16mm of Innocence

by Quentin Smith

  “Jim?” Otto ventured apprehensively.

  Dieter nodded. “Sometimes I wonder whether he loves me, or my money.”

  Otto did not know how to respond, feeling unprepared and uncomfortable. What should he say to his brother: words of comfort, solidarity, enquiry? He had never had such a conversation with Dieter before and he was at a loss as to where and how to initiate it.

  Otto rubbed his eyes. “I’m tired. Let’s get some sleep and I’ll see you for breakfast. Seven o’clock?”

  Dieter scuffed the wooden floor with his shoes. “Goodnight. I… er… might go to the library early… some business to attend to.”

  “Dieter!” Otto chided. “It’s the funeral tomorrow.”

  “It’s urgent,” Dieter said defensively before skulking off.

  The grandfather clock in the lounge rasped to a precarious climax and struck nine times. How often had Mother not heard that familiar sound, Otto thought to himself? He realised that the clock represented constancy in his childhood memories: it had always been there, and unlike so many other facets of his former family life, it was still there. It had no doubt been there for Inez. It was there when Father was alive. It was there for Mother after Father died. How odd that something as inanimate and uncaring as a clock should form one of his most reassuring and dependable childhood reminiscences.

  Here he was sitting on the end of his old bed, alone, Ingrid segregated from them down at her hotel, and Dieter distanced from him by a gulf of unfamiliar waters. Had he expected that Mother’s funeral might lubricate acquaintance between his siblings; soften the scarred edges of old wounds? Were they any closer than when they had arrived, or had the unwelcome intrusions of buried secrets simply driven them even further apart?

  His mind turned to his children in Durham, growing up and forming their own memories. What would they recall fondly and reassuringly when they looked back one day? What would Max remember from this traumatic episode, shouldered entirely in his father’s absence? How would it shape his childhood recollections?

  The clock continued to tick as the chimes dissipated into the night, reverting to its quietly rhythmic state, a sound he would forever associate with the solitude of darkness in his childhood dreams. If only the clock could talk, he thought, what might it reveal about their early years, about Inez?

  Had it seen more than the lens of Father’s cine camera?

  Twenty–Four

  Otto awoke to an empty house, again. On the morning of his mother’s funeral he felt incredibly alone, abandoned, the protective layers of parental security stripped off him and his naked vulnerability laid bare with not even a brother or a sister to reach out and touch.

  Breakfast comprised two cups of strong coffee. He had no appetite. By 9.30am he was shaved and dressed in the black suit he had brought all the way from Durham, reserved these days for sombre and formal occasions. At 9.40am Dieter crashed through the front door, dropping a sheaf of papers on the half–moon telephone table.

  “Shit. Sorry Otto.”

  Otto’s eyes were fixed on the herringbone mahogany flooring. “Of all days, why today Dieter?”

  Dieter stopped, turning with his hands open in papal clemency. “I said I was sorry. You will thank me later, though.”

  Otto looked up at him angrily.

  “I found something interesting in the library archives this morning,” Dieter said.

  Otto clenched his jaws and took a deep breath.

  “Very interesting,” Dieter said.

  “We’re going to be late! What are you on about?” Otto could no longer contain his annoyance.

  “I’ll have to tell you later. I’ve only got ten minutes to dress.”

  Otto glanced at his watch. “Five!”

  Felsenkirche was only two hundred yards down the hill from Bülow Street, the vertically stretched Gothic architecture on its pedestal of black rock, known as Diamantberg, towering above the little town of Lüderitz and visible for miles around. Ingrid was waiting at the arched stone entrance with her arms folded tightly across a magnificent knee–length black silk dress, white pearls around her neck and patent leather designer heels on her feet.

  “Everyone’s inside,” she snapped. “The coffin is already in as well.”

  Otto and Dieter looked contrite but said nothing, straightening their jackets and adjusting ties.

  “Jesus, you haven’t even shaved!” she said, shaking her head at the sight of Dieter’s stubbly face.

  The melancholy tones of the organ being prodded and goaded by unpractised fingers wheezed from within. The interior of Felsenkirche was remarkably bland in contrast to the exterior colonial German stonework and steeply gabled Bavarian roof. Whitewashed rendered walls met a plain tiled floor covered sparsely with dark wooden pews. The most striking features were the enormous ornate stained glass windows donated by Kaiser Wilhelm II, set in vast stone Gothic arches. Vibrant regal hues of red, blue, green and yellow glowed in the sunlight around the crest of the emperor: Gestiftet 1912.

  Resting peacefully on a chrome trolley in the nave, several yards back from the altar, was a light oak coffin draped in white lilies. Otto slowed and felt as though he’d been winded. This was finally it. This was goodbye. He knew in that instant that he would never forget the antediluvian smell of the Felsenkirche, tempered only slightly by the scent of the flowers and the odours of the mourners.

  The congregation turned almost as one to stare at the trio of Adermann children as they walked conspicuously up the aisle to the front row. Wilma caught Otto’s eye and smiled sympathetically. Frans’ imposing bulk, squeezed into an ill–fitting suit, loomed in the right of Otto’s vision. Other than the two of them there was not another familiar face in the church.

  Otto found himself staring at the coffin most of the time, trying to will back memories of tenderness and warmth at the hands of his beloved mother, now preparing for her final journey in the box just yards away from him. He would never speak to her again, never hold her, never be held by her. Dieter appeared upset when they sang the final hymn, Abide With Me, and this surprised Otto as he fought to maintain his own composure. Ingrid never made eye contact with either of them.

  Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?

  I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

  Considering the distractions of the past few days Otto was not prepared for the sudden release of emotion as he watched Mother being wheeled down the aisle towards the waiting hearse by the undertakers. He and Dieter consoled each other, a brief reminder of the bond they had shared all those years ago. The congregation began to file out, many detouring past the front row to offer condolences.

  Wilma, wearing a hairnet hat over her bun, kissed each of them on the cheek but lingered awkwardly in front of Otto. “My deepest condolences, Otto. Just remember, your mother thought the world of you and was so proud of how you’ve turned out.” Why was it that Wilma insisted on embarrassing him in front of his siblings, Otto wondered?

  Frans shook their hands in turn, holding them firmly in both of his, his face tortured by something indefinable. He seemed genuinely moved by the funeral service, his large frame appearing broken. “I will miss seeing your ma around town. She always had a smile and a wave for me,” he said.

  Everyone else was unfamiliar, mostly older men and women – lots of grey hair, balding heads, spectacles and walking aids. An extremely old man, walking slowly with the support of a younger woman and a Zimmer frame, stopped in front of the children. His face was lined and his cheeks sunken, yellowed eyes teary and veined in deep sockets. A persistent tremor racked his frail body.

  “I knew your father,” he said in a squeaky voice, nodding excessively.

  Otto smiled back at him.

  “I worked with him in Keetmanshoop.”

  Otto was interested. “Are you a doctor?”

  “Was sagen Sie?” he said, leaning closer.

  “Are you a doctor?” Otto repeated, louder.

  The old man stared
at Otto quizzically. “Was?”

  “Ihre Hörrohr, Vater,” his young daughter said to him loudly, prodding him, her mouth pressed against his hairy ears. “I’m sorry, he is ninety and very deaf,” she said to Otto.

  The man rummaged in his coat pocket and produced a battered old brass Maelzel ear trumpet which he proceeded, after much fumbling, to insert into one ear.

  “Are you a doctor?” Otto said again.

  The man pulled a face, then suddenly nodded, his face brightening. “Ja, ja. I worked with your father in Keetmanshoop.”

  Otto took a deep breath and smiled.

  “He was a good man, your father. I knew your mother too. We all respected them, admired your father for what he did.” The ear trumpet shook in the old man’s ear from the trembling grasp of his bony fingers.

  “I didn’t know he had a partner,” Otto said.

  “Was?” The old man said, screwing up his slack face.

  Otto leaned towards the ear trumpet. “Thank you,” he shouted.

  The old man nodded eagerly. “I also remember your sister Inez. You know, I took her all the way to Otjiwarongo for your father when she was ill.”

  Otto glanced at Ingrid, who was busy speaking to another woman, and then at Dieter, who frowned. Otjiwarongo was nearly six hundred miles north of Lüderitz, the gateway to Etosha in northern Namibia.

  “Otjiwarongo?” Otto repeated.

  “Was sagen Sie?”

  “Why Otjiwarongo?” Otto shouted.

  “Ja. Otjiwarongo. Your father knew some German people there. They looked after her.”

  Otto struggled inwardly with the relevance of this difficult conversation. It was Mother’s funeral and here he was trying to understand an old man’s rambling recollections about Inez. He could not suppress a rising sense of irritation and he wanted to end the conversation, return his attention to Mother, but an enigmatic curiosity prevented him from doing so.

  “It took me two days there and two days back.”

  The daughter smiled inanely at Otto, patiently waiting until her father was done.

  “How long was she there – Inez, I mean? How long was Inez in Otjiwarongo?” Otto said loudly and deliberately.

  “Was sagt er?” the old man said, half–turning to his daughter who spoke loudly and directly into his ear trumpet.

  “Ah,” the old man said, his face lighting up. He adjusted his position within the Zimmer frame. “Almost a full year.”

  Otto’s mind was swirling. “What was wrong with her?”

  “Was?”

  “What… was… wrong… with… Inez?”

  “Was sagt er?” The old man turned his veined and almost translucent face, resembling a pink gooseberry, towards his daughter. When she had repeated the question for him his eyes slackened and looked down, his entire body appearing to deflate a little. “I don’t remember. She was very sad.”

  Why would Father send Inez so far away, Otto wondered? Surely not for reasons of psychological inadequacy. Had Mother known? Would she have endorsed such a decision? Instinctively Otto glanced behind him, through the arched entrance into the bright light outside, looking for Mother’s coffin in the hearse. Why, even now as he was trying to bid her farewell and remember her fondly, were revelations continuing to emerge that questioned her complicity in distorting his childhood memories?

  “Her boyfriend was from Keetmanshoop,” the old man suddenly volunteered, causing Otto to snap his head around to face him intently once again.

  “You knew him?” Otto asked.

  “Was?”

  “Did you know him?” Otto shouted. “The boyfriend?”

  The old man’s daughter recoiled slightly at Otto’s sharp tone.

  “Ja, ja, his family were from Keetmanshoop. Ja, I remember him. Nice boy.”

  The old man’s daughter was beginning to smile awkwardly, trying to urge her father to move along, to allow the funeral to proceed according to its preordained ritual. The old man smiled and began to shuffle away under her guiding arm.

  “What was his name?” Otto called out.

  “Was?” The old man looked at his daughter. She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at Otto.

  “What was her boyfriend’s name?” Otto repeated.

  “Was sagen Sie?”

  Dieter nudged Otto and leaned closer, whispering. “I know his name, don’t worry the old guy.”

  Otto frowned at Dieter. “How do you know?”

  “I told you I found out some things at the library. I’ll show you later,” Dieter said.

  “Was?” the old man said again, grimacing such that his top denture flopped down slightly in his patulous mouth. His daughter spoke into his ear trumpet.

  “Ah. His family name was Solomon, and his name was… ach… Ich habe vergessen…” He shook his head. “Solomon. Ja.” He looked very pleased with himself, smiling as his daughter ushered him away.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Otto said, waving to him as he moved away, inch by inch. He caught the daughter’s eyes. “Did you drive all the way from Keetmanshoop just for the funeral?”

  She shrugged, slightly awkwardly. “Well, yes, but Father never misses the birthday celebrations.”

  Otto was suddenly reminded. “Oh.”

  “Jurgen Göring is speaking today, will we see you there later?”

  Otto stared at her, aware that Dieter was too. “No.”

  She smiled thinly and moved away slowly with the old man.

  Otto glanced at Dieter. “What the hell was that about?”

  “The name’s right. Neil Solomon.”

  “What did you find this morning?”

  Ingrid began to move out of the pew. “Come you two, the cortege is leaving for the cemetery.”

  “I’ll tell you later. Better still if I show you,” Dieter said.

  Twenty–Five

  It was a pitifully small gathering around Mother’s grave and Otto considered that many of the mourners might have slipped off to Hitler’s birthday celebrations at Kreplinhaus, eager to hear the provocations of Jurgen Göring. He wondered how few people might attend the tea they were putting on at Goerkehaus.

  The three of them stood almost on top of Inez’s grave, Otto separating Ingrid from Dieter. As the priest droned on at the head of Mother’s grave, Otto studied the faces of those gathered in sombre abeyance. Frans stood opposite them, appearing to stare intently at Inez’s headstone. Wilma was there, clinging to a man with silver hair and a pencil moustache, but the old man and his daughter were not in attendance, no doubt rubbing shoulders with their old friends at Kreplinhaus.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the priest chanted, casting a handful of sandy Lüderitz dirt onto the coffin.

  Otto’s wandering mind was drawn back momentarily by these words and he watched intently as his mother’s coffin descended slowly into the quiet, rocky hole. He felt Dieter resting his head against his shoulder and was surprised to feel his brother’s body shaking with grief. Glancing at Ingrid he could see her stony eyes staring past the priest, towards the east, the sand dunes and open desert.

  He wanted to be upset, knew he should be inconsolable as the youngest, favourite son, but he was not. He wasn’t sure how he felt. His mind was fizzing with irreconcilable thoughts: about Inez, about Keetmanshoop, about Otjiwarongo, about Neil Solomon. What role did these things play in his sister’s death? What role did his mother play? How many secrets was she taking into the ground with her? He sighed and tried to catch Ingrid’s eye. He failed. She was too far away.

  After everyone had left and the fog was beginning its advance on the coastline once again, its tendrils snaking across the sandy soil, Ingrid, Dieter and Otto stood in silence staring at the two graves, side by side: Inez and Mother.

  “Father should be here as well,” Otto said, thoughtfully.

  “You’d have thought he’d want to be buried next to Mum,” Dieter said.

  “And his daughter,” Otto added.

  “Why Shark Island?”
<
br />   Otto knelt down and arranged some of the flowers on Mother’s grave, taking a bunch of fresh lilies and moving it to Inez’s grave. He moved some of the dead flowers out of the way.

  “Watch out for scorpions,” Dieter said.

  Otto looked up. “Scorpions?”

  “They like to shelter under the flowers. Apparently they’re deadly around here.”

  Otto stood up. “Who told you that?”

  Dieter nodded towards Ingrid. “She did.”

  Otto glared at Ingrid.

  “It’s true,” she conceded.

  “Poisonous?”

  “Very.”

  “Frans told me the same thing,” Dieter said.

  “Frans?” Otto was confused, feeling as though he had missed something, been excluded from furtive discussions.

  “Can we go now? I don’t want to be in the fog wearing this – it’s Armani silk,” Ingrid said, turning and moving away.

  The intensifying fog was beginning to bleed the colour out of their waiting taxi.

  “Did you hear what that old man had to say about Inez?” Otto said to Ingrid as they walked.

  “Old man?”

  “The guy with the Zimmer frame and ear trumpet, I was shouting at him in the church. You must have seen him,” Otto said.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he drove Inez to Otjiwarongo for Dad when she was ill,” Otto said.

  “Ill?”

  “She spent a year there… with friends of Dad’s.” Otto pulled a face.

  Ingrid frowned. “I knew she went away, that’s all.”

  Otto studied her face, evaluating her answer. “What was wrong with her?”

  Ingrid paused beside the taxi. She looked across at Mother’s fresh grave and gesticulated. “They’re both resting now and it’s finally all over. Please just leave it.”

  Otto was exasperated. “Jesus, Ingrid, what’s finally over?”

  Ingrid’s eyes glowed defiantly as she opened the door of the taxi. “Not today, Otto. Just… leave it.”

  “Leave what?” Otto was angry suddenly and felt heat rising in his face.

  He looked across at Dieter, who shrugged and turned away. “I’m going to walk.”