He sat in the kitchen for hours, staring ahead. When he went out, to the pub or, on Saturdays, to the market, people would avoid him, not wanting to be seen with someone like him. He lived like a stranger among former patients and friends.
In late October, Therese was sitting in the garden with her father. They were peeling apples, which her mother was preserving in the kitchen. It was one of those mild autumn days that shimmer in the memory. Days on which the trees stand taller. Margarete Pohl came into the garden with the letter and handed it wordlessly to her husband. Under “Subject” it said: “Termination of leasehold.” It went on:
Since this is a matter of housing space for the community, which is urgently required for other purposes, and your leasehold agreement specifies the operation of a medical practice, we must demand that you leave the house by the end of the year.
Hollmann had signed it.
“Let’s leave,” her father said, and she thought she heard relief and optimism in that “leave.” But her mother wanted to stay. She continued going to church every day, in the firm belief that things would change soon. “God will not put up with this much longer,” she said with deep conviction, wagging her finger at the invisible enemy.
They spent a month searching for a home, without success. Some people looked down with embarrassment and shrugged regretfully; the faces of others showed satisfaction. They crossed their arms confidently over their chests as they spat out their “no.” One Monday in early December—it was becoming clear that they would not find a home in Kranenburg—there was a knock on the door, and Hanna’s father, Gustav Höver, stood on the threshold. The old man, who must have been approaching sixty, was tall and big-boned, and had the typical round Höver face, with its permanently flushed cheeks. He did not accept the seat her father offered but remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, wringing his peaked cap in his plate-sized hands. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a key, and laid it on the kitchen table.
“It belongs to the cottage. If you want, Doctor, you can live there.” Then he left. Her father leapt to his feet and ran after him, but Höver turned and raised his hands defensively. “I’m ashamed,” he said, his head down. “I’m ashamed of what’s happening here.”
They moved a week later. Hollmann came to inspect the vacated house in person. He strode about among the boxes and furniture, and it was soon obvious that he was to be the new tenant.
They transported the first few loads on a handcart, but there was too much furniture and it was too big. They could neither carry it nor install it in the cottage. Hollmann smiled condescendingly and offered to take the furniture off their hands. “I’ll give you a good price,” he said. “You can’t take it away anyway.”
By about midday—they could barely move the heavy oak dresser in the living room, let alone transport it on a handcart—her father was ready to negotiate. Hollmann made an all-encompassing gesture and named a ridiculous price. Her mother wept with rage, and for a second time threatened God’s punishment. Then a horse and cart stopped in front of the house, and Gustav Höver came in. Hollmann roared at Höver to make himself scarce, but the old man stood right in front of him and said, “We’re loading the furniture onto the cart.” He said it quite neutrally, in a completely matter-of-fact way. They made three trips, storing the biggest and heaviest pieces in Höver’s barn.
Later, Therese Mende enjoyed remembering that scene. At the time, she had thought Höver had some kind of hold on Hollmann. It was not until years after the war that she understood that it was Höver’s determination, his way of standing there and holding one’s gaze: Hollmann was not used to it and did not know how to react.
Christmas in their new home was modest. Wrapped up in coats and scarves, they trudged through driving snow toward the blacked-out settlement of Kranenburg, close to two miles distant, for Midnight Mass. The church was packed, its windows covered with light-blocking material. After Mass, they stood in the square in front of the church as they did every year, shaking hands and wishing one another a happy Christmas. They were all there: Jacob and Alwine, Hanna, Leonard, and Wilhelm. But they did not stand together, as in previous years. She chatted briefly with Jacob and Leonard. Jacob’s training had been cut short, and after his home leave, he was to go to the front. She saw the tears in Leonard’s eyes. Alwine and Wilhelm stood next to each other. Hanna did not shake hands with any of the friends; she did not wish anyone a happy Christmas. When Jacob approached her, she left the square. They set off for home with the Hövers. Therese and Hanna had little Paul Höver between them; her parents walked a few paces behind them with old Höver. The wind had let up a little, and the snowflakes were falling gently and almost vertically. A clear, weightless silence lay over the fields and meadows, and the only sound was the muffled rhythm of their steps, the soft crunching of snow underfoot.
“The way Leo looks at Jacob, that’s not normal,” Hanna said, her voice harsh. She walked on, calm and regular, as if she had been talking to herself.
“What do you mean?” asked Therese, but Hanna shook her head angrily and said nothing.
Four weeks later, she would remember her words. Four weeks later, she would learn for the first time what unimaginable love was capable of. Unimaginable!
Therese Mende was freezing. The west wind was piling up the clouds and driving them toward the bay. Spray leapt high over the rocks, and the droplets of water celebrated their brief freedom with a dance before falling back into the green darkness of the sea. Surfers in wet suits stood belly-deep in the water, holding boards and sails overhead and trying to get past the breakers.
Chapter 20
April 23, 1998
Sergeant Karl van den Boom sat at his desk. He had brought back the missing-persons file on Peters and had spoken to Frau Jäckel from the registration office. Now he was writing down what he, or rather Rita Albers, had found out. He studied his notes, muttering angrily to himself, then called Homicide. He got Brand.
“Something I missed this morning: Albers was here yesterday, interested in an old missing-persons case,” he said evenly. For half a minute he listened, eyes closed, then said, “Have you finished? . . . Good. Would you like to know the case she was interested in?” He was silent again for several seconds, during which he drew some geometrical shapes on his blotter.
“It was Peters. The Peters case, from the 1950s. The files are in Kleve. I told her so, and that’s where I sent her.”
Then, casually, he asked, “How far have you got? I mean, do you have anything yet?”
“Hmm . . . Hmm . . . Yes. So yes . . . Bye.”
He hung up and wrote on a sheet of notepaper:
R. Albers found T. Peters?
Laptop stolen.
Dr. Robert Lubisch, Hamburg.
At six o’clock Van den Boom closed the little police station and drove to the Höver farm. Bronco, the Hövers’ sheepdog, was off his leash and leapt toward him happily as he got out of his car. He walked around the back, crossed the covered yard, knocked on the metal door that led to the living quarters, and walked in. Bronco stayed close and tried to slip into the kitchen. “Leave the dog outside,” said Hanna, without looking up. She was sitting at the kitchen table with Paul, eating supper. The aroma of freshly baked bread and smoked ham mingled with the omnipresent bitter smell of horses. Bronco looked at Karl, disappointed, as he pushed him back with his foot. Van den Boom was still in uniform, and Hanna looked him up and down suspiciously.
He looked down at himself and shook his head. “No, no. I’m not here on duty . . . Just haven’t gotten around to . . .”
Paul busied himself with his meal. “What is it then?” he asked casually.
Karl pulled back one of the old wooden chairs and sat down. “Guten Appetit, first of all. Smells good in this house.”
Hanna stood up, laid a plate and glass before him, and then a knife. She fetched a bottle of beer from the
refrigerator. “You’re not on duty, or are you?”
“No, no.” Van den Boom helped himself enthusiastically, and was full of praise for the fresh, warm bread and the home-smoked ham. They talked about the weather, and Paul cursed the wild rabbits that devoured the seedlings in his vegetable garden.
“You know what’s happened?” Karl ventured after a longish pause.
Paul glanced up. “Your colleagues were already here.”
“So, what was she like?” asked Karl, after two more mouthfuls, both thoroughly chewed. “Albers, I mean.”
“We had nothing to do with her, really,” replied Hanna, taking a sip of beer.
“Sometimes she would come here wanting a bit of advice about the garden. Didn’t know how to prune fruit trees, or was having trouble with voles,” her brother went on. He busied himself with the ham, cut a few slices, and offered them to Karl.
“Oh, thank you. With pleasure.”
There was another pause. Karl had plenty of time.
“Tell me . . . I heard from my colleagues that Albers was interested in Wilhelm and Therese Peters. Do you still remember them? They lived in your cottage, after all.”
Hanna nodded, looking him in the eye. “Yes . . . so?”
“Tell me about them.” Karl took a sip of his beer and leaned back.
“Ancient history,” she said, taking a bite of bread.
Karl looked at Paul, who pushed his plate to one side.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Paul snorted. “Wilhelm Peters took off, left his wife in the lurch. Beginning of the fifties, that was. A few weeks later, Therese was gone too.”
“And . . . did you ever hear from her?”
They both shook their heads.
“Fact is,” said Karl, trying to keep the conversation going, “Albers found Frau Peters.”
Hanna was still looking at him intently. “So why don’t you go to the Peters woman and put your questions to her?” She stood up and gathered the plates together, a clear sign that the conversation was at an end, as far as she was concerned.
Karl reached for his beer. “Does the name Lubisch mean anything to you?”
Hanna continued to clear the table. “Should it? Who is it?”
“A doctor from Hamburg. My colleagues tell me he was the one who got Rita Albers asking around about Peters.”
Brother and sister exchanged a glance.
“I mean,” Karl went on, “nobody asked you about Peters, or did they?”
“Yes.” Hanna stood with her back to the table, loading the dishwasher. “Albers asked.”
“What did you tell her? You must know that Frau Peters was a murder suspect back then.”
Hanna spun round and placed her balled-up fists on her hips. Her pale blue eyes glittered with rage. “Stuff and nonsense! The police back then did everything they could to make out it was murder and pin it on her. But there wasn’t even a body.”
Karl tried not to show his surprise. He had seldom seen Hanna like this, and he tried to take advantage of her anger. “Hmm. I don’t know what happened back then. But now a woman is dead, and I do believe she died because she was asking questions.”
Hanna picked up her cardigan from the back of the chair and pulled it on. “I’m going to shut up the stables now,” she told her brother, in a tone that sounded like an order to do the same. Then she went out into the covered yard.
Paul stayed where he was, looking at the little blue flowers arranged like a garland on the tablecloth.
“Gerhard was in charge of you people back then,” he said. “Maybe you should talk to him. He was friendly with Wilhelm Peters. Shared history, you know.” He stood up.
“Wait. What do you mean?”
They went out into the yard. “I don’t mean anything, but if you must root about in all that old rubbish, at least start in the right place. Ask Gerhard about the last years of the war.”
The evening was turning to dusk, the spring air was mild, and a last, slender strip of reddish-orange light lay in the western sky. As they stood by Karl’s car, saying good-bye, they looked over at the small house on the edge of the forest, as if to mark the end of their conversation, and paused. One of the windows was brightly lit.
Chapter 21
April 23, 1998
When she thought back to the year 1941, it was primarily the last days with Leonard that she remembered.
The winter of 1940/41 was one of the coldest ever, and February 14, a Friday, was so cold that Therese had tied a scarf tightly around her mouth and nose. She was cycling home from the Kruse farm. What daylight remained lay in a thin violet band over Holland, and when she dismounted in front of the Kramers’ house, the moisture from her breathing had collected in her scarf, freezing it stiff so that it stuck to her cheeks. Frau Kruse had given her a basket of winter apples, and Therese wanted to drop some of them off here. Frau Kramer opened the door. Leonard was in a good mood and invited her in for a cup of tea. Alwine had written to him to say she had found a room for him in Cologne from March 1, and he wanted to take the train there the following day to sign the lease.
“What else does she say?” asked Therese, still hoping that Alwine’s grudge against her might have cooled. Leonard laid his hand on her arm and said, “When I’m in Cologne, I’ll explain it all to her one more time. She’s stubborn—you know that. Give her a little time.”
When the doorbell rang, he stood up and called out to his mother, who was busy in the kitchen. “I’ll go.”
She could hear him say it, even now, in his earnest, yet innocent, way. As he went out, she felt a touch of sadness at the thought that soon Leonard would be gone too. She had seen him strolling through the streets of the big city with Alwine.
The bay now lay beneath a thick layer of cloud. The little sails of the windsurfers danced on the sea, and Therese Mende went into the house because the wind was now unpleasantly chilly. Once in the living room, she felt slightly faint, as she often did recently. She took off her shoes and lay on the sofa.
She remembered the confusion of voices; she heard Leonard’s mother running into the hall, shouting, “No!” and, “But why?”
She had gone out into the hall. There were two men in suits standing there. One of them had Leonard by the arm. “Don’t make things difficult,” the other one said, and then they pulled Leonard toward a car by the side of the road. Frau Kramer grabbed Leo’s coat and her own from the wardrobe and ran after them, out into the darkness. “I’m coming too,” she cried, but one of the men pushed her back roughly. She stumbled, regained her balance, and held up Leonard’s coat. “His coat.” She ran up to the car again. “Please, he needs his coat.” But the door slammed shut, and they drove away.
She stood beside Frau Kramer at the end of the path. The taillights had long since disappeared, the sounds of the engine fallen silent. The deserted road seemed to lead toward an even deeper darkness, and Frau Kramer, clutching her son’s coat, stroked the woolen fabric gently, as if she could feel her son within this outer shell.
She did not seem to realize that it was just his coat until they were back in the house, and then she collapsed on the sofa, weeping.
“A misunderstanding,” said Therese in an effort to calm her. As she said the words, a band tightened around her chest, an undefined fear that went far beyond the word misunderstanding. She ran into the hall and telephoned Leonard’s father at his chambers in Kleve. Then they waited.
How long did they sit there in silence? Ten minutes? Thirty? Or was it hours? In her memory it was an almost unmoving picture, etched in her head like a photograph, and, as in a photograph, time stood still. Frau Kramer’s chest was the only movement, rising and falling with her tremulous breathing.
When they heard Herr Kramer’s car, they both leapt to their feet and ran to the door. He was standing on
the path, three or four steps away from the front door. With the key in his hand, he glanced at his wife, shook his head, and looked down. He was hatless, his coat muddy.
They had not told him what Leonard was accused of. When he insisted on his rights, and mentioned that he was there as his son’s lawyer, they had seized him and thrown him out. He had fallen over. Monday, they had said. The prosecutor would be there on Monday, and he could come back then. He had driven back to his office and telephoned the prosecutor at home. A maid had answered the telephone and asked him to wait a moment. Then she had come back on the line. “The prosecutor is not available. Not for the whole weekend,” she had said.
Frau Kramer took her husband’s coat, went into the kitchen with it, and tried to clean the patches of mud off with a cloth. She did not look up, intent on rubbing the black woolen fabric, as if she could remove the whole day along with the dirt.
Blind with tears, Therese had ridden home. Her cheeks burned like fire in the cold, and at the same time she felt frozen in a way she had never known before. It was a cold not from outside, but that her heart pumped into her head, hands, and feet.
It was not until Monday that she learned what Leonard was accused of. “Lewdness with a person of the same sex,” the charge read. Herr Kramer had been issued “a warning from the people.”
Had she thought of Hanna before that, or had the nature of the accusation steered her suspicion toward Hanna? She went over to the Höver farm that very evening. She found Hanna in the barn, feeding the cows. She had tied her hair back under a kerchief, and her pretty, round face was flushed with the effort despite the cold. She wore a dark blue apron and an old cardigan over her coarse woolen dress. For the first time, Therese took conscious notice of Hanna’s suffering, seeing how she had let herself go since Jacob admitted to her that he did not return her love.
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