At some time he must have gone over to the neighbour’s. They said he had called to him over the fence, telling him to get in touch with the police. Or at least, that was what the police officers told him later. He didn’t remember it himself. If memory is a vessel full to the brim with what you had experienced, then his was broken like the pieces of the glass bottle in the kitchen that he had trodden on. His memories were fragments, with gaps between them that couldn’t be filled; on many days he could no longer distinguish between what was real and what he had only dreamed. There’d been more and more quarrelling recently. It made him furious, he felt he was being unfairly blamed for doing or not doing things that he couldn’t remember any more. In the end he was almost sure that his wife and daughter were hand in glove against him, hiding things on purpose and saying he’d done this or that, just to make him look like a liar and thus infuriate him.
From the evidence of the police officer Hermann Irgang, now retired, eighteen years after the events concerned
Like I said, I told Zauner to sit down. He was crouching there in silence, clutching the shirt tightly in his hands. The liquid ran out of it, dripped on the floor and formed a puddle there. Half the kitchen was already awash. I went over, took the knotted fabric out of his hands and put it beside the sink. The whole time, old Zauner just sat there without moving.
Then we went over to the sofa. Afra was lying there with her eyes closed, but there was a gaping wound on her forehead, right on the hairline. Her hair was reddish with blood, and her hands were cut and scratched as if she’d tried with all her might to defend herself. There must have been a terrible struggle between them before he overpowered her and threw her on the sofa. All the same, she looked very peaceful lying there. I’ll never forget it. It was as if death had come as a release, and yet dying like that must have been so cruel for her.
Weinzierl and I both stood looking at the corpse without a word. Out in these parts folk don’t get murdered, not by friends and certainly not by their own fathers. When you die, you die in your own bed, of sickness, in childbirth, of consumption, or of old age because it’s simply time for you to go. Very occasionally someone dies in an accident or at work. In the woods or the fields. The only violence we see around here is a bit of brawling in the pub, or quarrelling over girls at the fair on the anniversary of the consecration of the church, when the lads throw tankards at each other’s heads. But they’re always dead drunk by then, can’t hardly keep on their feet. It’s surprising enough they can even attack each other with the tankards in that state, without losing their balance. And afterwards there’s always a lot of talking, they all get worked up, they shout and accuse each other of starting the fight, and some of them begin crying like babies.
But here? Old Zauner sat on his chair and never moved, no weeping nor wailing. Me, I felt sure that if I’d been in his place, and it was my daughter lying there in her own blood, it would break my heart. I’d be pacing around the room mad with grief and pain, accusing God of making the world such a bad place and not stopping what I loved best being taken from me. But the old man just sat there as if it were nothing to do with him.
We didn’t see the little boy until later. He was lying under a shawl beside the sofa, crying quietly.
I knew there was no helping Afra now. But when we found the child under the woollen shawl and he was still breathing, I hoped if I got him to the doctor right away then the little mite could be saved. So I lost no time, I put him in a basket, and I cycled off to Dr Heunisch with it as fast as I could go.
I told young Weinzierl to watch the suspect and never take his eyes off him, not for a moment, until I got back with the doctor and the murder squad.
Because when someone is murdered it’s not a case for a little village policeman anymore: that’s when the specialists come in.
I got in touch with our colleagues in the criminal investigation department, and about three in the afternoon I was back on the scene of the crime with the murder squad, and at four the forensics people arrived with someone from the public prosecutor’s office.
The little boy died later in hospital.
Johann
He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in this room. They had taken him away with them and brought him here. When they were driving away from the house he had turned and looked out of the small rear window of the car. The washing was still hanging on the line, like an impenetrable white wall. The wind had dropped, the storm had never broken.
It must be late afternoon by now, but he had lost all sense of time. The air in the room was stuffy: in spite of the heat the window was closed and had bars outside. As far as he could tell, it looked out on a small inner courtyard. There was nothing green in sight, not a ray of sun, the view was cut off by the wall at the other side of the yard. It was greyish-brown, the plaster was coming off in many places and showing the bricks underneath. There was a small square table in the room and two chairs, nothing else. The police officers had told him that he had to wait here, so he waited patiently, still clad only in his undershirt and his work trousers.
The door opened, and a man much larger and stronger than Johann himself came in. That made him uncomfortable; he felt as if the stranger were filling the whole room, every corner of it. The man sat down on the chair opposite him and spoke calmly to Johann Zauner. He briefly introduced himself, but the old man couldn’t remember the name. Then he asked Johann for his own full name, his address, the names of his wife and his daughter. But he spoke so softly that Johann had difficulty in following what he said. The stranger was trying to inject a note of familiarity into his voice, just as if they had known each other for years. Johann Zauner distrusted that kind of familiarity; he had encountered it often enough to know that it boded no good. The man opposite him noticed the old man’s wariness.
Johann thought how he had come home from mowing that day; he thought of the washing blowing in the wind. Large sheets, as white as blossom. The door was open, and there was no one to be seen in the yard. The morning had been oppressively sultry, and there was an approaching thunderstorm in the air. He had hurried to get the mowing done before it began raining. On the way home from the railway embankment, dark clouds had come up in the sky. He was sweating, he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He went into the shed, hung the scythe up in its place, and then he went over to the house. The enamel bucket stood by the door with the big ladle in it. He mopped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief, scooped up water in the ladle and drank it greedily. Only then did he go into the house.
*
A loud noise. The stranger pushed his chair aside and leaned forward. He propped himself on the table with his clenched fists, leaning forward as far as he could, coming very close to Zauner. Zauner could feel the man’s breath, smell his sweat. The man’s voice rose until finally he began shouting, saying he wanted to hear the truth, the whole truth, he wanted to know everything. Johann Zauner didn’t know what to reply. All he could have said was that Afra was dead, and they had taken Albert away. So he said nothing, lowered his eyes and looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. They were callused and cracked. His fingers were crooked, his joints gnarled from the hard work he had had to do all his life. On many days they hurt so much that he could hardly use them. The other man shouted at him, asking what he had done. What was he supposed to say?
*
He had risen early in the morning, before sunrise. He had said his morning prayers, and then he had gone into the kitchen as usual. Breakfast was already on the table. He sat down in his place opposite the crucifix on the wall, said grace, and ate. Then he had gone out to the shed, had put the whetstone in his pocket, taken the scythe and gone to the railway embankment to mow the little meadow, which belonged to him, and was just large enough to provide for the two goats and the cow. Money had always been short, and poverty was a guest seen only too often in their house, but since there had been two more mouths to feed when Afra and the child came home, it all had to stretch even f
urther than before. However, they would manage, even though the Lord God had tried them sorely. He could have told the man all that, but he said only, ‘I got up and went out to the meadow to mow it.’
Hadn’t there been a quarrel that morning?
Johann Zauner couldn’t remember any quarrel, only how the child lay on the floor panting for breath. He had knelt down to pick the little boy up and hold him tight. Then he had gone out to get help. The toddler had been heavy in his arms, and his stiff hands hurt.
‘Did you quarrel with your daughter?’ The other man repeated the question.
Johann said quietly, without going into the matter, ‘My hands hurt so much.’
‘Why do your hands hurt? Do they hurt because you kept hacking at your daughter and your grandson with that hoe? Is that why you’re hurting?’ the stranger asked, and he went on, ‘Tell me, do your hands hurt because you hit them? With your hoe?’
‘The hoe was lying there. I pushed it away.’
‘What or whom did you push away? The hoe, your daughter’s body?’
‘It was lying there, the hoe was lying there.’
‘Where was the hoe lying?’
The old man said nothing.
‘What was the matter with Afra?’
‘I couldn’t tell, she was just lying there.’
‘And the little boy, what about him?’
‘The baby was breathing heavily.’
‘The bastard, did he bother you? The child you didn’t want to have there?’
‘He was breathing so heavily.’
‘He was always in your way, wasn’t he?’
‘Always getting in the way. Always underfoot. Always there.’ And he went on quietly. ‘It wasn’t right of Afra. Wasn’t right to have the baby. But what could I have done?’
‘So you hit the bastard child with the hoe, and your daughter too?’
‘Hit with the hoe, yes, Afra is dead. There was blood everywhere.’
‘What about the child?’
‘The child was all over blood.’
‘Show me your arms.’
The old man stretched out his arms.
‘Why are your forearms covered in scratches?’
‘It comes of the work, the scratches come of the work and then they heal up.’
He lowered his arms again.
‘How can all those scratches come of the work? Isn’t it a fact that you’d been fighting with your daughter? Come on, tell me, why did you do it? What wasn’t right about Afra?’
‘I couldn’t tell, she was just lying there.’
The old man sat where he was, and from then on said no more. He only thought of Afra, and how she had been standing at the door of the house again in the summer of 1944. He had taken her in then, had simply taken her in. And when she said, later, that she was pregnant, he didn’t ask any questions then, either, but he knew she had sins on her conscience, sins before God. Only later did he find out the whole truth.
He looked at his hands, and whatever else the man asked him he did not reply.
When the man put a piece of paper in front of him and told him to sign it, he signed his name. Then he put the pen down, looked at the man, and asked in a firm voice, ‘Can I go now?’
‘Not yet.’
Upper Palatinate Daily
Saturday, 26 July 1947
Local News
Double Murder in Finsterau
On the morning of 22 July, the Einhausen police were informed that two persons had been killed at a property in the village of Finsterau. The police immediately informed the public prosecutor’s office, and called in the murder squad. At 1600 hours an investigating committee led by public prosecutor Dr Augustin went to the scene of the crime and ascertained that Afra Zauner, unmarried, aged 24 years, and her illegitimate child Albert, aged about two years, had been killed by means of blows to the head inflicted by an axe or similar instrument. Afra Zauner died at once, the child died of his injuries in hospital ten hours later. The former railway worker Johann Zauner, aged 59, father and grandfather respectively of the two victims, is suspected of their murder and was taken into custody. He has now confessed to the crime. An autopsy of the bodies performed on Tuesday in the presence of the investigating judge confirmed beyond any doubt that the cause of death in both cases was a number of heavy blows to the skull.
Just the sort of thing, thought the reporter who wrote the story, that you might expect to happen in a place with a name literally meaning dark meadow.
Afra
Afra picks up the basket, puts the hoe into it. She pushes the washing on the line aside with her hand and slips past the sheets. She can hear the little boy crying and hurries back to the house to see to him. She puts the basket down on the bench beside the door. Albert is already coming into the corridor inside the doorway to meet her, his face wet and smeared with tears and the snot running from his nose. She picks the little boy up and carries him into the kitchen, where she puts him down on the kitchen table, takes her handkerchief out of her apron pocket and wipes his face with it.
‘Don’t be scared, Albert, I’m here. I only popped outside for a minute to hang the washing on the line. I won’t leave you alone.’ She speaks comfortingly to him, and hugs him tightly. She feels his little body trembling with his tears.
‘I’m here, darling, Mama is here, do you hear me? Did you have a bad dream?’
Slowly, the child in her arms calms down.
Afra hears a knock at the kitchen door, and next moment the door is opened and the visitor comes in. She lets go of the child and turns round.
‘What are you after this time?’ Afra snaps at the visitor. Albert is still standing on the table; she feels him clutching her arm with both hands.
‘The door wasn’t locked, so I came in. I thought I’d be welcome,’ he tells her.
‘My father isn’t here, if it’s him you want.’
‘I know he isn’t here, I saw him go out to mow the meadow by the railway embankment.’
‘Then what do you want here, Hetsch?’
Afra can’t stand him; as long as she can remember she’s felt uneasy in his presence. She can’t say why, he’s never given her any cause for it, at least none that would account for her dislike, but she has this oppressive sense of fear when he’s in the same room. It is here now, it’s in the air, she can’t shake it off, and he seems to feel that himself. Any other man would go away, but he likes it, it spurs him on. He’s been courting her in his own way for a year; he turns up whenever there’s an opportunity, he waits around for her when he thinks he’ll find her on her own.
‘Don’t want anything, don’t need anything. Just wanted to make sure everything was all right. I’ll be off again if you’re in a hurry,’ he says with his typical pretence at friendliness, distorting his face into a smile, but all the same he makes no move to leave. Instead, he sits on the bench in the kitchen and grins at Afra.
‘You can see I’m busy. You’re not blind, just lame.’
She turns to the little boy and lifts him down from the table. Carefully, she places him on the floor in front of her.
‘Afraid of me, are you, Afra, or why do you put your child in front of you as if he’s to protect you?’
‘I’m not afraid, not of anyone, and certainly not of a cripple like you.’
Yet she is holding on to the child with both hands.
‘Tell you what, Afra, I noticed long ago that I’m not the sort you fancy.’
‘You’ll try anything, though.’
Afra lets go of Albert.
‘You just don’t want a fellow with a hunched back. One foot shorter than the other and something the matter with his back! But there’s two sides to everything in life; they didn’t want me fighting under Adolf, so that’s why I survived, which is more than you can say of everyone my age.’
Afra is about to walk away from the table and over to the dresser, but he grabs her wrist and pulls her close to him, so close that she can feel his breath on her face.
/> ‘A little something like that wrong with a man has its good side and its bad side. And when it comes to the nub of the matter I’m as good as any other man, and as good as a Frenchie anyway. You needn’t wait for him, you know, he won’t be seen around here, that’s for sure.’
‘Let go of me!’
She twists and turns, wriggling out of his grasp.
‘I have to see to the child and then make a mid-morning snack for my father. I don’t have any time to spare now.’
‘Why in such a hurry? Your father won’t be home from mowing for some time yet, he’s not as quick as he used to be. You can offer me a mug of coffee, why don’t you? I wouldn’t say no.’
Hetsch is leaning back on the bench.
‘If you want a coffee then go home and make it for yourself,’ Afra retorts. She turns away to go over to the dresser, but once again he moves faster than she expects, and he seizes her arm again. But now he pulls himself up by her, and so they are standing face to face. He is holding both her arms close to her body. Afra can hardly move.
‘I wouldn’t be a bad catch for you. I need a wife who’s a good manager and won’t waste money. You’re tough, but I don’t mind that. I like tough, bitter women. In fact, I really fancy them.’
He puts his arms round her and holds her close.
Afra tries to shake him off, bracing herself against him with all her might, but she can’t get free of his grip.
‘I’ve already told you to leave me alone.’
He tries to kiss her, and she turns her head aside.
With his mouth close to her ear, very quietly, almost inaudibly, he says, ‘Hey, a wildcat like you needs a man clever enough to let her have her way. And that’s me, never you fear. You’re not likely to get anyone else, you know.’
Then he lets go of her.
Albert has started crying again, runs to his mother and clutches her apron, but she doesn’t move from the spot. ‘What do you mean?’
The Dark Meadow Page 3
