The Vanishing of Katharina Linden

by Helen Grant

  “Heinrich-well, he made a mistake about Hannelore,” continued Herr Düster. He paused, and his gnarled fingers rubbed the arm of the chair, making little circles. “He thought she really wanted to leave him. He used to get-very angry with her. He had some idea that Gertrud wasn’t-that she was…” His voice trailed off. He was old, after all, incredibly ancient in my eyes, and I was only a child. He was of a different generation, one that thought unpleasantness was better not discussed in front of children. All the same, I thought I heard him say one single word in a very low voice: Meine. He thought she was mine. I said nothing.

  “They say,” went on Herr Düster almost to himself, “that they might have to exhume Hannelore. They think perhaps it wasn’t natural causes.”

  I remembered what Frau Kessel had said about the scene she had witnessed between Herr Düster and his brother’s wife. The ranting, the pulling away, Herr Düster trying to kiss Hannelore’s hand. He thought no one would see them, but I did. Had Herr Düster really cornered his unwilling sister-in-law and tried to kiss her? Or had the argument been about something else? About protecting Hannelore from her husband? I don’t know what it was she had… it could have been anything.

  “And Gertrud?” I prompted tentatively.

  “In the well,” said Herr Düster. He sounded weary, as though he would like to get the story told and over with. “They say it has to be verified, but yes, they think it is her. She was the first one, they think, the oldest…” He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. “How could he do it, that’s what everyone wants to know. How could he do it?”

  “His own daughter,” I said, and the idea was horrible, nasty, framed in words I wanted to spit out as soon as possible, like the girl in the story from whose mouth toads dropped every time she spoke. His own daughter.

  “Yes, but that was it, you see,” said Herr Düster softly. “He didn’t think she was his own daughter. He thought when she disappeared it would hurt me. He thought he was taking away any chance I had of ever…” He was silent for a few moments, then he went on: “Heinrich was not the man to support a child who was not his own, you know. Not to love a child, even if she called him Papa.”

  “That’s horrible,” I exclaimed, and drew Herr Düster’s grave gaze to me.

  “He was her father,” he said. His voice was helpless. “She was his daughter-and he killed her.” His eyes seemed to blur and brim over, and at last a single tear ran down one gaunt cheek.

  We sat in silence for a while. It was late in the afternoon and the light was fading. It was becoming gloomy in the room, with its small windows. If I did not get up soon and put the lights on, we would be sitting in the dark.

  “I don’t see what Katharina Linden had ever done to him,” I said eventually. “Or Julia Mahlberg, or anyone else.”

  “They did nothing,” replied Herr Düster sadly.

  “Then why-?”

  “I think he was trying to get at me,” said Herr Düster. “I think he thought that every time another girl went missing, I would think of Gertrud. He-Heinrich-was very sick, you know. And of course he would have known what everyone was saying, about who was taking these girls.”

  I did know what everyone had said, at least everyone as personified by Frau Kessel. Everyone thought Herr Düster had done it. He would have been lynched if a few more levelheaded people hadn’t insisted on letting the law take its course instead-people like my father. And then, when he had been driven out of the town, or even arrested for something he hadn’t done, someone would have searched his house, and there in the cellar they would have found all the evidence they needed. Herr Schiller had only to brick up the tunnel again and no one would have been any the wiser.

  I heard later that the tunnel had been there for hundreds of years. Older residents of the town said it was not the only tunnel; the ancient streets were riddled with them, a rotten honeycomb underlying the neat rows of houses. There used to be a synagogue on the Orchheimer Strasse, where now there is nothing but a memorial to the Jewish community who vanished in the war. They think the tunnels enabled the Jews to go about on the Sabbath, when they were forbidden by their faith to go out into the street. How and when Herr Schiller came upon the one under his house, it is now impossible to say.

  I was dazed by the enormity of what Herr Schiller had done. People did things I didn’t like, things I hated, every day. If I had heard that Thilo Koch had been trampled by wild horses or had fallen into the big cats’ enclosure at Köln Zoo and been rent limb from limb while screaming for mercy, I would not have been sorry. But I wouldn’t have pushed him in there. “I still don’t understand,” I said. “Why did he do it?”

  Herr Düster was silent for so long that I thought perhaps he had not heard the question. Then he uttered just one word in a low voice. Hass. Hate.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  We stayed in Bad Münstereifel a few weeks more, long enough to see the new year in: the year 2000, although the millennium celebrations mostly passed us by. I did not see Herr Düster again, and I heard later that he had outlived his brother by only a few months. When Boris had told Stefan that Herr Düster was sick, he was right: the old man had cancer, and at the end it carried him off very quickly. I’m thankful for that.

  I have often wondered about him and his brother, how the hatred between them could have led to what happened, and why it seemed to accelerate toward the end: four girls taken in one year. I think perhaps Herr Schiller knew that they were both dying, and he was determined to wreak his revenge before it was forever beyond his power to hurt his brother, Johannes.

  I wonder if the fact that Herr Düster never reacted infuriated him, and drove him on? Even though Herr Düster was cast as the town villain, he never indulged in any unseemly displays of emotion. Not when the woman he had loved faded away and died. Not when his brother changed his name as a sly means of accusation. Not even on the day when (as later publicized by that inexhaustible supply of local information, Frau Kessel) he opened his front door to find a little packet on the doorstep, a packet containing a child’s hair ribbon. Or the time it was a single glove, a little girl’s glove.

  If his brother had hoped to provoke him, he failed, or at any rate he failed to taunt him into any public signs of grief or anger. Herr Düster had simply called the police, as any good citizen might, and had been taken off in a patrol car, stony-faced, seemingly unmoved, to help them with their inquiries. The fact that this had been interpreted by Herr Düster’s neighbors as an arrest for abduction and murder can only have gladdened the icy splinter that was all that was left of Heinrich Schiller’s heart. He would have liked to see his brother, Johannes, torn to pieces by the citizens of Bad Münstereifel, their fists and nails and teeth the instruments of his vengeance. It must have eaten him up inside, the fact that his brother never reacted. That he never succeeded in shocking him.

  The police traced the call placed by Boris on the night of our adventure; Stefan’s cousin, in spite of his almost professional burglary skills, had failed to take the simple precaution of calling from a public phone. Or perhaps the Jägermeister was responsible for this oversight. Boris made some attempt to conceal the reasons for his presence in the Orchheimer Strasse that night, but dissembling was not his strong point. He made one unfortunate remark, tried to backtrack, and tripped himself up again.

  Eventually the whole story came out. It was Boris who had acquired one of Marion Voss’s shoes, by the simple expedient of paying Thilo Koch to steal one for him from the rack at the Grundschule. It was Boris and his friends who were responsible for burning it, late one night on the Quecken hill, and it was in an attempt to obtain further items belonging to the dead girls that Boris had broken into Herr Düster’s house that night.

  Shamefacedly, he was forced to admit that he and his cronies had been attempting a kind of black mass, inspired more by popular television programs than any actual arcane knowledge. Hunched around the stone circle they had built in the ruined castle, they had done a little chanting and d
rumming, and a lot of smoking (not all of it tobacco), and attempted to raise the spirit of Marion Voss.

  Did he do this sort of thing on a regular basis? the police had asked him incredulously, and Boris had had to admit that yes, he had tried it after Katharina Linden had disappeared; when nothing happened he had hit upon the idea of using possessions in the ritual belonging to the missing girls. When the police had discovered the burned remains of a shoe and connected it with the disappearances, Boris had been struck with terror, foreseeing that his involvement would propel him to the head of the list of suspects.

  Unfortunately he was not even able to offer any psychic clues to the murders since the spirits of the dead girls had refused to appear at all. Who could blame them? If the dead come back to tell us anything, they are unlikely to say it to a group of scruffy strangers smoking pot at midnight in a wood, one of whom, it seems, was also too drunk to stand up. Boris claimed that he had been trying to find out where the bodies were by asking the girls themselves, but later it went around that he had been trying to get them to tell him the following week’s lottery numbers. I have no idea which of these is true, but the latter story stuck to Boris and will probably pursue him for life.

  As for me, I spent a long time secretly worrying about Oma Warner’s telephone bill. Up until Christmas Eve she had still not said anything, but I did not like the way that she glanced at me, eyebrows raised, whenever the phone rang and my mother said, “It’s for you, Pia.” I had visions of her waiting until we were all assembled for Christmas dinner and then announcing it in front of the entire family: Did you know that Pia ran up a thousand pounds on my telephone bill, and me a pensioner? I tried to avoid her, as though she were a walking time bomb. If we spent too much time together, she might say something.

  In Germany everyone opens their Christmas presents on Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day, a fact that my mother had long bemoaned: she said it was ludicrous letting the children open their presents at eight o’clock at night and then expecting them to go straight to bed like lambs. But then my mother was not one to give her wholehearted approval to German customs.

  When we assembled for the annual exchange of gifts, Oma Warner had still not said anything. I purposely sat as far away from her as possible. Still, it was not likely that I would get away without any contact with her at all. I had to get up and hand her the little parcel of scented soap that was purportedly from me and Sebastian, and she had to hand me her gift in return.

  We didn’t often see Oma Warner at Christmas, so she usually sent me an envelope with a cheery card and a twenty-Deutschmark note inside it; she got the Deutschmarks from the travel agent in Hayes. I was not surprised therefore when she handed me a little envelope, slightly fat as though something were folded inside.

  “Say thank you, Pia,” said my mother, and dutifully I parroted, “Thank you.”

  Oma Warner waited until my mother was looking elsewhere and mimed stop at me, putting up one ring-encrusted hand. Stop, don’t open it. I tucked the envelope into the little pile of presents I had already opened. Later, when my mother was in the kitchen swearing at the turkey in two languages, I slipped upstairs to my bedroom.

  Sitting on my bed, I tore open the envelope Oma Warner had given me. Out fell what I first thought was confetti, but then realized were the pieces of a red telephone bill, torn to tiny shreds. I sat on my bed with a lapful of ripped-up telephone bill, reading the card, which read, Happy Christmas to a favourite granddaughter, and really I did not know whether to laugh or cry.

  That part of my life is closed now. After more than seven years in England, German words are becoming like an unfamiliar taste in my mouth. When I think of my conversations with Stefan, with my classmates, with Herr Schiller, sometimes I remember them in English. It’s strange to think that if I have children myself one day, then whenever they visit their grandfather they will speak to him in English and he will reply to them in English too, his accent strange in their ears. We will open our Christmas presents on December 25. We won’t celebrate St. Martin’s Day at all.

  Thinking about my friends in Germany is always a little painful because I can’t help but remember the goodbyes, just as you can’t watch a sad film a second time without thinking about the ending. So I don’t often think about Bad Münstereifel, about Stefan, and Herr Schiller, and Oma Kristel. Or about Herr Düster, the last time I saw him, standing on the doorstep of our house in the Heisterbacher Strasse, with his Tyrolean hat in his gnarled old hand.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Düster,” I had said, very politely, before he stepped out of my life forever. And he had looked at me very solemnly and said:

  “Hans. Please, call me Hans.”

  Glossary of German Words and Phrases

  aber but

  Abitur high school graduation examination

  Ach, Kind Oh, child!

  Alte Burg The Old Castle

  Ach so! Aha! I see!

  Angsthasen “Scaredy-rabbits”-the German equivalent of “scaredy-cats”

  Apfelstreusel apple cobbler

  auch also

  Auf Wiedersehen Goodbye (formal)

  Bis gleich! See you in a minute!

  bitte please

  Bitte schön You’re welcome

  Blödmann stupid fool

  Blödsinn stupid tricks, messing about

  böse bad, angry

  Bürgermeister mayor

  Danke Thank you

  dein yours

  doch yes, indeed

  Dornröschen Briar Rose, the sleeping beauty

  Du bist pervers You’re sick

  Dummkopf blockhead, idiot

  etwas seltsam something strange

  Fachwerk half-timbering

  Fettmännchen small coin (now obsolete)

  Fettsack Fatso

  Frau Mrs., Ms.

  Fräulein Miss

  furchtbar terrible

  Gönsebraten roast goose

  gerne willingly, gladly

  Gott God

  Grossmutter Grandmother

  Grundschule Elementary school

  Guten Abend Good evening

  Guten Morgen Good morning

  Guten Tag Good day

  Gymnasium the most academic type of high school, offering the university entrance exam

  Hasse hate

  Hauptschule less academic type of high school, often leading to vocational training

  Heckflosse tail fin

  Herr Mr.

  Herr Wachtmeister Constable

  Hexe witch

  Hilfe! Help!

  Himmel! Heavens!

  Hör auf! Stop it!

  Ich gehe mit meiner Laterne I’m going along with my lantern

  Ich hasse euch beide I hate you both

  Ich kenn’ dich nicht, ich geh’ nicht mit I don’t know you, so I won’t go with you

  Ich meine I mean

  Ihr beide seid auch Scheisse You’re both shit too

  Ihr seid total blöd You (pl.) are totally stupid

  In Gottes Namen In God’s name

  Jägermeister a German liqueur made with herbs and spices

  Kaufhof a well-known German department store

  Kind child

  Klasse great, fantastic

  Köln Cologne

  Kölner Stadtanzeiger a regional newspaper

  Komisch funny

  Leberwurst liver sausage

  Liebe Dear

  Lieber Gott Dear God

  Maibaum a May tree

  Mäuselein “Little mouse;” a term of endearment

  meine my, mine

  Mein Gott My God

  Meine Gute! My goodness!

  Mein Licht ist aus, ich geh’ nach Haus My light is out, I’m going home

  Mensch! Wow! Oh boy!

  Mist crap

  natürlich Of course

  Na, und? So what?

  Nee No, nope (informal)

  Nun Now, well

  Oberlothringen Upper Lorraine

  Oder? Right? OK?


  O Gott Oh God

  Oma grandma

  Onkel uncle

  Opa grandpa

  Pause break time

  Pech gehabt! Hard luck!

  Pfarrer Father (i.e., a priest)

  Quälgeister pests

  Quatsch nonsense

  Ranzen school satchel

  Rathaus town hall

  Rosenmontag Karneval Monday

  Sankt saint

  Sankt Martin ritt durch Schnee und Wind St. Martin rode through snow and wind

  Schätzchen “My treasure;” a term of endearment

  Scheisse shit

  Scheissköpfe idiots (rude)

  schön good, lovely

  Schrulle hag or crone

  seltsam strange

  sicher certainly

  Stollen fruit loaf made at Christmastime

  Strasse street

  Tal valley

  Tante aunt

  Teufelsloch Devil’s Hole

  Tor gate or archway; in Bad Münstereifel each tor is a tower with an archway underneath it

  Tschüss! Bye! (informal)

  Tut mir Leid I’m sorry

  Um Gottes Willen! For Heaven’s sake!

  und and

  unverschämt shameless, brazen

  Verdammt! Damn!

  Verdammter bloody (rude)

  verflixten blasted, damned

  verstanden understood

  Vorsicht! Look out!

  weggezaubert made to disappear by magic

  Werkbrücke Works Bridge-a Bad Münstereifel landmark

  Wie, bitte? I beg your pardon?

  Wo ist meine Tochter? Where is my daughter?

  Wurst sausage

  Zöpfe pigtails or braids

  Baron Münchhausen (Chapter One) was an eighteenth-century German baron renowned for his extravagant tall tales.

  Frau Holle (Chapter Twenty-one) is a character from a German fairy tale. She is an old woman who lives down a well; she rewards her hardworking servant girl with a shower of gold and her lazy servant with a shower of pitch.

  Decke Tönnes (Chapter Twenty-nine) is a shrine to St. Anthony, located high on a hill in the woods near Bad Münstereifel.