And in the middle of November he'd put her aboard a train and sent her home, although she still wasn't well. On the contrary, she was very ill. The journey home was just a blur. She had no recollection of where she'd changed trains or how she'd got there. Only of standing outside the door with legs like jelly and a head filled with lead - with lead and the desire to go to bed and sleep, just sleep. She heard her own voice and its note of entreaty: "It's me, Mother. Cora."
And Mother's voice, uncaring and indifferent: "Cora is dead."
That, more or less, was how she had felt in November five years ago. And how she felt again now She oughtn't to have mentioned her mother, still less the doctor.
Her fingers were almost dislocated, she was kneading them so hard. Seeing this, Grovian ascribed her defensiveness to the reference to her mother. `All right, Frau Bender, no need to tell us again, we already have it on tape. But we definitely need the doctor's name. We mean him no harm. He won't be prosecuted for having driven a car under the influence of alcohol, not after five years. We merely need to interview him as a witness. He could corroborate the story of your pregnancy and attempted suicide."
"No!" she said tensely, clutching the windowsill behind her back with both hands. "You can forget it as far as I'm concerned. Yes, forget it. Let's simply say I had an affair with the man I stabbed to death. He abandoned me. I bore him a grudge, so I killed him when I saw him again today."
Grovian spoke with due emphasis. "Frau Bender, this just won't do. You can't make a statement, only to stonewall whenever we try to elicit something that would enable us to check its veracity. If you do, I'm bound to assume, like my colleague, that you aren't telling the truth."
She turned to face the window again. There was a finality about the movement, and her tone underlined this. "I said forget it! I wasn't gagging to tell you anything. You threatened me, don't forget, but now you must stop. I can't go on, I don't feel well. You said I should tell you if I wasn't feeling well, then we'd stop."
"But I didn't tell you to use it as a pretext."
"It isn't a pretext. I really can't go on." Firm and resolute only a moment ago, her voice had suddenly grown tired and tearful. Her lower lip started to tremble like that of a two-year-old on the verge of bursting into tears.
He could see this reflected in the windowpane, but he wasn't going to fall for such a cheap trick. His daughter had always adopted the same tone when she couldn't get her way.
"You'll be able to go on in a minute or two," he said. He couldn't help sounding sharper, nor did he want to. All his sympathy and consideration notwithstanding, she must be made to realize that she couldn't fob him off indefinitely with her refusals and evasions.
"So you came to Cologne in December five years ago. Was there any particular reason why you opted for Cologne?"
He assumed that she had discovered something about Frankenberg's true identity and had set off to look for him.
"No," she said quietly. "I got into a train which happened to be going there."
He'd believed her up to now, but that he certainly didn't believe. "Perhaps you'd care to think again, Frau Bender. There was a reason. We already know it, but we'd like to hear it from you."
"I've no need to think again. There was no reason. I didn't know anyone in Cologne, if that's what you're getting at."
She couldn't understand why he was so insistent. In her mind's eye she was still standing outside the door looking into Mother's face, hearing Mother's voice: Cora is dead ... No! Cora was alive, the man was dead, and Cora was going out of her mind. She sensed that quite clearly, like a handful of water trickling through her fingers. No matter how tightly she squeezed them together, they couldn't stop it seeping away.
It wasn't a good idea to mingle lies with smidgens of truth. Lies took on a life of their own - they caught up with you. The truth hit you on the head like a club, and everything got mixed up. The splashy painting was a complete fabrication. She was well aware of that, yet she could clearly see it hanging on the wall in the whitewashed lobby with the little green squares between the flagstones. And his face ... So close to her own, she had to shut her eyes because it went blurred. Impossible! Johnny was kissing her just the way she'd said. She could feel the pressure of his lips on hers.
It was only her fingers, which she was pressing against her mouth to prevent herself from crying out. She knew they were only her fingers, but that knowledge didn't help. Over his shoulder, she could see the two figures going downstairs.
A short, fat man and a girl. The girl had fair hair. She was wearing a dark blue satin blouse and a white skirt with a scalloped hem. The skirt was made of lace and almost transparent.
Where had those details come from? She must have seen them somewhere. In a film! That explained it. It must have been in a film, and every film had some dialogue. The girl on the stairs laughed and called over her shoulder: "Coming, you two? You can carry on downstairs, it's bound to be cosier down there." Every movie had music too. Sure enough, it came drifting up from below: a drum solo. And, while she was trying to recall the title of the film and how the scene went on, the chief asked her about Cologne.
She was past concocting a logical lie. Cologne meant Margret. Did he already know about her? Had Gereon mentioned her? Possibly.
A five-minute rest, that was all she needed. Just five minutes in which to dream up a plausible story, and if he ignored her request she would remind him of his invitation. "May I have something to eat before we go on? Please, I'm very hungry. I never got around to it down at the lake. I meant to eat the rest of that apple. A Golden Delicious, the kind I adored as a child."
We had an allotment, but it wasn't near our house. We had to walk a long way to get to it. It wasn't far in reality, but to me as a child everything looked immense. To me, the allotment seemed a terribly long way off. I often felt so tired, I thought I'd never get there. I didn't want to either, because the allotment was such a temptation.
We didn't spend much time there the year Magdalena was fighting off her leukaemia, and I was beginning to wonder what it would be like if she never came home. But there was a lot to do the following spring. We went there almost every day. I weeded the vegetable beds - that was my job - while Father wielded a spade or a rake, and Mother looked after Magdalena. It was a mild spring, and she thought the fresh air would do my sister good.
The allotment next to ours contained an apple tree and a strawberry bed. It wasn't fenced off - the boundary was just a shallow trench. The strawberry bed was so close to the trench, I'd only have had to bend down, not set foot in our neighbour's allotment. Sometimes the strawberries overhung the trench itself.
I could have picked one while weeding and popped it into my mouth unobserved, but I didn't dare. I'd seen what had happened to Magdalena after that bar of chocolate, and Father had given me that. Helping yourself to someone else's property was one of the major sins.
Being eight years old by now, I knew there were immense differences between one sin and another. I hadn't been told that by Mother, for whom all sins were equally grave. We talked about the subject in school as well. There were venial sins, the little ones that were forgiven if you repented of them at once; and medium-grade sins, from which you were cleansed in Purgatory when you died; and mortal sins, for which you atoned in hell for all eternity.
We were never told in school that someone else had to suffer or die for our sins. Only Mother said that, and I'd ceased to be sure that she knew any better than our teacher, who wasn't a Catholic.
It was a time of uncertainty from my point of view I never knew whom or what to believe. Father said one thing one day and another the next. One night lie would kneel before the crucifix and repent of his sinful urges; the next, he would roam the house in a restless mood or lock himself up in the bathroom. When he came downstairs again he would gaze at Magdalena and mutter: "What have I done to you, sweetheart?"
Magdalena was sicker than before. She had to be taken to Eppendorf every four weeks. Ac
cording to Father, they injected her with poison and bombarded her with nasty rays. She used to cry a lot the day before Mother took her there, but very quietly because any form of exertion was bad for her. When she returned she was so poorly she couldn't be left alone for a minute.
Sometimes Mother sent me into her bedroom so I could see what I'd done and would never forget it. I used to stand beside her bed and look at her, and she would return my gaze. I would have liked to apologize to her, but I never knew what to say.
That spring was an especially bad time. It was like an obsession. I couldn't help imagining what would happen to Magdalena if I stole a strawberry. Terrible, the feeling that it was solely up to me whether she lived or died ... I had to keep a constant check on what I said, thought and did. Sometimes, when it all became too much for me, I longed to go to sleep, to dream of something nice and live on inside that dream.
I was very relieved when the strawberry season ended, relieved and proud of myself for having resisted temptation. I was particularly proud because it seemed to have worked: Magdalena's health was gradually improving. Although you couldn't spot any difference from one day to the next, you certainly could from one month to another.
Mother always wheeled her to the allotment in an old pram. Magdalena lay in the pram like a bundle of clothes that spring, but by autumn she could sit up almost straight. Only for a few minutes, but it was a great improvement.
There wasn't much to do at the allotment during the summer, and Magdalena tended to find it too hot there, even late in the afternoon. In the autumn, however, we went there every day. When Father came home from work we would set off in a procession. Father in the lead with the tools on his left shoulder and a bucket in his right hand, Mother pushing the pram. Magdalena wore a cap. Although her hair had grown back a bit, it was still very sparse and almost white. She couldn't stand the sun on her head.
I brought up the rear, thinking of our neighbour's yellow apples Golden Delicious; Father had told me their name and said they were sweet. The tree was so close to the trench that many windfalls landed in it or even on our allotment itself I thought it wouldn't really be stealing if they were lying on our allotment and I picked them up, and that apples couldn't be as pernicious as chocolate and sweets. Grit had often told me that eating fruit was healthy. It occurred to me that I could pick up a few windfalls for Magdalena and make her healthy. I didn't want them for myself, honestly not.
Our route to the allotment crossed a busy road, and beside it stood a big old wooden box that used to hold sand for gritting the roadway in winter. It was empty at present, so Father had told me. But then I had this dream.
We were on our way home. Magdalena was sitting in the pram, utterly exhausted and weeping with pain. Mother came to a halt, kneeled down in the roadway and started praying. I walked past them. Father had already drawn level with the sand box. I caught him up and we slowly walked on together.
Then I heard a sound behind me - a creaking sound, followed by a growl. I turned around and saw a black wolf leap out of the box. Taking no notice of Father and me, it made for Mother and Magdalena. It reached the pram with a single bound and gobbled up Magdalena in an instant. Mother it ignored.
Then it scampered back to the box and jumped in again. Before shutting the lid it looked at me and laughed like a human, the teeth in its gaping jaws still stained with Magdalena's blood. I should have been afraid but I wasn't - I knew from the way it laughed that it liked me. I wanted to take it home with me, like a dog.
Mother was kneeling beside the empty pram with her hands raised to heaven. Father put an arm round my shoulders, smiling contentedly. "That was the hellhound," he said. `A handsome beast, isn't he? Did you see what a magnificent tail he has? And those splendid teeth! He's done us a great favour. We're rid of her at last! Now we won't have to wish that our sins would rot away. Not any more. Now we can enjoy them again, Cora, and we will. Shall I show you something nice?"
It was a duel! After his brief intervention, the man in the sports coat was taking no further part in things - just sitting there, switched off so to speak. With the unerring instinct of a hunted beast, she realized that he was dissatisfied. She didn't know what was bothering him, her lies or the chief's mode of procedure: all this probing and digging and hassling.
He was demanding something of her she couldn't give. It was almost like it had been with Mother. That on its own she could have coped with - she'd learned the art of deception at an early age - but this time it was altogether different. She seemed to be bewitched. The image refused to be shaken off; it only conjured up others. That confounded painting, the splashy one, and the backs of those people going down the stairs, a man and a girl ...
She now saw the backs of two people in the front of a car, but this time they were both men. One of them turned and smiled at her. His expression was like a promise. Johnny Guitar!
It was all in her imagination, all just a pipe dream. Wishes could easily generate images in the brain and make themselves at home there like memories. And the rest? The girl's voice, the satin blouse, the skirt with the scalloped hem, the drum solo? She must have seen and heard all those things at some stage. In a film! That was the only possible answer. Gereon watched masses of films - almost one a night. That meant over a thousand in their three years together. If only she could recall the title or the ending ...
The chief gave her no time to think. He rustled up a snack from somewhere. Just a few biscuits and some fresh coffee. He told the other man to make it less strong this time. His voice seemed to reach her through a layer of cotton wool. He kept asking about Cologne. Why had she opted for that particular city? Bremen or Hamburg would have been nearer. Where had she obtained the money for such a long train journey?
"I stole it," she muttered, staring at the floor. "From my mother. Nearly eight hundred marks. That covered my ticket and a few weeks' living expenses. I found a job at once. Somewhere to live too."
"Where?"
She quoted Margret's address! She was so confused, nothing else occurred to her. It was a second or two before she realized what she'd said - and, almost simultaneously, realized how hopeless it was. If he checked her statement, as lie undoubtedly would, he'd soon discover where the lies ended and the truth began.
Her heartbeat speeded up; her hands became moist at the thought of getting Margret into trouble. She'd made a big mistake. She should have said she'd run away with Johnny. Not immediately, not until August. August was important, she didn't know why. At the moment she didn't know much in general, there were too many things going through her head.
Give up! She had heard of people who cracked under interrogation, people whose resistance was broken by a constant reiteration of the same questions. Not her! She summoned up all her remaining energy. There was always something left in the tank. Her eighteen-year battle with Mother had made her strong and taught her how to tell stories that left no loose ends. She should probably be grateful to her for training her so indefatigably.
Outwardly, she seemed to have surrendered at last. She looked up for a moment, gazed sadly into the chief's eyes and bowed her head again, lowering her voice as well. Inside, she was grimly selfcontrolled and taut to breaking point. She clasped her left hand with her right and wiped off the sweat on her skirt. She had resumed her seat long ago. Her shoulders sagged. Georg Frankenberg was dead; they couldn't ask him for confirmation.
It was only a whisper: "You'll find out anyway, so ... Yes. I did have a reason for going to Cologne - I didn't tell you the truth because I was so ashamed. The thing is, I went around with Johnny for a while. Do you understand? He didn't take me home at all that night we went to Hamburg. The others had gone, leaving us in the cellar on our own. He wanted me to stay with him, so I ... He made love to me, and it was wonderful. Now we belong together, I thought. That was in August. Did I say it was in August?"
The chief nodded, and she spun him a yarn about the weeks they'd spent together, and about a trip to Cologne, where Johnny
planned to visit a friend of his. He'd called him several times on the way to warn him of their arrival, but in vain. And once he'd written down the number on a piece of paper and sent her to call him. And later, when she was back home, she found the slip of paper and called the number when her mother threw her out. A young woman answered. She enquired after Johnny, but the name meant nothing to the woman, who advised her to call again that evening when her husband was at home.
A short break. She took a sip of coffee and waited, almost with bated breath, to see if this lie would also generate some images. Nothing happened. She bit off a tiny piece of biscuit but could hardly swallow it. The biscuits were coated with chocolate, every crumb of which had meant a death sentence for Magdalena.
The chief was watching her intently. She'd made another mistake. This "going around together for a while"! How had they travelled to Cologne to visit Johnny's friend? In what car, if the silver Golf belonged to the fat boy?
Hurriedly, before the chief could follow this up, she lied on. "That night I called the number again. The husband answered. This time I asked for Horsti. `His name is Georg Frankenberg,' he said with a laugh. `Not even he knows why he hit on that name, the idiot.' He asked what I wanted with Georg Frankenberg. I simply said I'd been a friend of his and would like to see him again. In that case, the man said, I must come to Cologne."
Werner floss gave his boss a meaningful look, but it was superfluous. At that moment Rudolf Grovian smelled a rat and felt compelled to question everything he'd heard so far. "His name is Georg Frankenberg ..." Those had been the man's words. He didn't know what to make of them. Georg Frankenberg had been Frankie to everyone except his parents, even to his wife. That robbed the friend from Cologne of all substance. In spite of this, he asked: "This man - did lie also have a name?"
She could detect the mistrust in his voice, but he didn't seem to have registered her blunder about the car, and she now doubted if Margret was involved or he'd have said so straight out. All that interested him was Georg Frankenberg and the names of any friends who could confirm her story.
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