‘I thought she might have been outside, on a day like today.’ Poppi awkwardly began to wriggle and yapped to be put down, but Elke shushed the dog into silence.
‘She was, earlier. She came back herself. We wouldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to do. We don’t, ever.’
‘How is she?’
‘No change, Frau Meyer,’ said the man, serious-faced. ‘There never will be, you know that.’
The principal always courteously addressed her as ‘Frau’, like her superior at the Chancellery. ‘I was wondering about any deterioration, not improvement,’ said Elke.
Schiller shook his head, in reassurance. ‘There’s still the music: she’s soothed by that. It’s a very common manifestation in autism.’
‘Soothed?’ queried Elke, at once. ‘Have there been many outbursts?’ It was because she had no longer been physically able to restrain Ursula when the child erupted into those irrational, unexpected rages that Elke had finally been forced to commit her into the care of professionals. Elke still felt guiltily inadequate at having done it, although it had been the only possible decision.
Schiller pursed his lips. ‘No more than we expect.’
‘She hasn’t caused herself any injury?’
‘We take care of our patients to ensure that doesn’t happen.’ said the man, stiffly.
‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean …’
‘I know you didn’t.’
‘Can I take her for a walk, back out into the garden?’
‘Providing she wants to go: don’t force her.’
‘I know better than that.’
More families and friends began to arrive behind her and Elke moved away, climbing the encircling stairway to Ursula’s room on the first floor. The door, the third on the right along the west corridor, was closed and although she knew it would not register with the child – was as much of an affectation as those embarrassing social gatherings – Elke knocked instead of immediately entering. She did not regard it as a pointless affectation. Although it was a gesture – a satisfaction – for her own benefit, Elke considered it gave Ursula some dignity and some respect, even if the child was unable to appreciate the love it conveyed.
Elke actually waited a moment or two before pushing through the door, which was fitted only with a press-stud closure because locks were not permitted, on any patient’s room.
Ursula was almost fully turned from the door. She was sitting on a chair but bent forward over her bed and rocking back and forth to the music coming from the enclosed and securely bolted tape machine on the wall shelf above. Elke thought it was a Mozart violin concerto, but she was not sure. Ursula’s movements did not coordinate with the music. Ursula wore her newest red skirt and a beige sweater, which seemed tight. Her hair, blonde and so very much like Doris’s, was neatly brushed but loose, practically to her shoulders, and Elke thought how prettily bright red slides would have held it in place.
‘Hello Ursula.’
There was no reaction at all from the bent, rocking girl.
‘Darling?’
Still nothing. Elke clicked the door shut behind her but stood just inside, unsure as she was always unsure what to do next. The heavy easy chair was in the corner of the room and Elke grated it forward, to bring herself nearer to her daughter. She reached out to the girl and said: ‘Ursula? Hello, my darling.’ There was a response at last, to the physical contact. Ursula turned to her mother, without the slightest recognition, and made a sound, which was quite unintelligible. The disjointed, unconnected movement to the music lessened, just slightly.
‘Hello Ursula,’ said Elke again. Still with her hand outstretched Elke moved to stroke the child’s face, to push back a skein of straying hair, but Ursula pulled sharply back, not wanting to be touched, and Elke immediately dropped her hand.
‘Nice,’ said Ursula, unexpectedly. The voice was harsh, coarse-sounding, not like a child’s voice at all.
With no idea to what the child was referring – if she was referring to anything – Elke said: ‘Yes, darling. Nice. It’s Mummy, darling. Mummy’s come.’
Poppi began to agitate in Elke’s arms, and the girl looked towards the dog. It had actually been bought for Ursula, the year before it had been necessary to commit her into care, a forlorn hope of Elke’s that in some way it might penetrate Ursula’s enclosed world, as the music did. When it had been a puppy there had occasionally been something Elke tried to believe was affection, some sort of tenuous bond, but now she knew it hadn’t been, not really. ‘It’s Poppi,’ said Elke, to the girl. ‘Poppi’s come, too.’
Ursula put her hand towards the dog, a straight-fingered, exploring gesture, not a caressing one. Poppi flinched but then came back, moving to lick the extended fingers. At the first contact Ursula gave a surprised cry, neither pleasure nor fear, and jerked her hand away. Then she said: ‘No!’ and paused and said again, more vehemently: ‘No! No! No!’ and slapped out. Elke easily pulled the dog away but the swipe was a heavy one, reminding her of the strength Ursula possessed, the strength Elke had ultimately found impossible to manage.
Without positive intention Elke began comparing her child to Ida’s daughter. Although only a year older, Ursula was far bigger than Doris, her feet and hands ungainly and nearly out of proportion to the rest of her body. She was much fuller lipped, too, her eyebrows were heavy, more masculine than feminine, and there was more hair than Elke would have expected on the child’s arms and legs. Doris finally started her periods … she seemed quite proud. Ida’s announcement of the previous day sounded in Elke’s mind. Ursula had started much earlier, just after she was eleven: Elke knew from Dr Schiller how carefully they had to keep a calendar note because there was no way to explain it to the child and Ursula was terrified, every time it happened. She suffered a lot of discomfort, too.
Practised from the years they had lived together, Elke offered her hand again and this time Ursula didn’t flinch away from her face being touched. Elke began smoothing her cheek, back and forth, as she’d coaxed her to sleep when Ursula was young, and after a while Ursula bent her head towards the caress and began making a guttural sound, humming without any tune.
And Elke talked.
She knew there was no purpose: that there would be no understanding or comprehension. But she talked nevertheless, forever hopeful of entering a window not even Dr Schiller suspected to be open, hopeful of a word – her voice alone – meaning something, of somehow reaching Ursula. Most of all, forever hopeful of the child realizing, knowing, that the person who came every Sunday was someone who loved her and always would love her. Elke talked of the winter going away and how the sun was shining now. Of Ida. Of Georg and Doris, who had always been very kind to her when Ursula had lived outside, never treating her as if she was in any way different from them. Of the river ferries and the trip she’d decided to take that morning, on her way here. Until there was nothing more she could think to say. Throughout it all, Ursula sat head to one side, enjoying the contact, the deep-throated murmur rising and falling.
The only other sound in the quiet room was the violin concerto. Elke thought she recognized a repeat of the movement that had been playing when she entered and guessed the machine reversed automatically, for the music to be continuous. Ursula’s room was sparse but very neat. The bed was crisply made, the edges and the sheet folded and tucked to a hospital pattern. There were some picture books lined correctly upright on a shelf, as if they were important tomes. Ursula’s dressing gown hung from a hook beneath which her slippers were placed tidily side by side. The drawers of the dressing table were all closed: nowhere did clothes lie casually discarded. At the head of the bed was an array of summons buttons: Elke knew the red one, attached to a cord, to be an emergency bell.
Ursula suddenly straightened her head, shaking it, as if irritated now by the caress, no longer comforted by it. Elke withdrew her hand again.
‘Shall we go outside for a walk, darling? Take Poppi for a walk? It’s a lovely da
y outside. Sunshine.’
The child gave no indication of having heard. Elke took her daughter’s limp hand and pulled, very gently, for Ursula to stand. The girl moved as if to do so but then snatched away and settled back in the seat.
‘All right,’ said Elke. ‘We won’t go out then.’
Ursula felt towards the dog again, not a prodding move as before but with both hands, to receive it. For a moment Elke was too surprised to respond but quickly passed it over. Poppi, a lap dog at ease on any lap, immediately settled. Ursula cuddled him, both arms around him, and started rocking back and forth as she had been when Elke arrived, crooning tunelessly again. Elke smiled, delighted, always eager for the smallest omen: Ursula had never before shown such recognition, not even when she had been living at home. Dr Schiller might insist Ursula could never improve, but what was this if it wasn’t improvement, a child doing something perfectly normal and natural, like loving her pet? Briefly she was tempted to call the man, to call someone at least, to see if they regarded it as a sign of anything, but held back. If this was the slightest emergence from the shadows in which Ursula lived the sudden, maybe flustered, arrival of the medical staff might upset her, wrecking everything. Elke decided to wait. Wait just a few minutes. Just in case. Then call someone.
So immersed was she in the hopeful reflection that Elke was slow to recognize what was happening: later, seeking some little excuse, she remembered at the beginning there was very little sign of anything happening. Her initial impression was that Poppi was just shifting himself, to a more comfortable position on Ursula’s lap. But the movement increased, becoming panicked, and Elke saw the dog’s legs scrabbling for purchase; his head turned frantically to snap, but Ursula was holding him in such a way that the dog couldn’t reach to bite. He began to yap, terrified: it was not a loud sound but a gasping one and Elke realized, appalled, that Ursula was holding him so tightly that the breath was being crushed from his body.
She grabbed out, clutching Ursula’s arm, tugging to loosen the grip, but the arm was rigid, too strong for her to move.
‘Ursula!’ said Elke, trying to remain calm. ‘Let the dog go, darling! Let Poppi go!’
There was no movement from the girl, not as much as a head turn in Elke’s direction. Elke was sure the sounds from the animal were growing fainter. He made another futile effort to bite his way free, tongue lolling. Elke pulled again at Ursula’s arm and the dog tried to bite her, grazing her wrist.
‘Let go!’ yelled Elke, ignoring the long ago warning never to shout at her daughter.
There was still no response, no relaxation of the crushing grip.
Elke grabbed for the red emergency button, pressing it again and again, seeing Poppi’s eyes roll up into his head. Careless of being bitten she tried again to loosen Ursula’s hold. The dog was past snapping now, but Ursula looked up. There was no focus at all in her blank eyes. She kept crooning, monotonously.
Elke wasn’t aware of the attendants’ entry, only of being pushed aside. It was a man and a woman, both white-coated. Their understanding was instantaneous. They ignored the dog and any direct attempt to free it. The woman cradled Ursula’s head against her chest and began to rock back and forth in unison with her, even appearing to match the croon. The man increased the volume of the tape player and stroked the arms that held the now unmoving form of the dog, all along her arms at first but then just where the dog lay. Finally he got his fingertips against the child’s finger ends but still smoothing, not trying to force her hands apart. Elke stood with her arms across her body, holding herself against a collapse: she blinked to clear the blur from her eyes, lip bitten closed against any sound. She could feel herself shaking.
It seemed a very long time before Poppi was released, and Elke was sure he was dead. When Ursula did let go it was sudden, a simple parting of her arms: the dog stayed where he was, unmoving, although a final gush of air came from him, making his tongue loll further from his mouth. The male attendant moved the body slowly and calmly from the child, putting it on the conveniently nearby bed. As he did so, Dr Schiller came into the room. The principal did not waste time asking for explanations. He said: ‘Bad?’
‘No,’ said the male nurse.
‘Is she in spasm?’
‘No,’ said the comforting woman. ‘She’s quite all right.’
Schiller looked at last to Elke, who shook her head without knowing why and said: ‘The dog … it was the dog … she wanted …’
‘It’s breathing,’ reported the attendant, from the bed. ‘I thought it was dead, but it isn’t. It’s breathing.’
There was immediate confirmation from Poppi. The animal whimpered, still short-breathed, then raised and dropped his head. He remained lying where he was.
‘It was awful … terrible …’ blurted Elke. ‘She just sat there, crushing him.’
‘She didn’t know she was doing it,’ said the principal, patiently. ‘Won’t ever know. It has no meaning … no importance …’ He hesitated, to correct himself. ‘Only to the unfortunate animal.’
‘I thought it meant something,’ admitted Elke. ‘She reached out for him, as if she recognized him. I’m sorry … very sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about… no blame,’ insisted Schiller. ‘It was an accident, that’s all. A regrettable accident.’
‘The dog might have died! Look how he’s lying there: he’s probably injured!’
‘An accident no one could have anticipated,’ said Schiller, still with patient insistence. ‘Here we care for people. Maybe it would be a good idea to take the dog where they care for animals, to see if it is hurt.’
Which was what Elke did, eventually, after further reassurance from Schiller and failing to say goodbye to an unknowing, blank-eyed Ursula and finally letting the male attendant help her to the car with Poppi cradled, alive but softly complaining, in the centre of a towel carried hammock-like, held at both edges. That was the way she supported the dog into her apartment to telephone through the veterinary surgeons listed in the directory. The fifth agreed to see her on a Sunday: fortunately he was in the city, in the centre quite close to the cathedral.
The man, who was short and thin and had body odour, listened frowning to Elke’s truthful explanation of too forceful an embrace from an unthinking child. He X-rayed the dog and made him yelp pressing and feeling. The X-rays showed no bone fractures, but the man diagnosed severe bruising. He administered a muscle-relaxing injection and made up a further relaxant prescription, both pills and powder.
‘Tell the kid to be more careful next time.’
‘I will,’ promised Elke, emptily, wishing she could. She returned the dog still hammock-fashion to the apartment and settled him, sedated and unprotesting, into his wicker basket in the kitchen. Elke always created a newspaper surround to the basket to avoid night-time accidents, but tonight she extended the protection and added more paper to that already set, as an added precaution. Throughout Poppi stayed on his side but open-eyed, looking at her. Knowing it to be an absurd impression, Elke nevertheless thought it was an accusing look, blaming her for what had happened, although no one else had.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She tried to avoid talking to the animal, because only tragically lonely people – old maids growing weak-minded – conducted conversations with their pets. That night, in bed, the shaking was worse than it had been at the home, in Ursula’s room, and Elke held herself again until it quietened. It didn’t go, not fully: occasionally she shivered, as if she were cold, which she wasn’t. But she didn’t cry. There’d been a lot of crying, in the early years: and would have been, then, over today’s episode. Was it a failing – like so many other failings – not to be able to cry any more?
It was a working group, not a properly formed committee, three men with the specific authorization of the Executive President himself to co-opt anyone they considered necessary or demand any resource from any Soviet ministry.
‘I think there should be other, independent attem
pts, apart from this,’ protested General Stefan Cherny, the army chief of the Soviet General Staff. His appointment more than any other reflected Moscow’s suspicion, despite all the public assurances, of the military dangers of a re-united Germany.
‘This is the way,’ insisted Dimitri Sorokin. He considered that his position as First Deputy of the KGB gave him ranking superiority but didn’t expect Cherny to recognize it.
‘Too much depends on chance,’ protested the soldier.
‘It’s a well proven espionage technique,’ said Sorokin. Pointedly he added: ‘I’m always prepared to consider alternatives.’
‘Our man was chosen from a profile comparison of twenty likely candidates,’ said Nikolai Turev. The third member of the group was the head of the KGB’s foreign espionage Directorate and expected to be the most closely involved in actual fieldwork.
‘Too uncertain,’ insisted Cherny. ‘And too dependent upon psychological bullshit.’
Chapter Three
As personal assistant to the Permanent Secretary to the West German Cabinet, Elke Meyer had a spacious corner suite office overlooking from two sides the park in which the Chancellery is situated. There was a large main desk, with a smaller one at right angles completely occupied by an extensive bank of telephones: all calls to Günther Werle were controlled through Elke. There was a small and rarely used conference area beyond the desk, with a low table ringed by modern leather-and-chrome easy chairs and along one wall a two-tiered bookshelf for the official records of Bundestag debates over the preceding twelve months. There were no filing cabinets. Those were in the outer offices that accommodated the rest of Werle’s staff, secretaries and archivists and researchers. There were no personal photographs on Elke’s desk and the three prints on the walls – historic reproductions of some of the Rhine castles – were those provided by the government supply ministry. The two perennial, polished-leaf plants were also officially supplied and tended by a government maintenance employee. One door from Elke’s suite led to the outer offices. The other connected directly to Werle’s private domain.
Little Grey Mice Page 3
