Don't Forget Me

by B C Schiller

  She locked her bike to a basement metal fence at her father’s block of flats and went up to the second floor, but then nearly fell over the rubbish strewn all around the hallway when she opened the door to the apartment.

  ‘Papa, where are you? What’s happened?’ Olivia stepped over the squashed yoghurt pots, spilled milk and dried orange peel. ‘What have you done?’ Her father was sitting in his favourite armchair, humming. ‘There’s rubbish everywhere! And what’s happened to you?’

  Leopold was covered in milk, tomato juice and traces of chocolate.

  ‘He wants to build an opera house for his mistress in the middle of the jungle,’ Leopold said, pointing to the television, which was again showing the old Herzog film.

  ‘Now listen to me, Papa,’ Olivia began, planting herself in front of the TV set, but her father tried to look past her to the screen. He was giggling like a child.

  ‘OK, watch the film, and I’ll run you a bath in the meantime,’ Olivia said, giving up the battle.

  She was pouring bath oil into the water when Juli’s voice suddenly echoed in her mind.

  ‘Mummy, please use the pink bath oil. It smells of strawberries.’

  ‘Of course, my sweetie.’

  It had been the last bath with her daughter. Juli had sat in the warm water, blowing bubbles, and they’d both drunk Juli’s favourite lemonade. At that moment life had never been more beautiful. Olivia had felt like taking the whole world into her happy embrace. Then she’d heard some clinking downstairs.

  ‘Michael, is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, I just dropped a glass from the tray. Have a lovely time, my princesses.’

  ‘Did you get out the pink frilly dress for me from the wardrobe?’ Juli asked, clapping her hands with joy.

  In that moment Olivia would never, never have dreamed that in one turn her life would change from pink to black.

  ‘Olivia, is my bath ready? I’m filthy. Can I watch telly in the bathroom?’

  ‘You always watch the same film,’ Olivia said as she dried her hands.

  Leopold came into the bathroom, and Olivia noticed that his eyes were clear and piercing. He took his dirty jumper off and smoothed his hair with both hands.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Olivia had to hurry, because Leopold’s lucid moments never lasted long. ‘Last time you told me that you knew Lisa Manz and that she was a difficult girl.’

  ‘Now she is a dead girl,’ her father added. ‘She died a few years ago. Why are you asking me? Why are you interested in her?’

  ‘One of my patients found her rucksack and a day later allegedly committed suicide. He gave me this piece of jewellery. Have you ever seen it before?’ Olivia held up the pendant for Leopold.

  ‘Yes, it could be the pendant from Lisa’s necklace. She thought the snakes would bring her luck, but they didn’t prove so lucky for her at the clinic.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I worked in the acute wing too. Have you forgotten? She was often taken there when there was trouble at home.’

  ‘Did she run away from home? What happened there?’

  ‘She was a typical borderline case, although she did once attack my colleague Nils like a wildcat. She could be quite fierce, but then again she was a frightened girl in need of help.’

  ‘Nils? Do you mean the Nils who works at our clinic?’

  ‘Yes, Nils Wagner – he’s the head now. Lisa was his patient too. I only worked with her occasionally, after she had another breakdown and was aggressive towards everyone.’

  ‘Her files must still be at the clinic,’ Olivia said.

  ‘Of course. Nils often videoed her as well. It was a kind of experiment he’d devised.’

  ‘What kind of experiment?’

  ‘Nils wanted to analyse Lisa’s behaviour. Sometimes he videoed her for over twenty-four hours without allowing her any sleep.’

  ‘Unbelievable. Was that legal?’

  ‘It was a scientific experiment to make her better. I don’t know any more about it.’ Leopold shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’ll have to ask Nils the details. It was his idea and his patient.’

  ‘Do you know where the files and the tapes are?’

  ‘After Lisa’s death it was probably taken to the secret archive.’

  ‘A secret archive?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in the basement. That’s where they store the patients’ files that shouldn’t be made public.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything about it.’

  ‘It’s director-level information,’ Leopold said and smiled mischievously. ‘But I still have a key to the archive – forgot to hand it in. I bet the files are in there.’ He giggled again like a small child.

  ‘And where is that key?’ Olivia asked.

  But Leopold didn’t respond, no matter how much Olivia probed.

  ‘What was going on in Lisa’s head? What did you talk about in therapy?’

  ‘Lisa? Who’s Lisa?’ Suddenly her father was looking at her without comprehension again. His shoulders had dropped, and he appeared years older.

  ‘We just had a conversation about Lisa Manz.’

  ‘Don’t know her. I didn’t have an affair with her either. Why are you always so jealous, Flora? You know I only love you.’

  ‘Papa! Pull yourself together. Focus on the present.’ Olivia grabbed her father’s arm and shook him gently. She wanted to know more about Lisa. She didn’t want him to sink back into his forgetfulness. ‘Papa, concentrate! When did Lisa disappear from the clinic? How was that possible at all? Please tell me!’

  ‘I want to have a bath with Flora now. Flora loves the water. She grew up by the sea, you know.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it any more.’ Olivia clapped her hands over her ears. ‘Please stop with your stories about Flora. I want to know more about Lisa.’

  ‘The illness comes in phases. On some days, the patient is completely normal.’

  ‘Are you talking about Lisa? Was she ill? Did she have schizophrenic episodes?’ Olivia asked hopefully. Maybe she’d be able to tease more information out of Leopold.

  ‘Who is Lisa?’

  ‘OK, Papa.’ Olivia dropped her hands in resignation. It was no good. Her father had sunk back deeper and deeper into his old memories. In a clear moment, though, he had talked about a secret archive in the basement of the clinic. Who else could she ask about it? Was this secret room another figment of her father’s imagination? No, Leopold had been absolutely clear when he’d mentioned it. Olivia helped her father into the bath and gently soaped his back. Afterwards she helped him put on his pyjamas and then tucked him into bed, as if he were a small child. When she was sure he was fast asleep, she quickly cleared up all the debris lying around the flat into the bin and then quietly left. Downstairs on the street, she got her mobile out and looked for a piece of paper with a number. When she finally found it, she knew what she had to do.

  12

  The men were sitting in a gourmet restaurant in the luxurious Golden Quarter in Vienna’s city centre.

  ‘An ex-inspector came to see Richard Manz today,’ Nils Wagner, head of the psychiatric clinic, said to the man opposite. Nils had invited him for lunch after his old friend Richard Manz had called him. After five years of silence on this gruesome case, suddenly things were moving again, and it could easily develop into something serious. Whatever it was, it had to be stopped.

  ‘An ex-inspector? Can only have been Levi Kant,’ Kurt Mayer said. He was chief of the Vienna police. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He had photos of a rucksack belonging to the dead girl,’ Nils said. ‘Theresa freaked out and I had to inject her with a sedative.’ He took another forkful of steak tartare from his plate. ‘How come you don’t know about it?’

  ‘I don’t interfere with the day-to-day actions of the force. If I knew the details of every single case I’d end up in your clinic myself,’ Mayer said. He called the waiter and pointed at the half-empty wine bottle and his glass. ‘Fill it up,’ he com
manded.

  ‘But it’s not an everyday case,’ Nils retorted. ‘It’s about Lisa Manz. Her parents are beside themselves. After five years, all the old wounds are being ripped open. You must put a stop to it immediately. Why is this old copper still meddling with things? Wasn’t he sidelined years ago?’

  ‘I’ll have a chat with his former boss. Lisa Manz’s murder was the only case Kant couldn’t solve – that’s why he’s interested in the new developments. It’s understandable.’ Mayer took another sip of wine. ‘Anyway, the case has been solved now, so I’ve been told.’

  ‘Please see to it as soon as possible. I’m not interested in the motives of a washed-up copper. Sort him out!’ Nils insisted. He looked at Mayer. You didn’t have to be a psychiatrist to recognise that Mayer was completely unfit for the post of chief of police. He was an armchair policeman who happened to be a member of the right party. Luckily, he was a weak character who could be easily influenced.

  ‘But we’ve found the perpetrator. Inspector Reiter is already writing up his final report, before it goes over to the prosecution service.’ Mayer smiled uncertainly. ‘As you can see, everything is quite under control.’

  ‘Reiter won’t be causing any difficulties?’ Nils asked. He was not happy with Mayer’s answer.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, what if Reiter’s not sure it was a suicide and mentions it in his report?’

  ‘Maybe I should take a closer look.’ The chief of police nodded and rubbed his hands nervously.

  ‘Yes, maybe you’d better. And what about Olivia Hofmann, the psychiatrist?’

  ‘I think Reiter has recorded her statement, but I don’t know if he’ll include it in his report.’ Mayer shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Listen to me, Kurt,’ Nils said, bending forward across the table, ‘just see to it that everything goes smoothly.’ Leaning back again, he noticed his tie had caught some specks of steak tartare. ‘Thanks to you, I’ve now ruined my tie,’ he growled.

  ‘OK, first thing tomorrow morning I’ll ask for Reiter’s report.’ Mayer topped up his glass again. ‘There’s no need to worry, Nils. Everything is fine. It was a cold case, and now it’s a closed case.’ He patted Nils’s hand, but the other man winced as if he’d been touched by a poisonous snake.

  ‘A murder case is never closed,’ he said.

  13

  Levi was at home, sitting at his desk and looking out through the window at the Vienna night. For decades now, he’d lived in Leopoldstadt in the Second District. It was the same area in which his grandmother, Esther, had lived; her old flat was only a few streets away. Levi passed the building every time he went to the launderette. And every time he passed, he stopped to read the names on the Stolpersteine – the brass plaques set in the pavement, bearing the names of the people who’d once lived there. Rosa, Rahel, Rebecca and Nathan, children of the Rosenzweigs. They’d been his grandmother’s friends, until they were taken by the Gestapo in the middle of the night, together with their parents in March 1938. At first it was said that they’d left the country, but after the war the terrible truth came out. They’d been deported to the concentration camp in Dachau where they’d suffered an awful death. Levi’s grandmother only survived the deportation of her own family because she’d been in the cellar getting coal. From then on, she’d never dared to go back to her flat and remained in hiding in the cellar. Until the end of the war she carried on living as an illegal, being hidden by friends and frequently moving around.

  Levi never visited the synagogue, but had noticed with satisfaction that a strong Jewish community had again established itself in the quarter. On his windowsill stood a menorah, the Jewish seven-branched candlestick, one of the few signs of the religion into which he had been born. On the floor next to him was the pile of student essays. He’d taken his work home so he’d not be late in returning them. From the room next door, he could hear Rebecca playing the piano. The notes hung in the night air like shimmering pearls.

  His mother had also played the piano. Levi’s thoughts drifted back to his childhood and he pictured himself as he’d been then – a little boy shyly entering his grandmother’s living room with his head down. It was always dark in there, the gloomy atmosphere of the room made even more so by the many dusty volumes of Jewish history. Just as gloomy and dusty as the memories that so often haunted his grandmother.

  He remembered one time when he’d tiptoed quietly through the room to the window where Esther, wrapped in a coat that was much too big for her petite frame, always sat in her rocking chair, staring out. It seemed at first as if she hadn’t noticed him, although of course she had. She never missed anything that was going on.

  ‘Sit next to me, my boy,’ Esther said without looking at him.

  ‘Why are you always looking out of the window, Omi?’ Levi asked, kneeling next to the old woman’s chair.

  ‘I’m on watch,’ Esther replied. ‘Always on watch.’

  ‘Are you afraid of something?’

  ‘Not now. Because now I know the people who terrorise others. If you know where the danger comes from, you don’t have to be afraid any more.’

  ‘And what do you see out there?’ Levi asked quietly. He’d got up and looked out of the window. The street was dark, with only a few cars parked at the kerb and an old man walking his dog. Levi squinted. ‘I don’t see any dangers,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t see the danger, but then suddenly it’s there. That’s why I’m always on watch. When the men turn the corner over there, I will have to disappear, I will have to go to the cellar, because they’re coming to round us up. And every time I think about it, I begin to feel very cold.’ Esther wrapped the coat tightly around her frail body.

  ‘Is that why you’re always wearing this coat?’ Levi asked.

  ‘No. The coat contains my memories. They were given to me so they didn’t get lost.’

  ‘What memories?’ little Levi asked. He didn’t know what she meant.

  ‘Memories are thoughts, words or things that take us back to former times,’ Esther said. Only now did she turn to Levi and stroke his head. ‘You will remember me later in life when you see this coat.’

  She sighed and lifted herself from the rocking chair, propping herself up on the windowsill with both hands. The coat hung heavily around her, seeming to weigh her down.

  ‘My memories are very heavy,’ she said and unbuttoned the coat. ‘None of the people who gave them to me ever returned.’

  Carefully she opened the coat. The lining looked like a patchwork rug, a colourful landscape of lives. Right at the top a moth-eaten teddy bear stared out with its shining glass eyes.

  ‘Every patch is a pocket,’ Esther continued. ‘And every pocket contains a personal treasure of a member of our community which I was asked to keep safe. I call it “the Coat of the Unforgotten”.’

  ‘It sounds like a fairy-tale,’ Levi said. ‘Can you tell me the story, please?’

  14

  It all began when my mother, your great-grandmother, sent me to the cellar to get coal. As it was very cold, I put on her coat. It was the end of March 1938, shortly after Hitler had annexed Austria. That was when the really bad times began for us. All the true Nazis now dared to come out of their holes, and the persecution of the Jews began.

  While I was shovelling the coal into the big scuttle, I heard a noise and peeked out of one of the narrow windows near the ceiling, through which I could just about see the pavement outside. A dark car had stopped in front of our house. Several men got out and banged at the front door.

  ‘Open up! Police!’ they shouted.

  ‘Gestapo!’

  I froze in front of the coal heap and held my breath.

  ‘Do the Goldmans live here?’ they barked at the caretaker woman who had reluctantly opened the door.

  ‘Yes, second floor,’ the woman answered timidly.

  ‘Get out of the way!’

  The men stormed past her and stomped upstairs. I tiptoed up the cellar
steps and into the hall.

  ‘What are you doing here, Esther?’ All of a sudden, the caretaker stood in front of me, both hands to her cheeks. ‘The Gestapo are at your parents’ flat!’

  ‘Why? What have they done?’ I asked, because I could not imagine that my parents would have done anything wrong.

  ‘Because they’re Jews. Like you,’ she said. Then she grabbed me by the neck and pushed me back towards the steps to the cellar. ‘Hide, otherwise they will take you as well,’ she whispered urgently.

  I wanted to say something, but then I heard my mother’s voice upstairs. ‘My daughter isn’t here. She’s abroad.’

  ‘Where exactly?’ a man asked.

  ‘In Switzerland. Skiing.’

  ‘So you can afford a skiing holiday, you filthy Jews!’

  ‘The Austrian state awarded it as a prize for an excellent pupil,’ my mother countered.

  Then I heard a loud slap and knew that the man had hit her. I can hear her cry out to this day.

  ‘Don’t lie to us, Jew woman. That’s rubbish!’ It was the voice of Egon, who used to own a small shop nearby. He’d had to close his business because of the economic downturn and since then worked as a casual labourer, but now his time had come. ‘It’s cold and you don’t even have your stove lit. Maybe your brat has gone to get coal. Where is the cellar?’

  My heart stopped. In panic I ran back, climbed onto the coal heap, slid down the other side and with both hands dug a hole to hide in alongside the wooden partition. I hastily pulled some coal over me and closed my eyes. Then I heard the steps. Heavy, intimidating, grim.

  ‘Search the coal heaps.’

  Egon’s voice echoed and multiplied in the low-ceilinged cellar, turning into a choir of horror.

  ‘It’s too dirty here. Nobody there. Maybe that Jewish slut didn’t lie for once, and the brat really is abroad.’ The voice was that of a younger man, and I knew this one too. He was a good-looking young fellow with blond hair whom my father, the doctor, had treated for free several times. And this was how he demonstrated his thanks for the care my father had shown to everyone in our quarter. So many people we knew had become our enemies.