16mm of Innocence

by Quentin Smith

  “Come, sit,” Mother said, sniffing away tears and patting the seat beside her.

  Ingrid sat and straightened her skirt. Mother took a deep breath and took hold of her hand.

  “Your father cannot find out about this.” She paused, looking into Ingrid’s eyes. “Do you understand?”

  Ingrid nodded, though her childlike comprehensions were being extended to the limit.

  “You and I will have to do this together, Inga, in it for as long as you live.” Mother took both of Ingrid’s hands and held them firmly between her calloused, dry fingers.

  “I’m scared Mum. What will happen?”

  “That is up to us, dear. Your father is away for a long time. He doesn’t need to know about this.”

  “But how?”

  Mother bit her lip and looked upwards, as if searching for divine inspiration. “I have already lost one child this week. I’m damned if I’m going to lose another.”

  Ingrid started to cry again, reminded of losing her big sister Inez, the one person in the world who understood, the friend to whom she could always turn.

  “We should bury him in the garden, that way he will always be close to us. Think of it that way,” Mother said softly, looking into Ingrid’s eyes again.

  “But Mama—”

  “Hush, Inga. Listen to me. Just like you, I do not wish to forget Inez forever. But your father’s wishes will have to be respected in this house. That does not stop you and me from having our own secrets.” Mother patted her hand and tried to smile.

  Ingrid sniffed and swallowed. “What do we do?”

  “We bury him next to the new camelthorn tree – the ground is freshly dug there – and we pretend nothing ever happened.”

  “But when Dad comes home—”

  “You and Dieter and Otto will be here, just like before.”

  Ingrid stared at her mother in horror and bewilderment. “But—”

  “If we act normally your father will never suspect – or know – anything otherwise,” Mother said, smiling tautly.

  Ingrid blinked a few times, her sobbing now reduced to the occasional shudder. “Are you sure, Mum?”

  Mother reached for her brandy and took a generous mouthful. She swallowed and appeared to struggle for breath. “You need to promise me, Inga, that you can keep this a secret – from your father, from the boys, from everyone. No–one will benefit from knowing about this tragedy.”

  Ingrid stared fearfully at her mother and nodded.

  “Tell me you promise,” Mother insisted.

  “I promise, Mum,” Ingrid said, nodding effusively.

  “Forever?”

  “Forever.”

  “Good girl. Here, drink this to seal our word.” Mother passed the goblet of brandy to her.

  Ingrid drank a little and coughed so dramatically that she thought she might choke. Her throat burned worse than the time she had accidentally bitten a chilli. Mother smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

  “Now, we have work to do.”

  The two of them spent most of the night digging a hole beside the camelthorn. Ingrid was so terrified of being caught, of being seen, that she nearly vomited several times. In the morning she awoke to find Mother asleep in the living room, still wearing the same black dress from the previous day, torn and soiled with dust, just like a peasant. Beside her was an empty bottle of brandy.

  Forty–Eight

  The knock on the front door was so loud it startled Otto as he was carefully removing the oil painting of Freiburg University, his favourite, from the wall. He was somewhat surprised to make out Frans’ burly figure looming in the entrance vestibule.

  “Hi Otto.” Frans looked ill at ease.

  Otto frowned. “What is it?”

  “We have a problem. Is Dieter here?” Frans said.

  “Uh–huh.”

  “Ingrid?”

  Otto shook his head. “She’ll be at the airport now, flies back to Windhoek…” He glanced at his wristwatch.

  “Shit!” Frans said, glancing around furtively as if someone was stalking him. “Can I use your phone?”

  Otto ushered him in and pointed to the telephone in the hallway. Frans dialled immediately, pawing at his face constantly. “Hello, airport security please, this is an emergency.”

  Otto frowned. His genteel and tranquil morning spent sorting through Mother’s belongings had been brought crashing down around his ears.

  “Ja, hello, this is Chief Laubscher here. Listen, has the flight to Windhoek left yet?” Frans nibbled on the inside of his lip as he listened. “Good. There is a passenger I want you to hold for me, please.”

  Otto’s heart skipped a beat. What on earth was going on? Dieter emerged from the passage, alerted by the stern tones of Frans’ voice.

  “What’s going on?” Dieter asked.

  Otto shrugged.

  “Well, in that case you will have to take her off the plane. Her name is Ingrid…” Frans looked at Dieter and pulled a face. “What’s her surname?”

  Dieter shrugged and deferred to Otto.

  “Forsythe,” Otto said.

  “Forsythe. Ingrid Forsythe. I am on my way. Please keep her in the departure lounge. What?” He narrowed his eyes as he listened. “No, no cuffs. Just hold her there.”

  Frans replaced the receiver and wiped his mouth with a spade–like hand. His excitable eyes flicked from Otto to Dieter.

  “What’s going on?” Dieter repeated.

  “Ingrid lied to us. We need to speak to her again,” Frans said with a resigned sigh.

  “Lied to us… about what?” Otto said.

  “Let’s go, I’ll tell you on the way.” Frans was already heading down the long flight of concrete steps to his car on the sandy roadway below.

  *

  Within minutes they were driving out of Lüderitz, heading south–east on the Kolmanskop road. Frans drove aggressively, revving the protesting Toyota engine mercilessly, the fluffy dice swaying pendulously beneath the smudged mirror. On the road ahead tiny swirls of sand pirouetted across the shimmering tarmac.

  “They had a breakthrough with the DNA tests and faxed the results through this morning,” Frans said.

  Otto and Dieter made apprehensive eye contact in the rear view mirror.

  “What Ingrid told us is simply not possible,” Frans said.

  Otto felt winded. Why would Ingrid lie? He had seen her face, listened to her emotional confession and felt her relief as she had revealed her childhood recollections of that traumatic episode. It had all sounded perfectly plausible to him.

  “But why would she lie?” Otto said.

  “That’s what I need to ask her,” Frans said.

  They passed the cemetery, a place that now held so many tragic memories for Otto. Some distance later they passed the turning to Kolmanskop, and then not long after that, Lüderitz Airport.

  Situated on a flat plateau of rock and sand the airport was as remote and isolated as any place could be, evoking in Otto the impression of a base on the moon. A small collection of low buildings connected by tarred roads swept clean of sand; sand that waited impatiently at the verges for the next opportunity to drift across and cover everything again.

  The runway resembled a strip of black paint rolled down a camel brown meadow. Keeping it clear of sand must be a thankless task, Otto thought to himself. Frans pulled up sharply right outside the terminal building, his car at an overtly illegal angle, and alighted from the vehicle with surprising agility for a man of his size.

  The terminal was small and poignantly provincial, a single atrium that served both departures and arrivals. On one side a few car hire desks; on the opposite side a vending machine for drinks; and in the centre a few rows of moulded plastic seats, empty but for one person.

  Ingrid sat, with two security guards standing behind her, her face set like a thunderstorm about to unleash bolts of murderous lightning. Frans nodded to the security guards, who retreated slightly.

  “What the fuck are you playing
at?” Ingrid shouted at him.

  In the background the drone of an aircraft gathering speed could be heard, and through the wall of windows Otto saw a Beechcraft twin–prop accelerate noisily down the runway and lift off into the melting heat of a mirage.

  “That was my flight to Windhoek!” Ingrid said, jerking a thumb towards the windows. “There probably isn’t another one for a week in this fucking dump.”

  Frans sat down opposite her in the plastic seats. Otto and Dieter hovered, unsure where to sit. Otto felt betrayed as he studied Ingrid’s stony face, conned by her apparently phony act the previous day. But she would not make eye contact. Dieter eventually sat next to Frans, and Otto beside Ingrid.

  “I’m sorry Ingrid, but I had no choice,” Frans said. He was perspiring and his eyes appeared totally disconnected from each other.

  Ingrid was wearing a mint green dress with black trim, black high–heeled shoes, and pearls around her neck. She folded her arms defiantly, but said nothing.

  “We got the DNA results back, Ingrid,” Frans said.

  Ingrid swallowed and shifted in her seat, refusing to meet Frans’ eyes. “You said they were unlikely to get a result,” she said accusingly.

  “Well,” Frans shrugged, “they did.” He maintained his steady gaze in the face of Ingrid’s mounting discomfort.

  “So you pulled me off my flight just to tell me that?” Ingrid said, truculent to the end.

  Otto thought back to their meal the previous night: the sense of togetherness that he had not felt for so many years; the promise of closer ties in the future and even a degree of fledgling reconciliation between Ingrid and Dieter. What had happened to that? It had all appeared to evaporate. Was it merely a fabrication, like so much of his childhood?

  “You lied to me, Ingrid.” Frans glanced at Otto and Dieter. “You lied to all of us.”

  Ingrid rubbed her temples.

  “The DNA test shows beyond doubt that the body in that grave was not Inez’s child,” Frans said, with surprising sympathy in his voice.

  Otto felt lightheaded. What was Frans saying? If the child buried in the garden was not Inez’s, then…

  “So did the DNA not match with Mum?” Dieter asked.

  Frans did not reply, appearing to direct the question to Ingrid with an enquiring rise of his eyebrows.

  “You did not test Inez’s DNA,” Ingrid said, a flicker of tension visible beneath her eyes.

  “We don’t need to, we know who it is now. You also know who the child was, Ingrid,” Frans said.

  Ingrid shifted her weight in the plastic seat. Otto swallowed ineffectively against dry resistance in his tightening throat. Dieter appeared sweaty, wringing his hands together.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Ingrid,” Dieter blurted. “Tell us who it is.”

  Ingrid stared at them, and then her gaze faltered and she looked down at the polished floor. “He was your brother,” she said softly.

  “What?!” Otto said.

  Frans unclasped his hands briefly. “I don’t pretend to know the technical details, but the scientists say that the body is a certain match with your ma’s DNA.”

  “Meaning?” Dieter said, staring wide–eyed at Frans.

  “He was your ma’s son.”

  Otto felt a spasm across his chest, and an aching hunger for breath. “But…” he said, staring for a moment at the grey flooring. “There were always only three of us, after Inez died…”

  “Oh my God,” Dieter said, straightening. “Jesus, oh fuck.” He bit his knuckle. “It’s…” He glanced at Otto, who met his eyes and then suddenly felt his senses overwhelmed by a warm, prickly invasion.

  Ingrid lowered her head.

  “Is it true, Ingrid?” Otto asked apprehensively, sitting forward to gain a better look at her face. Otto realised that he was pleading with her, begging her to refute his darkest suspicions. Ingrid remained tight–lipped.

  “It wasn’t Johan that died in the cemetery, was it Ingrid?” Frans said.

  Ingrid was breathing heavily and avoiding eye contact with everyone. Otto wanted to stand up but feared his legs would not carry him. His fingers dug into each other between his knees.

  “It was Otto who was stung by the scorpion,” Frans said.

  Ingrid stood up suddenly and walked around, placing one hand over her mouth. The two security guards flinched.

  “This was never… ever meant to come out.” She turned and met Otto’s pained stare as her eyes filled instantly with tears.

  “Ingrid?” Otto pleaded, angling his head, hoping she would deny it.

  “Jesus, I am so sorry, Otto,” Ingrid said, her face tortured by a grimace – begging forgiveness.

  “Oh my God.” Otto stood up, but his knees buckled and he sat down heavily.

  Dieter moved forward and sat beside Otto, who was breathing laboriously, his fingers trembling around his mouth.

  “This changes nothing, Otto – you have been our brother all these years, and you were always Mum and Dad’s favourite son… we all know that,” Ingrid said, her voice remarkably composed though tears streamed down her face.

  Otto wiped his nose with the back of his hand and bit his lip. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. He didn’t even know how he felt. How should he feel: he was dead? He wasn’t Otto. He was Inez’s son. Breathing became difficult; he felt as though he might suffocate. He was panicking. He needed to calm down, he knew that, but he couldn’t.

  Frans walked over to the vending machine, and after slamming a few coins into it returned with a can of Coke which he handed to Otto.

  “We couldn’t tell Dad… he wanted nothing to do with Inez’s son. He wanted him – you – adopted. He thought Mum had taken you for adoption while he was away,” Ingrid said, eyes fixed on Otto.

  “Only you and Mum knew?” Dieter said, looking at Ingrid with searching eyes. “Dad never suspected?”

  Ingrid shook her head. “I would never have told you. Even though it hurt me deeply to see how Dad treated you with such favour over me, and I knew you weren’t even his child.” A slight edge to Ingrid’s voice escaped at the end. She didn’t say it, but Otto knew what she meant: he was a Jew.

  “But why didn’t you tell us yesterday?” Frans asked.

  Ingrid sat down, two seats away from Otto, her chest heaving. “I was protecting Otto. When you said there was a chance they might not be able to get a DNA result… I had to make a choice.”

  They all stared intently at her. “A choice?” Dieter said.

  “I could tell the truth and our lives would never be the same again, or I could take a gamble – cement the lie and put it to bed forever by implying it was Inez’s son in the back garden.”

  “But why?” Otto said.

  “Isn’t it obvious, Otto?” Ingrid said, turning to him and reaching out to take his hand in hers. “The will.”

  Otto was stunned. He had never even thought about that. Being Inez’s half–Jewish son, according to the terms of the will, he was no longer eligible to receive any of his mother’s estate.

  “You knew about that as well?” Dieter asked, angling his head menacingly.

  “No,” Ingrid said, “not until the will was read. But Dad would have believed that Inez’s child was still alive, you see, adopted and living somewhere in this country.” She stared into Otto’s eyes. “Don’t you get it? That’s why he inserted that clause.”

  Otto slumped into his seat. Dieter stood up and walked to the vending machine, leaning against it.

  “What a fucking mess,” Dieter said quietly.

  Frans sat back and rubbed his face thoughtfully. “Did Otto die from a scorpion sting, pretty much as you told us yesterday?” he asked.

  Ingrid looked at him quickly. “Everything happened exactly as I told you, except that it was Otto and not Johan that was stung. And Dad had already left for Etosha, so Mum and I had to do everything.” Her eyes filled suddenly. “Have you any idea what it’s like burying your own baby brother when you’re just fourte
en?”

  Otto was in emotional turmoil, but he perceived Ingrid’s fragility and moved closer, placing an arm around her shoulders.

  “Will Willem Krause find out about this?” Dieter asked.

  They all looked at Frans who sat in ponderous silence, studying his sausage–like fingers as they writhed in his lap like bloodworms.

  “You know, I retire next month,” Frans said quietly, not looking up.

  They stared at him. Otto’s mouth felt like blotting paper. In some ways he was no different, but in other respects his entire universe had just been shifted, and that of his family back in Durham. This revelation, he realised, would inexorably affect the next generation.

  “When I close this case,” Frans stood up slowly, groaning with the effort, “no–one will look into it again.”

  Ingrid’s eyes were hidden behind her manicured hands and painted fingernails. Dieter leaned in deep thought against the humming vending machine. Otto felt hollow, empty, like a nomad. He was numb.

  “Come, I’ll give you guys a lift into town,” Frans said, jangling the keys in his pocket.

  Frans drove away gently, Dieter in the front with him, Otto staring out of one rear window and Ingrid out of the other. The police radio crackled.

  “Chief, call in please, Chief. This is Eric.”

  Frans swiftly pressed a button and silenced the radio. Otto’s mind had turned to Sabine, Max and Karl. What should he tell them? Suddenly he was afraid of revealing the truth. Surely Sabine would not mind? Could she? It was her father Otto worried about. Heinrich Goethe was a proud German who had evidently approved of his only daughter’s marriage to Otto. In a miniscule moment of levity, Otto wondered if he would have approved even more had he known about Father’s Nazi connections. And then, with less jocularity, Otto considered how he might react to the revelation that his son–in–law was in fact a Jew. Otto looked ahead to see the Lüderitz cemetery signpost approaching.

  “Can we please turn in here, Frans? I would like a moment,” Otto said, clearing his thickened throat.

  “Good idea, Otto,” Dieter said.

  Frans tactfully sat in the car while all three children walked to the graves of their sister and mother. For Otto, standing at the foot of Inez’s grave, staring at her name and dates of birth and death etched into the stone, this distinction between sister and mother was now, and forever would remain, blurry and indistinct. He had only learned about Inez a week ago and now he had discovered that she was his mother. It did not feel real. He never knew her, didn’t even have a clear idea of what she had looked like when she brought him into this world.