I wait. Nothing happens.
Oh, hell, I’m not having him gawp at my bum any longer. This is too much! I turn around slowly, trying to protect myself from his gaze as best I can with my arms. Don’t let him see how scared you are!
Our eyes meet briefly, that’s all. Then, still sitting on the chair, he turns away.
‘Get dressed. Your clothes are in the wardrobe.’
I can’t think straight, don’t know what to do. I just want to get away from here. Get out of the place somehow, get away. What am I going to do? I’d like to march over and hit him the way he hit me. I’d like to go for him with both fists. That bastard, that nutcase!
Of course, that’s it! He won’t be expecting me to defend myself. This is my chance. I’m not letting you finish me off, you bastard! I must think it all out very precisely, the slightest mistake and things will go wrong. So how do I start?
Keep calm. Breathe deeply, head up, keep perfectly upright as you walk towards him. Don’t show any fear. Best if I walk in a very feminine way. Like a model on the catwalk, step by step, one foot in front of the other, swinging my hips. A little sexiness wouldn’t be a bad idea. I hope it works, I hope I can carry it off. Although, might he attack me? Guys like him fancy that sort of thing. But at the same time it scares them. I must stop right beside him and stand there. My pussy level with his face. What will he do? I bet he’ll be all confused, embarrassed, stare down at his clasped hands. I bet he’ll feel uncomfortable with me so close to him, naked. He’s the kind who doesn’t dare do it unless you’re defenceless. If I’m asleep he’ll feel strong, he’ll bring himself off staring at my naked body.
So now what, arsehole? I imagine him beginning to sweat, breathing in deeply, a loud noise. I have to be quite relaxed, make him feel how I relish my superiority. I must act fast. Mustn’t give him time. Move fast or it will go wrong. I’ll grab his head and turn it towards me. Bury his face in my belly. Hold him so he can’t breathe. Press him to me good and hard. Press with all my might until he goes blue in the face and I can’t hear him breathing any more. No mercy if he whimpers and begs. He doesn’t deserve any. He’ll try gasping for air, try to fight back. He’ll wriggle like a fish out of water. If I press hard enough he won’t have a chance; I just have to hold him close to myself. And I must do it all very fast, I must take him by surprise. When he’s gasping I’ll force his head back with all my might and shout, ‘You’re not hitting me again, get it?’ I can imagine his swollen face, his skin wet with sweat and flushed. He’ll look at me, terrified, out of little slits of eyes. Begging for mercy.
He stands up. Goes to the trapdoor, opens it, climbs down. Ignoring me. The trapdoor closes. I’m in here alone, I hesitated too long, I’m still standing in front of the wardrobe, its door half open behind my back, both arms held protectively over my body. I let my arms fall. Go over to the bed and drop on it. I pull the quilt over me and close my eyes, stabs of pain rising from the nape of my neck to my head.
There he is again, the child behind the tree. I see the little boy before me, a skinny little boy materializing out of nothing. I go up to him, I don’t know him, yet he’s as familiar to me as the woodland where I find myself now. I know him by his bloodstained ear. The boy’s face changes, I can’t see it properly. There’s something I don’t like about him, it scares me. The child avoids my eyes, won’t look at me, stupid brat! He waves his arms about. Making signals. What does he want? The movements calm down, begin to make more sense, lines, circles, letters. Yes, he’s tracing letters in the air with one finger. Writing in the air. Secret conversations, the kind we used to have as children. Painting letters in the air, or writing them on each other’s backs and then asking, ‘Go on, what was that word? Guess!’ OK, I’ll play along. I try to concentrate. I recognize a letter Y. And then a letter C. Or is it? He shakes his head energetically, starts again. An O? He nods. Then a U. He nods again. ‘YOU.’ Good, on we go. He writes in the air again, fast, much too fast. I can’t decipher it. He writes more letters. I can’t make out the word. He loses interest in the game, turns away, runs off into the woods. Wait, wait for me! I run after him, try to follow. But there’s no one to be seen in the woods any more.
The bus moves slowly towards the stop. I am the only passenger. I get up from my seat while the bus is still moving. I go down the central aisle to the front door, holding on to the pole for support. I stop by the driver, lean my back against the perspex pane. The driver doesn’t see me, he’s looking straight ahead, keeping his eyes on the road. The bus stops. The door opens, I get out. I’m not even outside yet, my foot is still on the last step, when the first school kids push their way in. They storm in noisily, satchels on their backs, bags of PE kit in their hands. Pushing, shoving, shouting. Everyone’s trying to get to a seat first. The doors close behind me. I stand by the side of the road, looking in the direction of the bus. The driver is sitting there behind his steering wheel, still looking straight ahead. The bus starts, passes me very close. I cross the road and on the other side I go on along the pavement. There’s no one around except for me, I’m on my own. The echo of my footsteps bothers me.
It’s not daylight yet, the buildings on the housing estate are only vaguely outlined. There are lights on in some of the apartments – the windows are bright patches in the grey façades of the buildings. The street lighting is still switched on but it hardly lights up its surroundings at all. I go along the tarmac path to the apartment block where I live. Stop at the glazed front door. Put my right hand in my jacket pocket and take my key ring out. I open the door, close it again; the lock latches with a click behind me.
I take the lift, go up from the ground floor to the mezzanine floor leading to the fourth storey. From there I go up the steps to my apartment. Still with the key in my hand, I open the door of my apartment and go down the corridor to the kitchen. I keep my jacket and shoes on, as I always do – I take my jacket off only when I’m in the kitchen, then I hang it over the back of the chair. I go to the kitchen counter with its row of appliances, open the fridge door, bend down, take out the bottle of milk I opened yesterday. I get a glass out of the wall cupboard, put the glass and the bottle on the table, sit down on the chair. Take my shoes off and leave them under the table. I take the bottle and pour cold milk into the glass, putting the milk back on the table. A drop runs down from the top of the bottle over the curve of its side and ends on the table top. I sit there watching the drop. I pick up the glass, take a sip, raise my head and look out of the window.
From where I’m sitting I can see into the building opposite. Light after light is switched on. Window after window is lit up. The light goes on in the apartment in front of me as well. Always at the same time every day. There are no curtains at the windows. I see straight into the bedroom. The woman is moving about there, wearing the long T-shirt that just covers her bum. She disappears. The light goes on in the next room. I can see into her kitchen. Her cat jumps up on the window sill, stretches and lies lazily down. She comes over and strokes the cat. Moves away from the window, comes back a little later with a cup. She puts the cup on the table and sits down. My eyes follow her, follow every movement she makes. She picks up the cup, drinks, puts it down again. She reads the newspaper, drinks without looking up. The cat on the window sill gets up, stretches, and jumps lazily over to the table, gets her to pet it and disappears from my field of vision. The woman stands up too, takes the cup, puts it on the work surface behind her and leaves the room. I stay where I am, drinking milk and looking at the window, waiting. After a few minutes I see her again, back in the bedroom this time. She is naked, with a towel wrapped around her hair. She crosses the room to the wardrobe, opens it. Now the wardrobe door hides my view of her; I can’t see her again until she’s dressed. She is wearing a skirt and her white blouse. She closes the wardrobe, looks around her, turns off the light and leaves the room.
I stand up as well, go to my bedroom and throw myself on the bed.
I lie there, holding the pillow
clasped to me, eyes closed. Thinking of the woman in the apartment opposite. Of her naked body, the way she walks through the room as if in slow motion. I think of her like I do every day.
I open my eyes. Sit up in the bed, look round the room. No one there. I let myself drop back and stare at the ceiling.
Nothing’s changed. I’m still lying on the bed naked, covered only with a thin quilt, imprisoned in a small room in a dilapidated, deserted wooden house in the middle of the forest. I’ve no idea why I’m here. What does that guy want? I must do something, anything, or I’ll go out of my mind. I must get out of here! Come on, do something! Get up, get dressed, try to escape, it must be possible. Pull yourself together, get out of this place. I get off the bed and go over to the cupboard. My clothes are in there, like he said. I slip them quickly on, as if someone might be watching. There’s an old shaving mirror hanging from a nail over the chest of drawers, a round mirror with a red plastic frame. I look terrible. Face swollen, left eye red and bloodshot, the lower lid’s already starting to turn pale mauve. The mirror, which is almost entirely clouded, makes the rest of my face look even paler in contrast. As I feel my injuries and stare at my face, the right-hand side of the mirror darkens. A head comes into view over my shoulder. His head. His forehead bulges just above his eyes, which are deep-set. His nose is large and hooked, flat at the end. A deep dip in it, so that the end juts like a little triangle. The way that nose looks, he must have broken it at some time. Doesn’t surprise me, a thug like that. Narrow lips above his protruding chin, which has a cleft in it.
‘Hungry?’
I look into his eyes. Murky brown eyes. I hold his gaze. He smiles, a broad smile, showing his teeth. Discoloured yellow teeth with gaps in them.
‘Mmm.’
I can’t get any more out, just ‘Mmm’. And I nod. He goes over to the table, tips the contents of a plastic bag out on it. Assorted rolls, half a loaf of dark rye bread, pretzels. From another bag he produces butter and a packet of sliced sausage wrapped in paper. He takes the slices apart with his fingers and puts them on a plate. Then several bottles of beer, standing them neatly side by side. Putting out the sausage with dirty, unwashed fingers, drinking beer, of course, just the sort of thing he’d do.
He grunts, lights a camping stove. He’d already taken it out of his backpack. He’s really made himself at home here. Now he produces a pan as well. Fries eggs.
‘Like some?’
‘Mmm.’ I won’t really like anything you give me, but I’m feeling quite ill with hunger, my stomach’s rumbling. Hesitantly, I sit down at the table.
‘Why am I here?’
He puts the pan of fried eggs down in front of me.
‘Eat it!’
‘What do you want me for? Why am I here, for God’s sake? Talk to me!’ My voice cracks, sounds oddly squashed. Tears come into my eyes. I don’t want the bloody fried eggs any more, I put my arm back ready to sweep the pan off the table. He grabs my arm, forces it down on the table.
‘Eat it!’
He slowly relaxes his grip and lets my arm go. Inside me, feelings of helplessness, rage and fear are competing with each other. I start eating. First slowly, reluctantly, then faster. Rapidly. I stuff myself, eat the whole pan of eggs greedily. I mop up what’s left with bread. There are tears running down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand.
He is sitting beside me, watching me, doesn’t say a word. After he’s finished several beers, he stands up, clears away the crockery and the camping stove, puts it all in a wooden crate.
‘Going to wash these things up. The only water’s outside.’
He opens the trapdoor, climbs down the steep stairs. The door latches behind him. Creaking sounds, then silence. I hope he falls downstairs and breaks his neck.
A fly gets to work on what’s left of the breadcrumbs on the table. It crawls back and forth, carefully cleaning its feelers and its face. Buzzes over to the window and then back to the table, settles on my hand. Normally I’d hit it, kill it, today it’s a welcome diversion.
It must be at least an hour since he left.
I have to get out of here! I go over to the trapdoor. It’s either jammed or locked; I tug until my fingers hurt. That bastard has locked me in! He’s keeping me prisoner. Like an animal, he feeds me so I won’t die on him. The arsehole!
I get to work on the crack around the edges of the door, levering with a kitchen knife he left up here until the blade breaks off. I’m an idiot, I might yet have used that knife as a weapon.
It’s quiet in this room, all I can hear is the fly buzzing as it moves from side to side at the bottom of the window frame. Now and then, with a tiny thud, it collides with the glass and runs up and down the pane.
I go over to the window, shake it, it won’t open. Clouds are slowly moving past. I stand on the chair; I can just see the treetops of the forest – they’re conifers. I could break the pane, but I think better of that one at once. The window is too narrow. I couldn’t get through it.
I search the room again. It’s pointless, but there must be something I could use to break the door down. I haven’t yet looked inside the chest of drawers. Teabags, dustpan and an ancient brush, newspaper, a small photograph frame. I have a photo frame like that at home, wood painted black, just the same. Curiously, I pick up the photograph frame, take it out, turn it over.
And stare at the picture, bewildered. This is impossible. It’s a photo of me as a schoolgirl. Joachim is beside me. Joachim with his round childish face is grinning at me. I don’t want to see the picture, I throw the photo frame back into the chest of drawers. How does it come to be here? It was in my bookcase, to the right of the top shelf, jammed into the corner between the wall and a row of books. So firmly jammed that you could hardly pull it out. I don’t remember noticing that it was missing. Well, all my old books are on that shelf. Everything I don’t want to throw out for some kind of sentimental reason. I ought to have chucked it all into the garbage ages ago.
Hesitantly, I take the picture out of the chest of drawers once more and stare at the photo as if turned to stone. There I stand, holding it in both hands. I stare at it for ever. It’s already dark outside. I look at the picture until the faces in it blur, I can hardly see anything there. ‘He isn’t going to come back!’ I jump, startled by the sound of my own voice. ‘He isn’t going to come back!’ I say it again in an undertone, speaking to myself. I don’t know which of them I mean, Joachim or my kidnapper. I cross the twilit room to the bed.
Lying on the bed, I keep nodding off, then waking with a start, then dropping off to sleep again. I don’t want to sleep, I want to stay awake. I’m afraid of my dreams.
And once again I’m sucked up by a black emptiness, drawn into the void. I see a light far away, like a light at the end of a tunnel. I run towards it. The light gets larger, brighter, it pushes the darkness away. I’m in a room, I know it. I know I’m dreaming the same dream again. Again and again. And once more I’m turning on my own axis, but at the same moment I’m watching myself turning. Suddenly the little boy’s there in front of me again. I go towards him. There’s a warm feeling inside me, I want to hug him, I want to protect him. The little boy looks at me. He’s Joachim. I glance up, and I’m looking into a mirror. I see Joachim, and I’m standing beside him, a head taller than he is. I’m thirteen years old, with long dark-blonde plaits. Joachim looks up at me, talking away to himself. He’s talking much too fast. I can’t make out what he’s saying. It makes no sense. Only slowly do I begin to understand him.
‘Piggy bank.’ He’s holding the piggy bank, showing it to me. I want to take it, but he sweeps his arm back and throws the piggy bank at the mirror. Our reflection breaks into a thousand pieces. They’re lying everywhere, the floor is covered with sparkling broken glass. Coins among the broken glass, pfennigs, ten-pfennig pieces. I grab him, I throw him to the floor as hard as I can. Joachim is lying among the glittering splinters of glass, the light is refracted from them a thousand times. H
is legs are bleeding, he’s crying. I look at his face, which is wet with tears. Snot running out of his nose. ‘You little bastard!’ I feel the fury in me, that terrible fury. I begin hitting and kicking him. I go on and on. He’s bleeding, I go on hitting him, hitting and hitting…until his little body lies on the floor without moving. Blood trickles slowly out of his ear, a thin thread of blood. I put my hand out, touch the little trickle. See it shining on my fingertip. I bend down, kiss him and pet him. And at the same moment I want him not to be there. He must go! I fetch the wheel-barrow, try to heave his body into it. It doesn’t work, he falls out on the other side again and again. I take hold of his legs, see his shoes. Child’s shoes. Blue fabric shoes with striped blue and white laces. Joachim’s favourite shoes.
‘Hello, Monika, what are you doing to me?’ I stop. I turn around. I’m standing in a park. Joachim is beside me, leaning against a willow tree. Joachim who was lying dead on the floor only just now. He’s holding one hand to his ear, grinning.
I’m sitting on one of the old wooden crates. My hunting knife in one hand, a piece of wood in the other. I hear footsteps above me now and then – she’s walking up and down. I look at the ceiling. My eyes follow her invisible form. Dust sifts through the cracks between the wooden planks here and there. I watch the motes of dust drifting slowly to the floor.
I like to sit down here most of all. Among all the dusty old crates and machines. My favourite place. It always was my favourite place to play here in Father’s mill. I could crawl into the old blowing engine once used to fill the sacks with flour; I just fitted through the open ventilation hatch. I had candles inside, little tea lights. Father didn’t like that, he was afraid I’d set the whole mill on fire. I played engine drivers; it was dark outside, a night journey. I could see all the instruments by the light of the candles: pressure gauge for the boiler, oil level indicator, speedometer, temperature gauge.
Bunker Page 3
