16mm of Innocence

by Quentin Smith

  “Fancy a drink down in the lounge?” Otto asked casually.

  The line was quiet for a moment. “OK. I’m just packing my suitcases. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  Otto frowned and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Packing, but the funeral is tomorrow?”

  “Exactly. Tomorrow will be busy and I leave on Sunday.”

  “Ingrid!” Otto said, exasperated. “There’s still so much to sort out.”

  Silence for a moment. “I’m done here.”

  Otto shook his head and closed his eyes. Ten minutes later Ingrid walked into the lounge looking surprisingly casual: cream pleated slacks, a billowing floral top and open sandals. Otto wondered how many suitcases she had brought with her.

  Ingrid stopped abruptly as she noticed Dieter, but made no eye contact with him. “Oh, I see,” she said icily.

  “What would you like to drink?” Otto asked, rising quickly from his seat.

  Ingrid sighed and planted her hands petulantly on her hips.

  “We’re having scotch,” Otto said.

  “Yes, so I see.” Ingrid folded her arms. “What is this about?”

  Otto smiled sheepishly and raised his arms. “Nothing. Come on, it’s the funeral tomorrow and we were in the area so I suggested we pop in for a drink. Fog’s in, it’s Friday night…” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Ingrid sat down opposite them, separated by a large light oak table with travel magazines piled neatly just off–centre. “I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

  Dieter and Ingrid sat in silence, staring blankly in different directions while Otto ordered the drink. When he returned he sat on the edge of his seat and looked eagerly from Ingrid to Dieter.

  “A toast… to Mum. May she rest in peace,” Otto said.

  “Mum,” Dieter said, raising his glass.

  Ingrid nodded and drank, apparently unsure where to fix her eyes.

  “I feel really guilty about how little time I’ve spent thinking about tomorrow’s funeral,” Otto said, savouring the toasty alkaloids smoothing his tongue and obliterating the bitterness of vomit.

  “Don’t be,” Ingrid said, meeting Otto’s eyes. “None of this is of your doing.”

  The implication could not have been more direct and Otto’s mind wandered to that bleak, windswept stretch of Shark Island where he had stood half an hour earlier.

  “Frans called by today,” Otto said.

  Ingrid’s eyes betrayed her curiosity. “About what?”

  “They have sent a tissue sample from Mum for DNA comparison.”

  She straightened. “Can they do that?”

  “The Police Commissioner in Windhoek ordered it. They want to know if there is a connection to our family, I suppose.”

  Ingrid’s face was stony. “How will they know?” she asked.

  “They’ll compare Mum’s DNA with the bones found in the garden.” Otto glanced at a couple who strolled by and sat down in a snug opposite them, speaking German. “Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t taken samples from all of us.”

  “They don’t need to,” Ingrid said.

  Otto glanced at Dieter, who was listening passively from the perimeter of the conversation.

  “Meaning?” Dieter said.

  Ingrid flushed and prodded the ice in her drink with a French–manicured fingernail. “Well, we were all children back then, weren’t we, so how could we be involved?”

  “I still think it will turn out to be a complete stranger,” Dieter blurted suddenly, changing position in the armchair.

  “Did Frans say anything else?” Ingrid asked, ignoring Dieter.

  Otto opened his mouth to speak, frowned and glanced at Dieter. He knew there was no easy way to say this. “Frans took us to Shark Island this afternoon. We’ve just come from there.”

  “Why?”

  “We asked him about the celebration of Hitler’s birthday tomorrow and—”

  “What did he say?” Ingrid interrupted.

  “He said there are a lot of Nazi sympathisers living along this coastline – Lüderitz, Swakopmund, Windhoek – vestiges of the former German colony.”

  “I lived here for ten years and never knew anything about this,” Dieter said, leaning forward, as if trying to muscle into the dialogue between Otto and Ingrid.

  “I suppose it’s not surprising – we left here as very young adults, you guys straight out of school. What does one really know about life and the world around you at that age?” Ingrid said without meeting Dieter’s searching eyes.

  “So, he took us to Shark Island and explained what it used to be back in the days of colonial German South West Africa, early 1900s,” Otto continued.

  Ingrid and Otto’s eyes locked in an expectant, apprehensive stare.

  “And?”

  Otto drew a deep breath and looked at the whisky swirling amidst the melting ice cubes. “It used to be a concentration camp… a death camp, actually.”

  The skin around Ingrid’s eyes tightened. “You mean like Auschwitz?”

  “Not on that scale, they only killed thousands rather than millions here, but in the sense that people were brought to Shark Island with the intention of killing them… yes,” Otto said.

  Ingrid paled. Her eyes flicked about in her head. “What people?” she said.

  “The locals – Hereros, Namas and so forth. They didn’t like the Germans being here, taking their land, so the Germans tried to exterminate them. It sounds like genocide,” Otto said.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Otto again thought about Father’s wish to have his ashes scattered on the island. Why? Because of its present state: a remote and undisturbed peninsula with views of the surrounding natural beauty? Or because of its past?

  “When was it closed?” Ingrid said.

  “During the First World War, when the Germans were ejected.” Otto paused. “That’s when the true horrors of Shark Island were revealed. Frans has seen the reports.”

  Ingrid breathed in sharply and took a long drink of her gin. “I want to get the hell away from this place, back to New York,” she said coldly.

  A passing African waiter in a starched white tunic and black trousers, balancing a steel tray in one hand, stopped beside their table.

  “Yes,” Dieter said, emptying his tumbler in one gulp. “Same again, please.”

  “You didn’t just pop in for a drink, did you?” Ingrid said, slumping back in her chair, almost in surrender.

  “Ingrid, we watched another reel of film last night. It showed shocking scenes from inside that concentration camp in Hamburg…” Otto said.

  “Neuengamme?”

  Otto nodded. “Beatings, executions, medical experimentation. There was also disturbing footage of Hamburg being bombed by the Allies – dead bodies everywhere, destruction.” Otto tried to catch Ingrid’s eyes. “Do you remember any of that?”

  Ingrid sighed. “I really wish you had never found that fucking box of film.”

  “She has a point,” Dieter conceded. “This week would have been much simpler if we had just had the funeral.”

  “And the body in the garden?” Otto challenged.

  The waiter arrived with their drinks. Dieter paid him and nodded. “Keep the change.”

  “Do you remember Hamburg being bombed?” Otto said to Ingrid, his tone softer.

  “I do. It was awful. Terrifying. The noise, the smell, the claustrophobic bomb shelters.” She studied her fingernails. “At school they used to talk… you know… tell us about the families who had died in bomb shelters during that firestorm… burnt alive. We were so scared it might happen to us.” She glanced instinctively at Dieter but Otto sensed that Dieter was too young to remember. “I had nightmares for years afterwards,” she added.

  “Did you see the firestorm?”

  Ingrid shrugged. “We were nowhere near that, thank God. Thousands died in it.” She shook her head. “Thousands.”

  Dieter clasped his hands and began to wring his fingers. “I also have nig
htmares – dreams, really. I’ve been having the same one for years, always the same. It’s about something being carried out of the house in a rolled–up carpet.” He looked at Otto and Ingrid, who were both staring at him. “Do either of you have these, because I don’t understand them?”

  Otto and Ingrid shook their heads. Dieter seemed lost in his thoughts, his brow creased.

  “I see a rolled–up carpet, which I think is that green one from my bedroom, being carried out of the house by a few people. I can never identify who they are – is it Mum, is it Dad? – and I can never work out why I’m there – am I watching or am I taking part? There is something rolled up in the carpet and I… I fear that it is a body, though I’ve never seen it in the dream.” He paused, deep in thought. “Whose body it might be, I have no idea.”

  Ingrid’s face was drawn, her eyes staring glassily at Dieter as though she was watching a ghostly apparition.

  “I don’t know where the carpet and body end up – sometimes I see a skip against the wall, but none of it makes sense.”

  “Why have you never spoken about this before?” Otto asked.

  “I feel so terribly guilty, as though I have done something wrong, waiting to be caught, anticipating that tap on the shoulder, or that phone call – expecting the inevitable repercussions.”

  Otto’s stomach felt hollow just listening to Dieter, a gnawing emptiness that matched the yawning abyss of uncertainty deepening in his own mind.

  “Since they found the body in the garden I’ve been wondering if there is more to my dream than I realise.” Dieter looked at Otto. “I’ve never told anyone. How could I? It sounds in part like a guilty confession, like I know of some dreadful, incriminating deed in my past.”

  A sombre silence descended on the trio, united only by the clink of ice in their drinks and the sound of Supertramp in the background: Breakfast in America. The German couple opposite them burst into spontaneous but politely muted laughter as they shared a bottle of champagne.

  “I have to know what’s going on, I have to find the explanation for this dream and put it to rest. I can’t go on living with this nagging guilt.” Dieter looked at them intently. “I’ve decided to cancel my flight back on Sunday, despite the merger going on. I’m going to stay until we know the truth. Today’s visit to Shark Island has made me change my mind.”

  Otto could not suppress a small satisfied smile, and glanced at Ingrid. How he hoped she would change her mind and not leave straight after the funeral. He sensed an opportunity for them to put the past to rest and address their disharmony.

  “What are you looking at me for?” Ingrid said gruffly. “Don’t expect me to hang around.”

  “Frans said it’ll only take a few days,” Otto pleaded. “In any case, there is still another reel of film to watch.”

  “Oh God!” Ingrid said, rolling her eyes. “Not tonight.”

  “I agree,” Dieter said, his face becoming animated. “Let’s get mortared tonight.”

  “That’s not what I had in mind,” Ingrid said dismissively.

  “How about dinner then, at that seafood restaurant overlooking the harbour?” Otto suggested.

  Ingrid shot an icy glare at Otto as she drank from her highball glass. “And talk about what, Otto?”

  Otto felt disappointment. He had thought he was breaking through Ingrid’s barriers, that she was softening; not necessarily warming to her brothers, but at least becoming slightly more receptive. But the wall was up again, like a roller shutter deployed at the touch of a button.

  “Mum?” Ingrid challenged. “Dad? Shark Island? Concentration camps?” She stood up with her drink in hand. “Christ, how can anyone even think of us as a family?”

  “Family is only what we make of it,” Otto said.

  Ingrid looked at Otto, her face hard, her lips pressed together, her eyes unyielding. “Well no–one has made much of ours in the past fifty years.”

  “How can you say that?” Otto said with a pained look on his face.

  “Because I know, Otto.”

  “Didn’t you feel any sense of relief, of liberation from your burden when the truth came out about Inez?” Otto asked.

  “Truth?” Ingrid smirked, shaking her head, almost mockingly.

  “Can’t you see the change in Dieter since he came out about his… you know… holding it back all these years out of respect for Mum and Dad?”

  Ingrid almost laughed. “You must have been about the only person who didn’t know, Otto, come on.”

  Otto was stung by this remark. He sensed his cheeks glowing.

  “Knowing what I do now about Shark Island, about this community and possibly about Dad, I thank God that I never came out earlier,” Dieter said, upending his tumbler again.

  Ingrid manoeuvred her way between the table and sofas, holding on to her drink. “I don’t want to watch any more of those home movies. I’ll see you at Felsenkirche at 10am tomorrow.” She paused and turned, casting a perfunctory glance at Dieter. “Thanks for the drink.”

  When she had gone Dieter emptied his tumbler and sat back in his soft armchair. “Ingrid is such a bitch.”

  “Dieter!” Otto admonished.

  Dieter looked up in astonishment, lifting his hands in mock innocence. “What? She is. She doesn’t give a shit about any of us.”

  “I think she’s frightened.”

  “Of what?”

  “That’s what we need to find out. Come.”

  Twenty–Three

  The telephone was ringing as Dieter and Otto entered the house, shrouded in an ethereal gloaming light that permeated the suffocating fog.

  Dieter answered. “It’s for you.” He held the receiver out. “Sabine.”

  Otto knew from Sabine’s first stressed sentence that something had happened. He sat on the armrest of the sofa and cupped an elbow in one hand.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “It’s Max, he broke his arm.”

  “What!” Otto stood up sharply, almost pulling the telephone off the little half–moon table.

  “He had a fall during football – greenstick fracture of his distal radius.” The helpful part of Sabine’s medical background was that she didn’t waffle.

  “Is he OK?” Otto asked, frowning.

  “What’s happened?” Dieter whispered beside him, wearing a concerned look.

  Otto shook his head and gesticulated aimlessly.

  “He’s asleep now. We were at A&E for several hours… you know what it’s like. They gave him some morphine,” a little waver was audible in her voice, “and he tried ever so hard to be brave.”

  Otto could hear Sabine’s voice cracking. “You did great, honey, thank you. I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Has he got a plaster on?”

  Otto, trying to sound more nonchalant than he felt, heard Sabine sniff away some tears, melting his heart, the guilt of his absence from the warm nucleus of his family suddenly strikingly evident to him. He should have been there to support Sabine, to comfort Max and ease their collective burden.

  “Yeah. It’s one of those new fibreglass ones, in red and white, so he’s quite proud of it.” Sabine chuckled slightly but it made her sound even more upset.

  Otto smiled – the colours of Max’s favourite football team – but his guilt was growing. “I’m sorry I’m not there, love. I feel… awful.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Pause. “When is the funeral?”

  “Tomorrow.” Otto didn’t know how to tell her that he was not planning to return immediately afterwards, that there was still unfinished business to tend to. “How is little Karl?”

  “He’s very concerned about his brother. I had to take him to Nell’s, couldn’t have him at A&E with me, you know.”

  They spoke more and Otto’s guilt receded as Sabine’s composure returned. The crisis was subsiding and there were no serious casualties. But the inevitable question he had dreaded eventually
resurfaced.

  “When can I tell the boys you’ll be home? They miss you,” Sabine said.

  Otto felt a huge lump forming in his throat. “I want to come home after the funeral, but there are still some loose ends that need sorting. Just a few more days, OK?”

  *

  Otto was shaken after the call, walking around the lounge in deep thought. He began to feel that he was neglecting his family back in Durham, his priority. Then he thought of his mother’s funeral and how little time he had spent thinking about her, grieving for her, and his guilt intensified further. He felt immensely disconsolate.

  Dieter emerged from the kitchen eating a slice of rye bread and cheese. “Everything alright?”

  Otto sighed. “Max broke his arm today.”

  “Oh man,” Dieter said.

  “He’s fine, in plaster, but…”

  “You feel you should be there?” Dieter said.

  Otto nodded dejectedly.

  “You can’t be burying Mum and holding Sabine’s hand simultaneously, Otto.” Dieter laid a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let’s just get tomorrow out of the way.”

  Otto knew he was right.

  “Do you want to watch that last reel of film?” Dieter suggested with a mouthful of bread.

  “You know, I don’t. I’m not up to it right now. Can we do it tomorrow? I’m going to shower.”

  Otto felt suddenly exhausted, emotionally frayed from the day’s disclosures. He needed sleep before the rigours of seeing his mother’s coffin draped in white lilies, trucked in specially all the way from Swakopmund.

  When Otto emerged fifteen minutes later from a hot shower he heard Dieter speaking on the phone, he presumed to Jim. The conversation became lively, Dieter raised his voice, and though Otto tried not to listen he was unable to suppress voyeuristic curiosity about his brother’s domestic circumstances. This was, he could not forget, no ordinary lovers’ tiff, and he was still coming to terms with his and Dieter’s new sense of normality. Dieter ended the call and stormed through, catching Otto with the bath towel around his waist.

  “You know what the worst thing about being gay is?” Dieter barked.

  Otto raised his eyebrows.

  “Men can be so fucking insensitive,” Dieter said.