The Sinner

by Petra Hammesfahr

  Last night, when she was still so bemused by her medication that she could scarcely think, only form a wish, she had also imagined Mario lifting her out of her bed and bearing her off, far, far away. Back into the cellar. She pictured him putting her down on the floor and standing in the middle of the room like Hercules, then tucking its occupants under his arm, one by one, and carrying them upstairs. And killing them there - all of them! And, when he had killed them all, he would come back, pick her up off the floor and say: "It's all over, little lady." And then he would let her sleep for evermore.

  It was a sin to wish for something like that. The whole of life itself was sinful. Death too. She had killed her sister. And then, when she saw Magdalena lying dead in front of her, she had run out of the house in a panic. She had driven back to the Aladdin, where Johnny was waiting for her. He had helped her to take the body to the heath. They had left Magdalena where she wouldn't be found in a hurry, at a spot near the prohibited area where no one went, not even soldiers. There Magdalena could turn into a stinking, disgusting lump of dirt.

  That was how it must have been. She didn't know for sure, but Grit saw it that way. Grit assumed that Magdalena was already dead when she came home. That was her mistake, and now the professor knew. If she stopped counting she would have to ask herself some questions. Why didn't I cremate her? I'd promised to. Didn't we have any petrol? Father always kept a full can in his car, but his car was parked outside the Aladdin. It couldn't be used for that trip, so someone must have helped me. I can't have been alone with her. If I'd been alone, she'd have got her cremation. Whoever was with me didn't want to drive Father's car. Someone who didn't have a full can of petrol in his own car. Who was afraid the flames would be spotted. Johnny? It was the only answer.

  Mario gave her a conspiratorial wink. He was carrying a tray, she saw On it were a small, white china coffee pot and two cups and saucers. He deposited the tray on the table and put a finger to his lips. `Just between the two of us," he said, "I made this coffee myself. It's really good."

  She bit her lip and blinked away a tear.

  "Now, now," said Mario, "you don't want to water it down. One cup for you and one for your visitor."

  "Has the chief come? Is he still alive?"

  "Of course he's still alive." Mario smiled broadly. "But he won't show his face here again in a hurry; the professor read him the riot act. No, it's your lawyer. Now come and have your coffee with him." He turned to the door and called: "Come in, she's fine." He gave her another wink and a thumbs-up. "I'll stay here, okay? I'll make sure nothing happens." And he stationed himself beside the door like a sentry, hands behind his back in the at-ease position.

  When Brauning came in she slid off the bed like a child whose legs are too short to reach the ground. She remembered speaking to him for a considerable time on some occasion, but ... "I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

  "Don't worry," he said. "I have to make notes of everything myself, otherwise I forget half of it. Brauning's the name."

  He smiled at her as he spoke. Unlike Mario's smile, his made a tense impression. He felt uneasy in her presence, she could tell.

  `Are you scared of me?"

  "No, Frau Bender," he said. "Why should I be scared of you?"

  She didn't know, but it was a fact. "I won't hurt you," she assured him. "I'll never hurt anyone again. If Frankie had told me he was a human being I wouldn't have hurt him either. But he didn't - he wanted me to do it. I forgot to tell you that the other day."

  "It's all right, Frau Bender," he said. "We can talk about that later."

  "No," she said, "I'm not going to talk any more. All I do now is count, then nothing bad can happen."

  Brauning had brought his briefcase with him, as he had on his first visit. He deposited it beside the table and sat down where he could keep one eye on the door and the nurse, a tough-looking character with biceps like a wrestler's. There was something reassuring about the sight.

  "There are one or two matters I need your help with, Frau Bender," he said.

  Helene had rehearsed him thoroughly. She had been impressed by Rudolf Grovian's statements and, above all, by his readiness to stand up for Cora Bender, at the risk of his job if necessary.

  "He knows how to make a thing sound palatable," she'd said. "Not, of course, that I approve of his suggestions, in fact I strongly advise you not to act on them. Besides, it may not be necessary to do so. Burthe really does enjoy an excellent reputation, Hardy. It's just that he's overly fixated on Freudian theory, and in such a complex case that isn't enough. Grovian may be absolutely correct in his assessment. A layman's opinion shouldn't be underestimated, and he's assembled a certain amount of evidence to support it. The fact is, he knows how to handle her - he gets her to talk. You managed to do that too, Hardy. It's a question of authority, that's all. But the decision is yours, I don't want to interfere. You must simply bear something in mind when you talk to her: treat her naturally. Invite her help, appeal to her sense of responsibility." It was easy for Helene to talk.

  "May I pour you some coffee?" She didn't even ask what he wanted her help with.

  "That would be nice," he said.

  "Do you mind if I remain standing? I've spent the whole day sitting down. An hour with Professor Burthe and the rest of the time on my bed."

  Helene had said: "Don't let her sidetrack you, Hardy. If she tries to, and she certainly will, bring her back to the point at once. And don't let her provoke you - she will, if she's reasonably clearheaded. Imagine a child dependent on itself alone. If someone suddenly turns up and says `I like you and want to help you', that child is bound to put him to the test. Don't lose patience, draw a line and stick to it. Be calm but firm, Hardy. You'll cope with the child in her."

  "I'd sooner you sat down," he told her. He was prepared for anything, thanks to Helene's instructions and predictions: a grin, a contradiction, an air of boredom or indifference.

  Nothing of the kind. Obediently, she pulled a chair from under the table and sat down with her feet close together, tweaked the hem of her skirt over her knees and smiled at him. "I still don't know if it was a mosquito on my leg or a nerve twitching," she said. "I ought to have looked, it was silly not to. If it were a mosquito, it must still be around. That means it'll come back during the night. I should have swatted it, beaten it to death."

  Brauning couldn't tell how lucid she was. Was she bearing out Grovian's theory and expressing a cryptic death wish or simply talking nonsense? He decided to act on his mother's advice. "I'm not here to talk about mosquitoes, Frau Bender. I've brought some photos with me. I'd like you to look at them and

  He got no further. "I don't want to look at any photos," she said flatly.

  Just a child, he told himself like someone repeating an incantation, just an unloved child. "It's very important, Frau Bender. I want you to look at these photos and tell me if you know any of the men in them."

  "No!" She underlined her refusal with a vigorous shake of the head. "There's bound to be a photo of Frankie there, and I don't want to look at it. I've no need to refresh my memory. I could draw a picture of him, I can see him so vividly."

  Her voice abruptly broke. She emitted a sound like a dry sob. "I see him with and without blood. I see him behind the drums and on the cross, and he's always in the middle. He was the Saviour. No! No, please don't look at me like that. I'm not mad, I could see it in his eyes. But I'm not Pilate either. No bowl of water for me!"

  There's no point, Brauning thought. If we really make it through to a main hearing, one such outburst and that's that.

  "He didn't want to die," she went on in a choking voice, putting her hands over her face. "He begged his father to let the cup pass from him. He had such a lovely wife. Why don't you let me die? I don't want to think any more! I can't take it any more! Now I can start again from the beginning. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twentyone ..."

  Brauning drew several deep, regular breaths. Privately, he consigned Helene and her newly
reawakened love of her profession to the devil - closely followed by Rudolf Grovian, who had put the idea into her head.

  The male nurse continued to stand motionless near the door, seemingly blind and deaf to what was going on. He wasn't there as a bodyguard for Brauning or a watchdog for her. He was there on the instructions of the district attorney, who would gladly have eavesdropped on them himself. Professor Burthe had managed to talk him out of it. He had also firmly declined to let a detective anywhere near her, so the lot had fallen to her attorney. But they needed an impartial witness, if possible one to whom she reacted favourably. If not, said the professor, any attempt would be futile. At present, no one could get a word out of Frau Bender.

  There were twenty prints in his briefcase. He didn't know who they depicted. Rudolf Grovian had brought them to his chambers shortly after lunch. The police laboratory had worked overtime. Twenty men, all of around the same age. Only their heads, and the backgrounds were so indistinct, they offered no clue to the men's whereabouts.

  He took a sip of coffee and put the cup down. She had got to forty-five when he finally brought himself to interrupt her. "Stop that, Fran Bender. You're now going to look at these photos. I don't know if they include one of Frankie. If you see one, tell me and I'll take it away. You don't have to look at it, just at the others. Tell me if you recognize anyone. And tell me his name, if you know it."

  She actually stopped counting. Not having expected this, he construed it as a personal triumph. When he bent down to open his briefcase the nurse came over to the table and took up his position beside it.

  Brauning found it slightly reassuring to have him closer at hand. Not that lie was scared, but just in case. After all, she'd even gone for Grovian. He took out a big brown envelope, put it on the table and gave her an encouraging nod as he removed the prints.

  She stared at them as if they were a nest of vipers. "Where did you get them?" she asked.

  "From Herr Grovian."

  Her eyes betrayed a flicker of interest. "How is he?"

  "Fine. He sends his regards."

  "Is he angry with me?"

  "No, why should he be?"

  She leaned across the table. "I stabbed him," she whispered.

  "No, Frau Bender." He shook his head vigorously. "No, you didn't. You hit him, but he understands that. You were very upset because he'd provoked you. He really isn't angry. He'd simply like you to look at these photos. He went to a lot of trouble to collect them all. There's even one of his son-in-law, so he told me."

  She sat back, pursed her lips and folded her arms. `All right, I'll take a look at them."

  He slid the packet across to her. She bent over and looked at the first print, then shook her head and laid it aside. The second, the third, the fourth - all were rejected with a shake of he head. "Which is his son-in-law?" she asked when she got to the fifth.

  "No idea, Frau Bender. I'm not allowed to know"

  `A pity," she said. She stopped short at the sixth print, frowning and chewing a fingernail. "Could that be him? I've seen him before, but I don't know where. I don't know his name, either. What shall we do with him?"

  "Put him to one side," he said.

  She examined the seventh and eighth prints. At the ninth she clamped her eyes shut. "Quick, take it away," she said hoarsely. "That's Frankie."

  He took the photo and added it to the pile she'd already discarded. It was a couple of minutes before she could continue. The nurse rested his hand soothingly on her shoulder. She looked up at him and nodded. Then, with lips tightly compressed, she turned her attention to the tenth, eleventh and twelfth prints.

  At the thirteenth she said: "I don't want to know this swine, and I don't want to know his name either." Abruptly, she pushed the photo across to him.

  "But I have to know his name, Frau Bender."

  "Tiger," she said curtly. She gave the fourteenth print a long look. The fifteenth brought a smile to her face.

  "My God, what a big nose he's got!"

  "Do you know him?"

  "No, but look at that nose!"

  It was going better than expected. He felt proud of himself and had ceased to expect any dramatic incident, but the eighteenth print proved critical.

  Brauning didn't notice at first. It was the nurse who spotted that something was wrong. He put his hand on her shoulder again. Then Brauning saw the way she was staring at the latest photo.

  "Do you recognize that man?" he asked.

  She didn't react. He couldn't identify her expression. Sorrow or hatred?

  All at once she thumped the table with her fist. The cups gave a jump, slopping some coffee on the table. Her voice rose above the clatter. "What have you done to me? I only did it for you! I didn't want her to die, just sleep. You said I should leave her to sleep and come back to you. Did I? You should know!"

  Brauning couldn't summon up the courage to repeat his question. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped up the coffee to prevent it from smudging the prints.

  The nurse stepped in. Bending over her, he said soothingly: "Hey, little lady, don't get upset, it's only a photo. He can't hurt you, I'll make sure he doesn't. Tell me who he is, and I'll inform them downstairs. Then they won't let him in if he shows up."

  "He can get in anywhere," she sobbed. "He's Satan. Have you ever seen a picture of Lucifer, Mario? They always show him with a long tail, cloven feet and horns, like a billy-goat with a pitchfork. But he can't look like that really. After all, he was one of the angels. He drives the girls insane - they all want him. They won't listen when they're warned against him. I didn't listen either. His friend called him Billy-Goat. I should have known what that meant. You always have a choice between good and evil. I chose evil."

  Brauning didn't dare take the photograph away from her. Mario did it for him. "Billy-Goat, eh?" he said. "Well, let's put him with Tiger. I reckon that's where he belongs."

  She nodded.

  Mario continued the interrogation. "What about this guy here? Does he belong with them too?"

  She took another look at the first print she'd picked out and shrugged. "I had the feeling I'd seen him with the chief, that's why I thought it might be his son-in-law But it can't be. Or is his sonin-law a policeman too?"

  "We'll ask the chief the next time he comes," said Mario. He turned to Brauning. "Is that it, or do you need me still?"

  Brauning replaced the prints in their envelope. He couldn't afford to mark the ones of Billy-Goat and Tiger. She would have to identify Hans Bueckler and Ottmar Denner to the examining magistrate as soon as she could be brought before him. He shook his head. "No, I think you can leave us now" He didn't sound too convinced.

  Mario went out. Brauning drank the remains of his coffee, which was cold. She hadn't touched hers.

  `Are we through?" she asked, gazing wistfully in the direction of the window

  "Not quite." He didn't know how to put it.

  Rudolf Grovian had said: "If she can identify the men, it'll be a big step forward. Then we'll need the name of the hospital. We had no luck in Hamburg. We didn't interview every last doctor, of course, but we can forget about the doctor in any case, even if her aunt thinks otherwise ..."

  She had been thoroughly examined in the interim. Her skull had been X-rayed too, and the neurologist's report was with the DA. It was highly improbable that such injuries had been treated in a general practitioner's surgery. The X-ray had revealed a regular spider's web of cracks. Among other things, there was a probability that epidural bleeding had occurred.

  It was naturally impossible to form a precise diagnosis after five years. However, the very fact that Cora Bender had survived her injuries without physical impairment was evidence of expert treatment, and that entailed the requisite equipment. There was no escaping it: she must have been treated in a hospital or, at the very least, a private clinic.

  Brauning pretended to be busy. He hoisted the briefcase onto his lap and proceeded to rummage in it without removing anything. Helene
had given him a long lecture on Cora Bender's motives for lying to the police on this point and others.

  "She has nothing to lose," his mother had told him. "Make that clear to her. We know about the drug-addicted whore. Coax her out of her shell by telling her what Grovian thinks of her alleged addiction. If you can also convince her she was never a whore, Hardy, you've won. Then offer her what she so desperately craves: a normal, decent life."

  He tried, albeit half-heartedly. At least she listened, and there were times when her expression seemed to justify Helene's approach. When he'd finished, however, she shrugged and gave an apologetic smile.

  "Nice of you to say all that," she said. "I only wish it were true." She sighed and looked past him. "What happens to a person who thinks a crime has been committed and makes every attempt to hush it up?"

  "Nothing, if it doesn't come out. But now, Frau Bender, we must talk about the hospital."

  "No," she said and proceeded to polish a left-hand fingernail on her right thumb. "We'll do that later. I must ask you something. You're my attorney, so you mustn't tell anyone. Let's assume a woman's body was found somewhere and buried. Nobody knew her name - her bones were simply buried. Let's assume I knew she'd wanted to be cremated. Could I go to the authorities and say `I'd like to grant this poor woman's last request and have her remains cremated.' Could I do that?"

  "You could, if you'd known her."

  "But I'd have to tell them her name, wouldn't l?" She continued to polish the fingernail and avoided his eye. He possessed himself in patience, not knowing where this was leading.

  "Yes, you would."

  "What if I couldn't do that?"

  "I'm afraid you'd have to abandon the idea."

  She raised her head at last with a look of fierce determination. "But I must! I must, or I'll go mad. Think of something. There must be some way around it. If you think of something, perhaps I will too."