Time Heals No Wounds

by Hendrik Falkenberg

  These images had a dramatic effect on Hannes. He felt they deeply touched something in him, something dark and carefully hidden. It was a feeling that scared him. The paint was applied so thickly in places that the protrusions from the canvases made the gallery seem like a 3-D nightmare.

  Hannes began lifting a cloth that hung over a canvas of gigantic proportions when he heard shouting outside. He quickly ran down the hall to the porch. Fritz was yelling at an old man, who uttered only confused sounds while waving and repeatedly thrusting a slightly curved cane at Fritz. Suddenly, the old man let out a scream, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped over.

  Hannes, without thinking, jumped over the porch railing and ran over. He carefully felt for the man’s pulse and was relieved when he detected a faint beat.

  “He fainted! What did you do to him? Why were you yelling at him like that?”

  “What . . . what did I do?” said Fritz, his face red. “I walked over to the outhouse. Suddenly, this guy jumps out of the trees and hits me on the head with his stick!” He pointed at the scrawny, motionless figure on the ground.

  “Since we’re not uniformed, he probably thought we were burglars. Help me carry him into the shade.”

  “Sure, I’m the one to blame,” Fritz said and grabbed the old man’s legs.

  They carried the limp body onto the porch and laid it down gently. Hannes raised the old man’s legs and placed them on the chair, then put the chair’s cushion under his head.

  “Maybe we should call an ambulance: at his age, you can’t be too careful,” Hannes said, looking down at the pale face.

  “The doctor would be better off taking a look at my bump. He’s fine. I didn’t even get close enough to touch him.” Fritz leaned forward and looked at the man with concern. The artist’s wool cap had slipped to the side, exposing his bare, liver-spotted scalp. He had a large circular birthmark just below his right eye, and his sallow complexion and dirty clothes created a pitiful impression.

  A moment later, Merlin opened his eyes and winced when he saw Fritz’s flushed face. Hannes pushed Fritz aside and spoke slowly and clearly.

  “We’re police officers. There’s no need to be afraid. Look!” He pulled out his badge. “I’m going to help you get into this chair, and then we’ll calmly explain why we’re here. Please don’t worry.” Gently, he grabbed the man under the arms, and Merlin let himself be helped into the chair. “Rest for a moment, and we’ll bring you a glass of water. May we use your kitchen?”

  The old man did not answer. Hannes took the silence as consent and went with Fritz into the house. “Let’s let him collect himself. He’s a tough old man, all right.”

  “Your first aid skills are pretty up to date,” Fritz whispered.

  “That’s true, but I also used to volunteer helping the elderly. You learn to be careful with people who are disturbed . . .”

  They walked into the kitchen, which looked reasonably modern. Hannes took a glass from the small dining table and filled it with water.

  Back on the porch, Merlin was drinking the glass of vodka.

  “All right,” Hannes said and laughed, trying to make the best of the situation. “Alcohol might do you some good, but you should also drink some water.”

  Merlin took the glass and downed it. Then he eyed the detectives suspiciously.

  “We’re from the police,” Hannes said again. “We knocked, but heard nothing and assumed you weren’t at home. That’s why we looked around. We wanted to make sure everything was all right. Apparently, you mistook my colleague for a burglar.” He leaned against the railing. “Are you feeling better? I can get you another glass of water.”

  The man nodded yes and Hannes disappeared into the house. From inside, he heard Fritz’s muffled voice and fragments of words: “body,” “woman,” “beach.” Apparently, Fritz was done messing around. Hannes rolled his eyes and sighed. Empathy was not Old Fritz’s strong suit! As Hannes stepped out into the sunlight again, Fritz repeated his last question.

  “So what time did you find the body?”

  Merlin stared at him, then took the glass from Hannes, drank it in one gulp, and placed it on the table. He wobbled to the front door and went inside.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Fritz said.

  “The best thing to do is to return tomorrow. I can come by myself if you don’t want to.”

  Fritz thought for a moment. “All right, Mr. Social Worker. Maybe that’s for the best. This guy’s really driving me crazy. Maybe your skills are better suited here. But let me make one thing clear: if you can’t get him to talk on your terms, then I’ll pay him another visit. We’re investigating a death! If need be, I’ll have him write a statement—or paint one!”

  They walked to the Jeep and got in. Fritz started the engine and took off toward the forest. The bumpy road lulled them into silence. Hannes’s eardrums began to vibrate as Fritz turned the speakers all the way up. At the lighthouse, he turned onto the deserted country road and, ignoring the speed limit, floored it, reaching 80 mph before slowing down at the first bend. Only then did his pent-up anger seem resolved.

  “Not exactly a successful day,” said Fritz after he had turned down the music. “We know a little more about the state of the body at certain points in time, but not who she is. Nor do we have the slightest idea who the suspect is or if there even is one.”

  “Does it usually take this long to get a lead?” asked Hannes.

  “When no one has seen anything, the victim’s identity is unknown, and no evidence can be found, it’s pretty damn difficult,” Fritz said.

  After another curve, the Olsens’ farm came into view. As they approached the house, a plump figure hurried over and flagged them down.

  “I wonder if the farmer’s wife wants to give you a slice of cake for the road.”

  Fritz stopped in front of Mrs. Olsen. She walked to the passenger side and knocked on the window. Fritz grinned at Hannes and motioned for him to open it. “Come on, roll it down! The good lady wants to chat with you.”

  “Good thing I caught you,” said Mrs. Olsen. “I figured you hadn’t driven by yet. Did you get him to talk?”

  Fritz said, “We’re very grateful for your assistance, but we can’t comment on the investigation.”

  “I just wanted to say that our worker noticed something on Saturday. He just now told my husband. But if you don’t have time, then okay. I just thought we were supposed to contact you if anything else came up.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Hannes said. “It’s a good thing you stopped us. What did your worker notice?”

  “It’s best you come by. He can tell you himself. You know, nothing ever goes on around here, and now one thing is happening after the other! Maybe dead bodies are run of the mill for you in the city, but out here, we never have any problems. We rarely head into town, and that’s a good thing. The smell, the noise, the riffraff.” She shuddered. “I always say to my husband: the best thing about the city is the road that leads out of it.”

  Fritz and Hannes got out of the car and followed Mrs. Olsen into the yard.

  “Over there, that’s Tom,” Mrs. Olsen said, gesturing to a young man. “Tom, come over here and tell the two policemen what you saw!”

  Hannes and Fritz recognized the burly farmhand as one of the men who had wrestled the cow to the ground. Tom approached, confused and fiddling with his baseball cap, and Hannes noticed his slight limp.

  “Well?” Fritz said. “Mrs. Olsen said you had something to tell us.”

  “Don’t know if it’s really that important.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that,” said Fritz.

  “So on Saturday, I went down to the beach, near where my boss found the woman on Sunday. Because whenever I have some time off, I like to go fishing and just chill out for a bit. So I climbed down and sat on the rocks. Then I unpacked my fly kit.”

  “He does fly-fishing,” Mrs. Olsen said. “That’s the hardest way to catch fish, right, Tom? He once brough
t us such a big trout, we ate for days.”

  Fritz rolled his eyes. “So what happened?”

  “Well, I was considering what fly to use, and while I sat there thinking, I heard voices on the other side of the cliff. The cliffs are pretty steep there.”

  “Yes,” said Fritz. “And where were the voices coming from?”

  “I asked myself that same question,” Tom said, scratching his head. “Because . . . usually there’s nobody around here. And when I didn’t see anyone, I thought it must have come from the other side of the cliffs. I climbed over the stones and saw a boat anchored in the water. A man and a woman were on it.”

  “Hang on! Which side of the rocks were you on? Where the body was found or the other side?”

  “Where was the body? I was on the left side of the cliffs because I always have more luck there.”

  “The body was found on the other side,” Hannes said.

  “Oh, well then, so I was on the other side, the side where there was . . . nothing.”

  “What did the people and boat look like?” Fritz asked.

  “Well, I’m not exactly sure. The man and woman were arguing, and I felt embarrassed. I didn’t want them to see me, so I climbed back over as soon as possible. But I slipped and hit my shin.” To prove it, he pulled up the leg of his pants and pointed to a bruise.

  “But you must have noticed something,” Fritz said. “The size or color of the boat, hair color, anything?”

  “Um . . . so the boat was not a fishing boat, but one of those fast ones. A speedboat. And it was white. Perhaps the same length as a fishing boat. And there was a red fish painted on the bow. The man was slim—and well dressed! I was surprised he was wearing a suit. You don’t really wear that on a boat. The woman was also well dressed. Dark clothes, long blonde hair.”

  Nobody noticed that Mr. Olsen had joined the group. “The dead woman also had long blonde hair and was wearing dark clothes!” he said.

  “Right,” said Fritz. Suddenly, a suspicion began to take shape. “Do you have a pencil and paper?” he asked Mrs. Olsen.

  Mrs. Olsen disappeared into the house. Fritz rocked back and forth on his heels and nodded at Hannes. Tom fiddled with his cap until Mrs. Olsen reappeared. With rapid strokes, Fritz drew a rough outline of a boat with a dolphin on the bow.

  “Did the boat look something like this?” he asked Tom.

  Tom looked at the sheet. “Pretty much.”

  Fritz looked to Hannes in triumph. “And now we have a lead!”

  Merle lay still on the mattress. Her longing for light was almost painful. It had entered the room only once, and that was a day ago. When the sound of steps outside her prison had finally ceased the night before, a thousand thoughts had gone through her head. What would happen to her? Beatings, shackles, rape? Would anyone come in? A man? A woman? Or would she be released and it would all prove to be a horrible joke?

  She had sensed scraping, followed by a slight creaking noise. Suddenly, a small flap had swung open—at the exact spot where Merle had suspected a door. A bright beam of light shone into the room. The long period of darkness had made her eyes incredibly sensitive, and she had quickly closed them because of the pain.

  There had been another scraping noise and then a loud bang. She peeked warily through her fingers. She saw nothing, only darkness. Just as she was about to dismiss the experience as a figment of her imagination, she again heard footsteps growing softer and moving away.

  “No!” she had screamed. “Who are you? Please, tell me what you want!”

  Without thinking, she had jumped off the bed and run to the spot where she believed the door to be. She threw herself against the wall and pounded it in desperation.

  “Let me out! I want out of here! Please!” She’d dropped to the floor and carefully felt around, bumping into hard and soft objects. Then she had noticed a new smell. Food! Someone had brought her food! She identified fresh bread, sliced cucumber, and a big piece of cheese. A bottle of water had also been placed inside. Merle had forced herself to take only small sips in order to ration the liquid.

  Now, a day later, Merle’s stomach was rebelling. She pressed the button on her watch; it was almost 6:00 p.m. She was terrified to discover that the hands now had a weak glow: the watch’s battery was running out. She had turned the light on too often over the past few days, using the soft light in an attempt to make out the details of the room, though her efforts had been in vain.

  If only she could talk to someone! She had never been a particularly communicative person, even though her social skills had vastly improved in recent years. But after days of silence and the absence of human contact, she noticed that her mind gradually began to drift.

  “Not anymore!” she shouted into the darkness. It sounded wrong: her voice was hoarse and strange. “I can’t lose my mind! If there’s no one here to talk to, then I’ll talk to myself!” Again her thoughts slid back to the past, and she shivered. “I escaped the darkness once before, and I’ll do it again!”

  Merle sat up in the bed. She had succeeded! She had found a weapon against the darkness and loneliness. Her bright voice became more certain, and she felt calmer.

  “I still don’t understand why Mom hated me. She got a lot of money from the government because of me, and she spent it on herself. Had I not taken what belonged to me, I’d probably still be stuck in that awful house.”

  It was only by accident that Merle had found out her mother’s secret. A professor had given them an assignment to write a short biography about any relative of their choosing. Since Merle had known virtually nothing about her grandparents or her mother, she had first tried to make up a story. But her thoughts had wandered as she wrote, so she tore up the paper.

  In the days that followed, Merle had constantly thought about Mrs. Bernstein, a friend of her mother’s who had always been kind to her. Strangely, she’d been unable to remember her face but could recall her hands. They were soft and delicate, and Mrs. Bernstein had lovingly caressed Merle’s hair and given her affection like she had never known.

  Merle had read a newspaper article about the famous Amber Room, which had been lost during the Second World War, and the memory had come flooding back to her. Amber had received an amber brooch from Merle’s mother for her birthday. Merle, who at the time was eight years old, had greatly admired the brooch. “What a wonderful gift,” Amber had said. “Now I have jewelry to match my name. Amber is wearing amber, what do you think about that, Merle?” Amber! Amber Bernstein! Merle had quickly flipped through the phone book, and sure enough, there was an Amber Bernstein living in Merle’s hometown. But it had taken three days before Merle had gathered enough courage to call her. She had dialed and wanted to hang up when a warm female voice answered. Was this really a good idea?

  “Uh . . . hello, Mrs. Bernstein,” Merle had finally said. “This is Merle von Hohenstein. Do you remember me?”

  For a moment, there was only static.

  “Merle von Hohenstein? My God, it’s been so long! Twenty years? Of course I remember you. How are you?”

  “Good. It . . . it might sound strange, but I’m calling because I’m trying to find out something about my family history and my past. My mother never told me anything and . . .” She had sounded desperate and did her best to fight back tears.

  “And now you’re hoping I can tell you something?” Mrs. Bernstein’s voice had grown warmer. “Merle, I’m very glad to hear from you. Your mother was a bit . . . peculiar. I’ve been wondering all these years how you’ve been.”

  “What do you know about my father?”

  “Not much, your mother rarely spoke openly to me. I had to promise her that I would not tell anyone about it.”

  “Mrs. Bernstein, you’re my only hope! Please!”

  “Well, your mother and I have had no contact for almost twenty years, so I don’t think I owe her anything anymore.”

  “She’ll never know anything about it,” Merle said.

  “Fine! I have alw
ays regretted abandoning you to your mother. You certainly have not had it easy. But I would prefer not to speak about it over the phone. I just had a hip operation and can’t leave the house. Would you like to come visit?”

  Merle had at first been hesitant but nevertheless arranged to meet Mrs. Bernstein the following weekend at her apartment.

  “And the visit was one of my best decisions,” Merle said in the darkness of her cell. “If I had known what Amber had to say, I would have visited her so much earlier.”

  Then, just like the evening before, she could hear slow footsteps approaching. Merle’s mind raced. The door opened, and a tray was pushed inside. This time, Merle was cautious and did not look directly into the light. Even if it streamed in for only a few seconds, it was enough to memorize the shadowy outlines of the room. The walls were gray with no plaster, and there was a single lightbulb dangling above. The bed seemed well built and made from dark wooden boards. In the corner, she saw the metal bucket and thought about its awful smell. She looked back and saw some kind of dog door installed in a heavy metal door. She tried to make out more details, but it slammed shut, and Merle heard a bolt slide into place and click. She did not see a door handle. Obviously, it could only be opened from the outside.

  Merle smelled cooked vegetables. She carefully got out of bed and groped along the wall toward the door, feeling the cold iron. She got down on her knees and almost immediately discovered the spot where the dog door had been installed. She pushed against it, at first carefully and then with all her strength, hoping to move it, even just a little. But it did not budge.

  Merle leaned back against it. She found a bowl with a spoon on a small tray and wolfed down the vegetable stew.

  “Well, at least I know more than I did before,” she said after she scraped the bowl clean with a finger.

  Merle shivered. Suddenly, she was slightly dizzy and then overcome with sleep. Her arms felt heavy, and it was only with great difficulty that she could keep her eyes open.

  “Damn it, the . . . food. There must . . . a sedative . . .” Powerless, she fell to her side and fought against the fatigue. “Can’t fall asleep . . . who knows what . . .”