We always went into the living room before bed. Father never lit the candles. We simply kneeled before the altar in the darkness and prayed for Magdalena. Mother had asked us to, but I think we'd have done so of our own accord.
Father sometimes went to the hospital on a Sunday. He didn't take me with him. I wasn't allowed near Magdalena in case she caught some minor ailment from me. The treatment he'd insisted on for my sake was working, but Magdalena had grown so weak, a common cold might have carried her off.
While Father was visiting her I went next door, where Grit gave me cocoa and fresh-baked pastries sprinkled with sugar. I was happy - infinitely happy, especially when Father came home from the hospital and said: "It looks as if she's going to make it. There's nothing left of her but two great big eyes, but the doctors say she has an invincible determination to survive. You could almost believe she pumps the blood through her veins by willpower alone. She's such a frail little creature - too weak even to raise her head. The doctors can't understand it, but all human beings cling to life."
They came home in December. Magdalena had no hair left. She was so weak, she couldn't be allowed to wait until she did it of her own accord. Mother gave her an enema every morning, so she didn't have to strain. Magdalena hated those enemas. She had only to see Mother coming with the jug and the tube, and she burst into tears. But she wasn't allowed to do that either; it was too strenuous.
Mother completely lost it when Magdalena started to cry. She would shoo me into the living room, with the result that I couldn't come out and do my homework. I regularly got into trouble with the teacher the next day. She'd liked me to begin with, but now she thought me lazy and neglectful. I couldn't always blame my shortcomings on my invalid sister. A couple of times I even got a black mark in the class book.
Grit Adigar advised me to do my homework at night, after Mother had sent me to bed. I had to sprawl on the floor with my exercise books because there was no table in the bedroom. Then the teacher would complain about my untidy handwriting.
Although I was naturally grateful to our Saviour for having spared my sister's life, Magdalena's survival wasn't the way I'd imagined it. Sometimes I thought it would have been better if Mother had shut me up in the bedroom forever. Then I wouldn't have had as much hassle.
Every four weeks Magdalena had to go to the hospital for followup treatment. Mother went with her. They remained there for two or three days each time, and each time I wished they would never come back - that the doctors would say Magdalena had to stay at Eppendorf forever, that she could only survive there, and that Mother would stay with her. She never left her side, after all. Then I would stay home with Father, and he would be just like he'd been throughout those six months. I didn't want him to be so sad, but that was all.
It was like the nightmare she couldn't awake from, except that this time it was completely different. Nothing remained hidden. It all escaped her grasp, spilled out of her head and spread in all directions. She heard herself talking about her birthday, the bar of chocolate, her daydreams. Just Father and me! She saw herself gesticulating, seemed to see the chief's perplexed, attentive face through a mist.
From time to time he nodded.
And she couldn't stop talking, she couldn't afford to. She had to persuade him to leave her father in peace. Gereon too. Gereon didn't deserve to be troubled with something for which he bore no responsibility. As for Father, it would finish him to learn the truth.
She told the chief about him. Not too much, just what a kind, warm-hearted man he used to be. A man of wide interests, a walking treatise on local history. She also spoke of her mother, of the crucifix and the roses on the home-made altar, of the wooden Saviour and their prayers. All she omitted to mention was the reason for them: Magdalena.
Her body trembled spasmodically. Her brain did too, causing her head to jerk up and down like that of an automaton. But she still had some self-control left. No one must be allowed near Magdalena, certainly not a man. Any excitement, any exertion could spell her death.
She spoke of her conflicting emotions, of her need to be good and her desire for a life of sin. Sweets in her childhood, young men and their magical power of attraction in later years. There had been one in particular, the kind that had only to click his fingers. Everyone called him Johnny Guitar.
Grit Adigar had once told her: "When you're old enough, do as I did. Find yourself a nice husband and get him to father a child on you, then go away with him and forget all this nonsense." She would gladly have gone away with Johnny and had more than once wondered what it would be like to have a child by him.
The thought of Johnny brought her back to Gereon. She told of the day she'd met him for the first time. Gereon was her only route to normality, and normal was what she longed to be - had to be. A normal, grown-up woman who had long since left her childhood behind her. As for the unsavoury episode that had begun in May five years ago and ended six months later, in November, leaving such unmistakable traces on her forearms and forehead, that too must remain a closed book because it would stir up too much dust.
Her mother-in-law had often tried to pump her. "The hussy! Who knows what she got up to before!" And the old man with his stupid remarks: "You're a cunning little vixen, but you can't fool me."
You bet she could! She'd learned to fool people in her cradle. She could fool anyone she chose, the chief included. It helped her to recall her first meeting with Gereon. Four years ago, it was - five come December. It was shortly before Christmas.
Gereon was in town, shopping for some presents for his parents. Laden with parcels, he'd walked into the cafe on Herzogstrasse where she earned her living - an honest living, be it noted! A chance customer the first time, he'd sat down at a table and waited for service. He didn't know you had to order at the counter out front and was embarrassed when she told him.
"Do I have to go back out there?" He was clearly disconcerted. Feeling that he'd branded himself a country bumpkin, he blushed. "Couldn't you bring me something?"
"I don't know what you want."
`Anything," he said with a grin. "Something with whipped cream on it and a coffee."
"Pot or cup?" she asked.
`A cup'll do me," he replied. That was typical of him. He'd always been modest in his requirements.
She went out front and brought him a slice of Black Forest gateau and a coffee. "Nice of you," he said. "Would you like something too? My treat."
"Thanks," she said, "but I work here."
"Yes, of course." Embarrassed once more, he forked up a big piece of gateau, shoved it into his mouth and started chewing. His gaze followed her around the room. He smiled whenever she caught his eye.
Two days later he was back. This time he ordered out front and chuckled at her like an old acquaintance. Before leaving he asked: "What do you do when you're through here? When do you get off?"
"Six-thirty."
"Could we go somewhere after that? Have a beer, maybe?"
"I don't drink beer."
"Something else, then, it doesn't matter. It doesn't have to be for long either. Just half an hour. I'd like to get to know you properly."
Gereon was clumsy but very direct. Although he made no secret of the fact that he found her attractive, he wasn't pushy in the least. When she declined his invitation he merely shrugged his shoulders and said: `Another time, maybe."
He asked her three times for a date; and three times she refused. After the third time she talked to Margret about him, his good looks and his naivety. She said he was the kind of man you could convince that the earth was flat and that ships venturing too far would topple over the edge.
She spoke of her need to draw a line under the past and make a fresh start in some place where nobody knew her - to lead a life like thousands of others. And that would only work with a man who had no opinions of his own, a man who would believe that the scars on her arms resulted from a bad infection - which was essentially true - and that she'd acquired the scar on her forehead by walking in fron
t of a car. Margret was thoroughly understanding.
But she couldn't tell the chief all that. He would promptly have asked who Margret was and added her to the list of people he had to interview at all costs. And dragging Margret into this business would definitely be a step too far.
Margret was Father's younger sister. Compared to Mother, Margret had always been a young woman. Young and pretty and modern, with revolutionary ideas about life and a sympathetic understanding of all the failings and mistakes to which a person can be prone.
When Gereon came into her life she'd been living for a year in Margret's cramped little apartment in Cologne. Two rooms plus a tiny kitchen and a shower room the size of a pocket handkerchief. When you sat on the loo you grazed your knees on the door. She slept on the sofa, which was all Margret had to offer. The bedroom was too small for a second bed.
Cora didn't want a bed. She couldn't have endured another bed so close to hers. Sometimes she wondered what would have become of her if Margret hadn't taken her in when she couldn't stand it at home any longer. To that there was only one answer: she'd be dead. And she wanted to enjoy life.
She finally learned to do so with Margret. It was Margret who got her the job at the cafe on Herzogstrasse, and Margret who said, when Gereon turned up and persisted in asking her for a date: "Why not go out with him, Cora? You're a young woman. It's normal to fall in love with a young man."
"I don't know if I'm in love with him. It's just that he reminds me of someone I was crazy about. Everyone called him Johnny - I never knew his real name. He looked like the archangel driving Adam and Eve out of Paradise in Mother's Bible. You know the passage? And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked!' That's what Johnny looked like. Gereon looks a bit like him, but only superficially, hair colour and so on. Gereon is a nice fellow; he comes from a respectable family. He's told me about his parents, and one day he's bound to ask me
"Nonsense," said Margret. "Let him ask, we'll think of something. You say he isn't too smart. Anyway, you aren't obliged to tell him your life story. And besides, he won't necessarily ask about your family right away. Young men usually have something else in mind. If he does ask, tell him you couldn't stick it at home any longer. Tell him your mother isn't right in the head, but it isn't hereditary. That's true enough."
"But what if he wants to go to bed with me?" It was more of a murmur and not addressed to Margret at all.
But Margret heard it nonetheless. She looked at Cora intently, filled with sympathy and compassion. "Don't you think you could?" she asked.
Of course she could, it wasn't that. She often wondered what it would be like with some nice young man, but it would have been cheating. When she didn't reply, Margret said in her typically forthright tone: "That's no problem, Cora. If you don't feel like it, just say no."
It wasn't as simple as Margret imagined. You couldn't say no forever if you wanted to keep a man, and she did. She found Gereon attractive. For one thing, there was his superficial resemblance to Johnny. For another, he was very gentle and affectionate. Those first few evenings in his car were wonderful.
He picked her up at the cafe twice a week, drove her to some lonely spot and took her in his arms. It was usually too cold to remove her jacket, let alone anything else, but Gereon didn't hassle her. He contented himself with kisses and cuddles until well into the New Year. Only then did he want more.
She would have preferred to put it off a little longer, but her fear of losing him if she denied him outweighed her fear that he might be disappointed afterwards. He wasn't either. He didn't feel duped or deceived. All he said was: "You weren't a virgin, though."
Of course she wasn't! No girl was a virgin at twenty-one - she was bound to have gone to bed with some man or other, but there was no need to tell the chief that.
Cora had everything under control again. She managed to tell her story without mentioning Margret and without leaving a hiatus. Only the last sentence, Gereon's statement, slipped out before she could stop it.
The chief was looking at her. He wanted her to go on, his demeanour made that obvious. He wanted some explanation for the man's death and wouldn't rest until he got one. He would speak with Gereon, probably even with Father.
A long silence ensued. The man in the sports coat was eyeing the recording machine dubiously, the chief looking her insistently in the eye. She had to tell him something, anything. What if he wouldn't believe the truth? Now, when her head had cleared a bit and she was making some sort of sense again ...
It occurred to her that Gereon's remark about her virginity and what Grit Adigar had said about her leaving home might well serve as the basis of a story. What about a name for the principal character? What had the chief said? "His name was Georg Frankenberg." Perhaps, but the name was unfamiliar, and she was afraid of stumbling over it if she used it. Johnny was more familiar, and if she combined what she'd wanted back then with what people had said about him ... that would make an excellent basis for a good story.
"If I ..." she began haltingly. "If I explain why I killed him, will you promise not to bother my family?"
He made no such promise, just asked: "Can you explain it, Fran Bender?"
She nodded. Her hands were trembling uncontrollably again. She placed one firmly on the other and pressed them both against her thighs. "Of course I can. It's just that I'd hoped I wouldn't have to. And I don't want my husband finding out. He mightn't understand, and his parents certainly wouldn't. They'd make his life a misery if they knew - I mean, for getting involved with a person like me."
Till then she'd spoken with her head down. Now she looked up, straight into his eyes, and drew several deep breaths.
"I was lying to you when I said I didn't know the man. I didn't know his real name, but the man himself ...
"It was March five years ago when he turned up in Buchholz for the first time. Nobody knew his real name. He called himself Johnny Guitar. I'd had little experience of men. I was seldom allowed out and had to lie to get a few hours to myself. Usually I told my mother I found it easier to recognize my sinful desires and concentrate on curbing them in the open air, immediately beneath the eye of God. She was so impressedby such statements, she even allowed me to leave the house on Saturday nights. There wasn't much for young people to do in Buchholz. Lots of open countryside around with paths for walkers and cyclists and cafes and hotels for people in search of relaxation but no disco. Many youngsters went to Hamburg. I never did, although Father would certainly have lent me his car. He'd allowed me to take my test. We were allies, Father and I, but I didn't want to push my luck.
"I always went into town. There were a few ice-cream parlours and a place where you could dance on Saturdays. I had no friends of either sex. Most girls of my age had boyfriends and preferred to be alone with them. As for the boys, I got to know one or two but not in a serious way. I danced with them and let them buy me a Coke, but that was all. I was inhibited, and they lost interest when they saw they wouldn't make it with me right away.
"That never bothered me - not until Johnny turned up that night in March. I fell for him within minutes, I think. He wasn't on his own. There was someone else with him, a short, fat youth. Neither of them came from our part of the world; I could tell that as soon as I heard them speak. They looked around without noticing me and sat down at a table. After a minute or two Johnny got up and went over to a girl. He danced with her a couple of times. Later they left with the fat boy in tow
"They were back again the following Saturday, the girl as well. She was sitting in a corner with two girlfriends. When they spotted Johnny and his friend they put their heads together and started whispering, but the girl didn't join them. I got the impression she wanted nothing more to do with them. Johnny took no notice of her either. It wasn't long before he was dancing with another girl. He went off with her soon afterwards, the fat boy trailing after them. And next Saturday they might all have been strangers.
"It went on like that for se
veral weeks. Perhaps my suspicions should have been aroused by their behaviour, and even more so by that of the girls, but I never thought twice about it. I was really very naive in those days. And very much in love! I'd have given anything just to speak to him.
"I could hardly wait to leave the house on Saturdays. I'd never lied to my mother as brazenly as I did at that time. Everything revolved around Johnny. I knew I didn't stand a chance with him - all I wanted was to be near him. I asked around a bit, but no one knew anything definite. Some of the girls said he was a musician. The ones who'd been with him and his friend grinned when I questioned them. `It was nice,' they told me, `but not your cup of tea.'
`And then - it was on 16 May, a week after my birthday - Fatso spoke to me. There wasn't much action that night, and they'd been sitting at their table for quite a while before he came over. I danced with him because I thought he might take me back to their table afterwards. Big mistake! He got fresh, and I had trouble fending him off. He became abusive and swore at me.
"I left feeling pretty depressed. Then, outside in the car park, I heard Johnny calling after me. He apologized for his friend and urged me not to take offence. The fat boy was a hothead and didn't have much luck with girls. We stood outside for a while, talking. I could hardly believe my luck. He asked if I'd like to go back inside. It was too early to go home, he said, and he would make sure his friend didn't hassle me again.
"That's how it started with Johnny and me. It seemed like a miracle. I'd suspected that he only came to Buchholz to pick up a girl for the night, but he didn't act that way with me. His fat friend left as soon as we came in. We sat at the table on our own for nearly half an hour, chatting. Then Johnny asked if I'd care to dance with him.
"Nothing more happened that night. Fatso didn't reappear. When I had to leave Johnny accompanied me outside. He wanted to escort me home, but that was impossible. If my mother had seen us, I'd never have been allowed out again. We said goodbye in the car park. He shook hands with me and said: Any chance of seeing you again?'
The Sinner Page 9