Sisters of Berlin

by Juliet Conlin

  ‘Oh god, Nina,’ he says, his voice hoarse with sex. ‘Where have you been?’

  It is short, hard and sweet. She doesn’t have time to come, the drink has slowed her down too much, and she’s left with a tingling ache between her legs. But she’s happy all the same. Happy, and exhausted. Sebastian pulls up his trousers and goes to the kitchen, returning moments later with two glasses of water. She takes one and drinks it, noticing how thirsty she is. Sebastian takes a seat next to her on the stairs. The hall is dark; neither of them switched on the light when they came in.

  ‘Why don’t you give him a call first thing tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jan. Let him know you’re still in the land of the living.’

  Nina shivers. She picks up her dress and drapes it over her knees. ‘Yes, okay. I’ll call him.’ She breathes out heavily. ‘All right?’

  Sebastian drains his glass and puts it down beside him. ‘All I’m saying is that any problems you’re having won’t go away if you ignore them,’ he says. ‘Just give Jan a call, eh?’

  He reaches out to stroke her shoulder, but she pulls away.

  ‘Exactly what problems am I having?’ She looks at him. ‘What, so you’re an expert in small business financing now, are you?’

  Sebastian turns towards her, and their eyes lock briefly. He looks away first.

  ‘I didn’t mean . . .’ he says. ‘I just thought, you seemed so reasonable tonight.’

  ‘Ha!’ She lets out a short, sharp laugh. ‘As opposed to unreasonable normally. Is that the point you’re making?’ Precisely as she says these words, she’s willing herself to shut up.

  He lifts his hands to his face. ‘No, I’m sorry. Look, forget it. Pretend I never mentioned anything.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late for that. We don’t want to ignore anything, do we?’ Shut up, shut up.

  Sebastian gets up, bends down to pick up his glass and says quietly, ‘I thought perhaps you were back to normal, but I guess I was wrong.’

  He begins to walk down the hall towards the kitchen. Nina jumps up, dress in hand, and follows him.

  ‘Basti,’ she calls. ‘Basti! Don’t –’ She catches up with him and grabs his arm.

  ‘Don’t what?’ he asks, looking down at her hand on his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’ She tugs at his sleeve. ‘Come on, let’s go into the living room. Do it on the floor, like that time – d’you remember?’

  Sebastian jerks away. She loses her grip on his shirt.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ he says firmly. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  She reaches out again. ‘Come on, Basti, I didn’t . . . you were too quick just now. It’s only fair.’ She puts both hands on his arm. She’s still naked and can feel herself shivering, exposed now, but the cold hardly matters.

  Sebastian half turns to face her. ‘No. I can’t do this, Nina. Up one moment, down the next. I can’t handle that. Now,’ he removes her hands, ‘I would suggest you go to bed.’

  But she doesn’t give up. She steps forward and cups his face with her hands, trying to draw him down. ‘Basti, my Basti,’ she whispers, pressing against him, ‘please come in there with me.’

  ‘No, Nina. I’ve had enough of your drama.’

  He takes hold of her wrists and pulls her arms down. She resists. He grabs them again and flings them away.

  ‘Why are you being so mean?’ she whines.

  ‘You’re drunk. Go to bed.’

  ‘But why won’t you come in there with me?’ Her tongue is thick and stupid in her mouth, her words are slurred.

  ‘I’ll tell you why.’ His mouth twists. ‘Look at you. You’re disgusting.’

  She actually feels herself shrinking at his words.

  He tries to turn, but she steps in to block him. Then he pulls back and – she catches a glint of confusion, almost surprise in his face at how easy this is to do – he shoves her, hard, with both hands, so that she loses her balance and falls backwards onto the floor with a thud. It is so strange, so shocking an action, that for a moment, neither of them speaks. Then, Sebastian rubs his face and says, in a voice that threatens to break at any moment, ‘I can’t handle this.’

  He steps over her and heads upstairs.

  28

  With each short exhalation, Nina’s breath is transformed into a white cloud; with each sharp gasp for air, it is as though she’s inhaling ice. It stings her lungs. Her feet pound flat on the gravelly path, the crunch sounding unnaturally loud. There are only a few other runners in the park at this hour, in this weather, for the most part plugged into music clipped onto waistbands or upper arms. Occasionally, when one of them overtakes her, she can hear the earplugs exuding a bass line that thumps in perfect synchronicity with their stride. She wishes she were a runner – purposeful, aligned, focused – but she’s not. For Nina, running is misery. She breathes through her mouth, but soon, it feels unbearably dry, so she closes her mouth again, but can’t seem to get enough air in her lungs, so she opens her mouth again. She should have brought some water, though none of the other runners seem to be as desperately thirsty as she is.

  But running burns calories, hundreds of them; her metabolic rate will remain high hours after she has come to a standstill. And she has plenty to burn off. After Sebastian went to bed, leaving her drunk and naked on the floor, she consumed one litre of Strawberries & Cream Häagen-Dazs; half a jar of peanut butter; six slices of toast with butter; a family-sized packet of crisps; the remains of the cooking sherry; one large wedge of camembert; what was left of a pack of frosted cornflakes, eaten – no, shovelled in – by the handful until her mouth was sore from spiky crumbs of sugar.

  Afterwards, the bathroom.

  She feels a stitch in her side, and she digs her fingers into her abdomen just beneath the ribcage. The stitch fades for a moment, but returns even more acutely when she releases her fingers. She keeps on running, wincing at the pain, then applies renewed pressure to her abdomen until her fingers are almost hooked beneath her lower ribs.

  She woke up several hours later, shivering on the tiled floor, lumps of half-digested food swimming in the toilet bowl, the smell of gastric acid in her nose. She cleaned the toilet as best she could and went upstairs to bed. Sebastian was in the spare room. And that was where he stayed for the whole of Sunday, while she tried to have as normal a day as possible.

  ‘Walk it off or take a break,’ a voice beside her says in passing now, a voice that is not at all breathless, although it should be, surely, because wasn’t this guy already lapping the small lake when she arrived twenty minutes ago? She nods her head in appreciation for the advice, although the runner – a man whose knock-knees are accentuated by the tight Lycra leggings he’s wearing – is already twenty, thirty metres ahead of her by now, running confidently, elegantly, a metre or so per stride, covering ground at an effortless pace. She comes to a standstill and leans forward, resting her hands on her thighs, feeding her body with oxygen in large, shuddering breaths.

  How could he have done that?

  Back in the days when relationships were straightforward, before the sticky complexities of children and mortgages and jobs and loyalty and love had spun themselves around her; back in the days when you stuck with a good relationship and left a bad, Nina swore to herself that there were two things she would never, under any circumstances, tolerate: sexual disloyalty and physical violence. And yet, she herself is guilty of the first. And as for the second: had Sebastian actually raised his hand to her? Really? They had an argument, they were both drunk, and she wouldn’t shut up, just shut up, and she flew about in his face like one of those fruit flies drawn to the smell of your breath, and then, when he could stand no more, he used his physical strength against her, pushed her to the floor. What should I make of that, Marie? Was this an act of domestic violence? Or was he putting an end to an argument she started, an argument neither of them, really, wanted to be having? It’s not like he bit her or punched her,
or physically beat her.

  She remains bent over, although her breathing is steady again and the stitch has become a mere twinge in her belly. She starts moving only when a small dog, off its lead despite park regulations, comes sniffing about her ankles. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. After a few minutes, her mouth is dry again. She must be dehydrated still, from the alcohol, the vomiting. But how can she go home? Can she go home ever again? She stops her efforts at running and checks the time. It’s eight thirty. Sebastian will be leaving the house to go to work.

  She opens her mouth and releases a noise – half wail, half roar – that causes a family of ducks to take flight across the lake.

  *

  ‘Dr Bergmann?’

  Anita stands at the door to the examination room. Nina still has her hand on top of the phone, although she replaced the receiver several minutes ago. The conversation with Jan Steinmacher went better than anticipated – at least, there wasn’t too much talk of numbers, rather he was full of encouragement and ideas for kickstarting the sluggish business. Updating her website, perhaps subletting a spare room in the practice to a wellness therapist to pluck, wax, massage all those women coming in and out (there was talk of search engine optimisation, creating needs, identifying target groups, synergies etc.). Nina said she would think about it. The day has been long and headachy; perhaps she’ll take a hot bath when she gets home.

  Home – to Sebastian and the children. The last time she saw him was at three o’clock in the morning, when he stepped over her after having shoved her onto the floor. He didn’t mean to hurt me. He was drunk, I was drunk, he didn’t know his own strength, if I had been sober I would have kept my balance. If I had been sober I would never have niggled at him, provoked him and he wouldn’t have pushed me. But he did push me. Hard.

  She has wept several times during the day, between patients, and now she feels dried up on the inside. She couldn’t cry any more even if she wanted to.

  She takes her hand from the phone and looks up at Anita.

  ‘Yes?’

  Anita places her right arm across her chest, resting her hand on her left shoulder, like a teenage girl in a swimming costume trying to hide her budding breasts. This month, her hair is cornflower blue. She looks down at the floor and Nina knows that whatever she has to say, it isn’t good news.

  ‘Um.’ She looks at Nina unhappily, and then back down at the floor. She takes a quick breath. ‘The thing is, Dr Bergmann, you see, there’s this new doctor’s office opening in Löwenberg. It’s a joint surgery, six different specialists, and, well, the new administrator there is my aunt, and she said they were looking for staff, medical receptionists, and it’s only ten minutes from where I live, so anyway, they asked if I was interested, because there aren’t many people, receptionists, who would commute from Berlin to Brandenburg. Mostly, it’s the other way around, and, so I said I’d talk to you first.’

  She drops her right arm and both arms now dangle loosely by her side. ‘I’d be willing to stay on till you got a replacement, of course,’ she adds.

  ‘Oh.’ Nina coughs and swallows. ‘Well, yes, of course you should take the job. You commute, what, an hour to work at the moment?’

  Anita squeezes her lips together and nods.

  ‘Then, it’s settled, isn’t it?’ Nina attempts a smile. ‘Would you be able to stay until the end of the year?’

  Anita nods hurriedly. ‘Yes, yes. And longer, if I need to work in a replacement.’

  Nina clasps her hands together and places them on the desk in front of her. ‘I’ll be sorry to lose you, Anita,’ she says.

  Anita takes a step forward. ‘I’m very sorry, Dr Bergmann. I don’t want you thinking that I’m deserting you. It’s just . . . it’s such a good opportunity for me. I’m really so sorry.’

  Nina gets to her feet. Too quickly, because she feels the blood rush from her head. She holds onto the desk until the giddiness passes. ‘Don’t be sorry, Anita,’ she says. ‘It’s been great to have you here. You’ll be an asset to anyone. I hope this works out for you.’

  Anita blushes a little, does an awkward half turn towards the open door. ‘I’ve left some papers for you to sign on the counter.’

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ Nina says. ‘Have a good evening.’

  ‘And you, Dr Bergmann, and thank you.’

  She gives a small shrug, then turns and leaves.

  *

  It’s dark by the time she gets home. Sebastian isn’t in; instead, she finds a note stuck to the fridge telling her that Kai is having dinner with his friend next door and that Rebekka will make her own way home after piano lessons. He doesn’t mention where he is, or when – if – he’ll be back. Nina rests her head against the fridge door. Perhaps he isn’t angry, she thinks. Perhaps he’s avoiding her because he feels ashamed. A low moan escapes her mouth, and she holds her breath, willing him to walk in through the front door right now, so that she can hold him and stroke his hair and tell him he has nothing to be ashamed of. But eventually, she is forced to breathe out.

  She opens the fridge. It’s gapingly empty. She hasn’t even left a drop of milk or a slice of bread for her own children. No wonder Kai is having to eat next door. The blood drains from her body as an intense shame takes hold of her, boils and bubbles on the inside. As it burns, the shame rushes and rings in her ears, rooting her to the spot, before she grasps that the ringing sound is, in fact, her mobile; the tone muffled by the heavy fabric of her coat which hangs at the door. She still doesn’t move. Instead, she crouches down, leaning against the fridge door, and draws long, strained breaths until the ringing stops. Then, more clearly, more urgently, the sound of the landline phone ringing. She waits – five, six, seven rings – until the answerphone clicks on. Sebastian’s voice.

  ‘You’ve reached the Lanz-Bergmann family. Please leave a message and we’ll call back.’

  Then: ‘Hi, this is Sara for Nina. Well, I can’t reach you on your mobile, and I’m off to NYC tomorrow morning. Hope everything’s okay. Um, yeah, please call me tonight. But I’ll email you from New York as soon as I can. Speak soon. Love you.’

  Slowly, Nina gets to her feet, letting her circulation adjust to the shift in position before walking down the hall and up the stairs. She heads straight for the bathroom, locks the door behind her and turns on the hot water tap. When the bathroom mirror and windows have misted up, she gets out of her clothes and steps into the tub. The water is very hot; it turns her skin pink and makes it itch, but she slowly, slowly lowers herself in. She closes her eyes.

  *

  March, 2000

  It was a little after midnight. Nina got home to her flat to find Marie curled up on her doormat. Nina guessed immediately that she had run away from home. Marie refused to talk at first, just cried and cried until she started shivering, and Nina made her take a bath to warm up.

  She didn’t want Nina to add any scented oil or bubble bath, and her soft young skin appeared almost translucent when it was submerged in the water. Nina used a flannel to wipe the tear streaks off her face, and then sponged down her arms, legs and back.

  ‘They hate me,’ were the first words Marie said. ‘And I hate them.’

  ‘Shh, nobody hates anyone,’ Nina murmured. Then, ‘Did you have a fight?’, picturing her parents, pale and frigid, attempting to suppress any visible anger until they threatened to implode with the sheer effort of absorbing Marie’s whirling, shrieking fury.

  Marie took a deep breath and ducked her head under the water, closing her eyes below the surface, her short dark hair haloing her face. She held her breath for so long that Nina was tempted to grab her shoulders and hoist her back up. When she resurfaced, she let the air out of her lungs in a rush. She looked up at Nina.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ she said.

  Nina stroked her wet hair, gently rubbing in some shampoo. ‘I’ll have to call them and let them know you’re okay,’ she said.

  Marie stared down into the water. ‘You’re going to ma
ke me go back, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, honey,’ Nina replied. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The door handle rattles. Then, a knock, and, ‘Mama, are you in there?’

  Nina’s eyes fly open. The bathwater is tepid. ‘Yes.’ It’s an effort to raise her voice enough to be heard through the door. ‘Yes, Bekka. I’m in the bath. I’ll be out in a minute.’

  A pause.

  ‘Okay. But Frau Willmers is at the door asking if Kai can stay for another half an hour,’ Rebekka says, adding more quietly, ‘to watch TV.’

  ‘Tell her it’s fine.’

  Rebekka doesn’t say anything more and Nina assumes she’s gone back downstairs. She moves her legs to get the water to yield the rest of its warmth, then slides her head back down until only eyes, nose and mouth are above the surface. The water is tight around her ears; an irregular drip from the tap and her breathing are the only sounds. She closes her eyes and for a moment, she is gone. Elsewhere. Beyond her body, her family, her marriage, her motherhood . . . It is perfectly still. But no. She hears something. A dull thump, an indistinct voice. She sits up quickly and takes some deep panicky breaths, as though she has just almost drowned and only managed to break through to the surface at the last moment.

  ‘. . . talk to you, Mama.’

  It’s Rebekka’s voice on the other side of the door. Has she been talking this whole time?

  ‘Bekka, Bekka, what is it?’

  ‘Forget it,’ she says through the door. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Bekka,’ Nina says, more loudly, but there is no response from her daughter.

  29

  Nina stops at a red light. In front of her, several metres ahead of the slip road leading onto the inner-city autobahn that takes her home in under ten minutes on a good day, she sees a large yellow traffic sign. Umleitung. The autobahn is closed off and traffic is being rerouted north-eastwards up Mecklenburgische Straße, a wide, ugly street lined with squat, one-storey buildings – carpet warehouses and DIY superstores and the occasional McDonald’s. She sighs, shivers, and tries to concentrate on generating a mental map of side streets and short cuts that will enable her to avoid the busy main roads on her way home. But although this is a part of the city she has been living in – and driving, walking and cycling in – for the best part of her adult life, her mental map freezes up several times, suddenly unsure of whether or not Kahlstraße is a one-way street – and if so, in which direction? – or if Wilhelmsaue is a cul-de-sac, only passable on foot, or on a bike – or was that Maxdorfer Steig?