” Ingrid said.
*
The images were distracting her. Every time she began to prepare her intended words to Frans, another breathtaking image of sadistic cruelty would flicker onto the screen, Father’s face always to be seen somewhere in frame. She wanted to shout at Father, she wanted to strike out at him, for being the man he was, for destroying his family, and for putting all of them through this hell so many years later.
Ingrid had almost forgotten Father. She never thought of him and had certainly not shed a tear for him from her Manhattan apartment when he died. But now his sharp, youthful face was thrusting its way back into her consciousness, evoking memories that she had worked so hard to forget.
Damn you, she wanted to say out loud. Damn you to eternity.
She looked at her naked left ring finger. Three times she had worn a wedding ring on it. Three times she had removed them. Ingrid recalled the furore when Frederick had placed the first ring onto that finger. First there had been the tragedy surrounding Inez, and then Frederick had proposed: it was on that day when Father had refused his blessing that she realised she could never look him in the eye again.
Then she glanced past Frans’ intensely concentrating face, his jaws still clenching as though he was chewing, and studi
ed Dieter and Otto’s forlorn faces. Being the oldest, she still felt duty–bound. She had to see this through, whatever the cost.
If circumstances had unfolded differently she may have been able to get away with maintaining her silence, but they were well past that point now. All that she could do was try to minimise the damage.
Forty–Four
19 September 1948
Mother sat rocking the infant in her lap, its eyes heavy and losing the struggle against gravity. Mother was wearing a full–length black dress and laced shoes. In a wicker and steel–framed Frankonia stroller beside her, another infant slept beneath a pale blue blanket.
Father sat cross–legged on the sofa, holding his ornately carved nicotine–stained Meerschaum pipe in his mouth. He stared at Mother through the fragrantly spiced smoky haze, his eyes resolute, his dark suit immaculate.
Ingrid walked sombrely into the room in a knee–length pale green dress, hands clasped together in front of her waist, a beret perched at a jaunty angle on her head.
“May I please go into Inez’s bedroom?” Ingrid asked.
“The door should be locked,” Father said sharply, looking accusingly at Mother.
“Yes, Ernst.” Mother rocked the infant with greater enthusiasm as it began to stir in her lap, its fingers opening and then closing again as if grasping at something invisible.
Father turned to Ingrid. “Please, Inga, your sister is gone. I will clear her room before I—”
“I will clear her room while you are away,” Mother interrupted.
Father clasped the pipe between his teeth again as he contemplated Mother with a disdainful look. “Do not keep things, Ute,” he warned her.
“There are some special things in Inez’s room that are mine,” Ingrid protested, gently stamping her flat–soled black pump on the floor.
Father sat forward. “Enough! We will not mention Inez’s name in this house again, understand?”
Ingrid’s chin wobbled as she looked to Mother.
“Ssshhh, Ernst, you will wake the child.”
“Don’t ssshh me, that is not even my child.”
Mother looked at him with large doleful eyes, resignation in her body posture as she rocked the infant. “Well who is to care for her child now, Ernst?”
Father stood up and walked away from Mother. In the far corner of the room Dieter sat on the floor in khaki shorts and a loose flannel shirt held up by braces. He was setting up rows of lead soldiers and watching as his coiled metal Slinky magically wormed its way along into his troops, knocking them over.
“The child must go for adoption,” Father said, back still turned to Mother.
Mother’s eyes widened as her cheeks sank inwards. “Ernst?”
He turned around, pipe in hand. “I will not have that… that Jewish child in my house.” He gesticulated towards the sleeping infant in her lap.
“This is Inez’s son,” Mother pleaded.
“Yes, Papa, please… can’t we keep him?” Ingrid pleaded, moving to her mother’s side.
“That’s enough!” Father said, waving his pipe at Ingrid threateningly. “This does not involve you, Inga. Please, leave us, and take Dieter with you.”
“What have I done?” came the plaintive voice of little Dieter.
“Please, Papa,” Ingrid pleaded.
“Out!” Father pointed to the door with an outstretched arm, holding the smouldering pipe aloft.
Ingrid and Dieter left dutifully without a further whimper of protest. The infant in Mother’s lap began to stir and Mother made to unfasten her blouse and expose her breast.
“For God’s sake, Ute, not for the Jewish child,” Father said.
“What will you have me do?” Mother said, looking up at him, the infant now crying and reaching for her breast.
“That is for Otto,” Father said, pointing at her bosom. “This Jewish child must go.”
“It is all we have left of Inez.”
Father’s head spun back to confront Mother. “We have nothing left of her. She is gone, do you understand? Dead.”
Mother’s eyes stared at him, hurt and loss crumpling the edges of her composure. “You would abandon your own grandchild?” she asked softly, “He looks so like Otto.”
Father slumped back down on the sofa and crossed his legs. “He is a Jew, Ute, he is not my grandchild.” He contemplated Mother and the infant for a few moments. “We gassed children like that in Germany, remember? How do you expect me to raise one now as my own? I will be a laughing stock.”
Mother’s gaze faltered and she looked down at the screwed–up little infant’s face she was denying as she buttoned up her blouse.
“I will not do it, Ute. The child must go.”
Otto now began to stir in the pram, soon bawling lustily.
“Look what you’ve done,” Mother chastised Father.
Father stood up.
“Please just pick Otto up for me and see if he’ll settle. He hasn’t slept long enough,” Mother said.
“I’m going to pack.” Father walked to the door and then paused. “I am very serious, Ute: when I return from Etosha in two months’ time I want that child gone.” He brandished the pipe menacingly at the infant in Mother’s lap, as if he was holding a pistol.
Mother sat in stunned silence, a solitary tear clinging desperately to each lower eyelid, gently bouncing one crying infant on her knee as a beetroot–faced Otto bawled from his pram. Ingrid entered the room cautiously.
“Oh, Inga, please pick Otto up,” Mother said.
“Where’s Father going?” Ingrid said as she cuddled Otto against her shoulder, gently patting his back.
Mother sighed. “He’s off on a hunting trip to Etosha with some of his Otjiwarongo friends.”
“How long will he be gone?” Ingrid asked.
“Quite a long while.”
Ingrid walked around in a contained circle, rocking Otto, whose crying had abated. “Can we clear Inez’s room together then please?” Ingrid’s eyes filled with tears. “There are things I want to keep.”
Mother smiled sadly and swallowed. “Of course, Inga. Just don’t tell your father. It’ll be our secret.”
Ingrid tried to smile, but her eyes were drawn to the cherubic face of her dead sister’s child. “What are we going to do with Johan?”
Mother’s face crumpled together as her chin quivered. “I don’t know, Ingrid. I just don’t know.”
Dieter sat dutifully in the rocky sand, scuffing his black shoes back and forth. He was wearing a double–breasted jacket over his braces, seemingly dressed for Sunday school. He drew patterns in the dust with a finger. Close by Otto and Johan crawled about, inspecting flowers and wreaths and turning over everything they encountered.
Mother, in her black dress, knelt beside the mournful mound of barren Lüderitz soil piled on top of Inez’s fresh grave. Ingrid stood behind her, hand on Mother’s shoulder. They both cried, tears rolling down Ingrid’s cheeks and dripping onto the parched earth.
“I miss her so much, Mum,” Ingrid sobbed and sniffed, wiping at her wet face with the other hand. “Why did this happen?”
“Put that down, Otto,” Mother said, turning her head to see what the two crawling infants were up to.
Ingrid walked over and removed the plastic wreath from Otto’s resolute grasp.
“I am so sorry, Inez my dear,” Mother said, speaking to the mound of earth as though her daughter could hear her. “We’ve come to say goodbye. Little Johan is leaving us.” Her shoulders shuddered and she looked down, pinching the bridge of her nose as she winced, trying stoically to suppress her sobs. “I cannot do anything, I’m so sorry. It’ll be for the best, I’m sure.”
Mother placed the palm of her hand on the soil tenderly. “Say goodbye to your mama, Johan.” She began to sob openly, wailing in embarrassment, trying to hide her miserable face from Ingrid.
Johan suddenly let out a piercing cry, more like a scream, and did not relent. The tear–streaked faces of Ingrid and Mo
ther turned sharply towards him. In his lap lay a bunch of flowers. His face was turning red, like a poached tomato, as his lungs squeezed chilling cries from his gaping, wet mouth.
“It’s OK, baby,” Ingrid said and bent to lift him.
He cried even more, his eyes staring around fearfully, his mouth dripping saliva.
“What happened?” Mother said.
“I don’t know.”
“Put him in the pram. There’s a bottle of milk there.”
Mother turned back to the grave, rubbing her temples, gently rocking herself back and forth.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Dieter said, coming up to his mother and pressing himself against her side.
“I’m very sad, my boy. But I’ll be alright,” Mother said and forced a smile for Dieter, rubbing his nose playfully.
Ingrid laid Johan down in the pram and rocked him gently, plugging his mouth with the bottle of milk. He cried and cried.
“It’s as if he knows,” Ingrid said, turning to glance at the grave and Mother’s hunched profile.
Soon Johan calmed and fell silent. Ingrid knelt down beside Mother and stared at the mound of earth. So emphatic. So final.
“Every morning when I first wake up, I forget that she’s gone. My heart does not ache straight away. Then suddenly… I remember,” Ingrid said, her eyes filling with tears. “Every day, it’s the same.”
“Look, Mama, a giant spider!” Dieter said excitedly. He was pointing at something, his face a blend of fascination and horror.
Ingrid glanced across to where Dieter stood and went to investigate. What she saw chilled her blood. “Oh my God, Mum. It’s a scorpion!”
Scurrying away on hideous yellow–orange legs towards an adjacent headstone was a black scorpion, its long body covered with fine hairs. Behind it lay bunches of fresh flowers from Inez’s grave. Ingrid screamed and covered her mouth with one hand. Then she pulled Dieter out of harm’s way.
“Oh my!” Mother said, now standing, her deadpan face apparently mesmerised by the size of the scorpion. “Oh my…”
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