The gray walls of her cell, the gray blanket on the bare platform bed, the gray interrogation room, the gray and black uniforms. And above it all Theo Gerhard’s loud voice, which seemed always to be shouting, even when he tried solicitously, almost pleadingly, to persuade her.
She repeated again and again that she had a sweetheart in France and that she knew Yuri only by sight. She had met him at the Höver farm, and she had seen him working in the fields from time to time.
Gerhard struck her in the face and yelled, “Bolshevist whore!” Then he sneered, “We’ll put that Russian up against the wall anyway.”
On the third day, he tossed a pile of letters onto the table, took one at random, and ordered her to read it out loud. She read: “Dear Fräulein Pohl, Your photo came today, and at last I have an image of you. I am so grateful that our NCO has asked me to write to you regularly . . .”
Father told her later that she was in jail for eight days, so it must have been on the fifth or sixth day that Gerhard placed another document in front of her: “. . . That I saw Therese Pohl with Yuri in the forest . . . that they have often met on the edge of the forest and that they have kissed each other . . .” The name Paul Höver had been typewritten underneath.
“A child,” she said. “A child who can’t even read.” Gerhard leapt to his feet, shouting, “Are you going to be impertinent now too, you lying whore?” He threw the photograph that she had given Yuri down on the table.
What happened could only have lasted a few minutes, but to her it seemed endless. He yanked her out of the chair by her hair and flung her against the wall. The pain in her head was dull. She felt her knees go weak, saw the bare concrete floor of the interrogation room coming toward her, thought it was rising and that that was impossible. Blows to the face and flecks of Gerhard’s spittle and his bellowing. Inexplicable stabs of pain throughout her body. Breathlessness when he punched her in the belly. Arms held protectively over her head, she saw the black boots hurtling toward her, over and over again, and she smelled shoe polish and blood and then nothing.
She did not come to until she was back in her cell, where she vomited and soiled herself.
All of this was just momentary images, fragments she was never able to piece together into a whole, not even in the years that followed. What remained in her memory was being scared to death—a fear that rendered her mute and blind, and almost made her lose her mind.
She did not know how much time had passed when she was fetched from her cell during the night, shoved along a corridor, and thrown out a side door. In the pouring rain, she dragged her way to Martha, who lived below Schwanenburg Castle. Martha screamed out loud when she recognized her, then pulled her hurriedly inside her home. Darkness. Brief moments of consciousness. Martha washing her, Martha bandaging her head, giving her something to drink. The next day, her friend brought in an acquaintance of hers, who loaded Therese onto a horse cart and took her home.
Her mother’s wailing is still in her ears, and then the pictures break off.
She had open wounds on her head, a concussion, several broken ribs, scratches and bruises all over her body.
Wilhelm visited her two days later and was beside himself with fury. He had known nothing of it at all. From him she learned that Yuri had been condemned to death by a summary court, but that the execution had not yet taken place. Fedir had been sent back to the camp at Münster.
She wept and pleaded, told him he could ask anything of her if he would help Yuri.
Tears glittered in his eyes as he said, “You know I’d do anything for you, Therese. But what are you thinking? Do you really think I could help him escape and he could come back to you?”
“Just let him live,” she whispered. “That’s all I want.”
Wilhelm paced up and down in front of her bed, not saying anything; occasionally he would stop by the window, looking out pensively. Then he asked, “Will you be my wife?” She did not understand, thought her broken, aching head was playing tricks on her.
He sat down beside her on the bed and went on, now sober and rational. “Therese, I’m willing to risk my life for you. Gerhard shouldn’t have hit you. So he owes me something. Maybe I can help this Russian to escape, but then he has to disappear from here immediately, do you understand?”
Oh, this sudden hope. Of course she understood that Yuri had to go away. But he would live. She gripped Wilhelm’s hand gratefully, and he asked again, “Will you marry me?” She hesitated, heard that this was the condition. She nodded. If Wilhelm risked his life to save Yuri’s, the price would not be too high.
Five days and nights went by. Wilhelm did not come. She went back to helping her mother with light housework, sometimes thinking, her heart pounding, that she had only dreamed Wilhelm’s visit. Perhaps her heartfelt wish that Yuri might not die had led her to imagine the conversation.
And then October 16 came, a Saturday morning that blanketed the whole area of the lowlands in thick fog. It was shortly after eight when she went out to feed the two rabbits. She was standing at the well, pumping water into a bowl, when Hanna emerged out of the fog like a ghostly apparition. “Yuri has to leave,” she said. “He wants to see you one more time.” She said it quietly, and the fog seemed to muffle her voice even more. Slowly, Therese put the water bowl down on the wall of the well; it took her several seconds to understand. “Come on,” Hanna hissed. She turned and walked away.
She followed. Her ribs hurt as she ran to catch up with Hanna. She had a thousand questions in her head, but she could not put them into words. She had only one thought: He’s alive. He’s alive.
They did not follow the path. Hanna led her across the meadows and cleared fields toward the Höver farm. She pointed at the barn. “By the wall at the back,” she whispered, and disappeared.
He was standing, leaning against the wall of the barn. He crossed himself when he saw her and said, “God is on our side, Therese.” A black eye, a makeshift bandage around his head, his left arm in a sling, split lips—she could guess what it might look like under his clothes. They clung to each other for several minutes without saying a word.
He whispered, “Therese, we don’t have much time.” He took her face in his hands. “What have you done?” At first, she did not understand what he meant. “Why are they letting me go?” he asked, and fear of her reply flickered in his eyes.
Therese Mende walked close to the water. The sand was firm here, and walking required less effort. She had only lied to him that one time, wanting the short time they had together to be untroubled. Hope is without logic. Hope is irresponsible.
The war—everyone said so, after all—would be over soon. Then Yuri would be able to come back, and she could go away with him. Yuri did not necessarily want to go home; he had said so several times. “It’s no better there,” he had said.
She stroked the familiar face and said, “I asked Wilhelm for help.”
He pressed her close to him. In a whisper, he told her what had happened to him.
Gerhard had picked him up. “He produced a piece of paper saying he was supposed to bring me to Kranenburg for questioning.” And she thought idiotic thoughts like, So he was in jail nearby the whole time.
There had been another prisoner sitting in the van. Halfway into the transfer, in an isolated place, the van stopped. Gerhard opened the door, took Yuri’s handcuffs off, and said, “Get lost.” Yuri had stood still, firmly convinced that Gerhard would shoot him if he ran away. Gerhard laughed. “Shitting yourself now, eh?” He closed up the van, left Yuri standing at the rear, and went back to the cab. He stopped there for a moment. “You have your whore to thank for this,” he said with a grin. He grabbed his crotch and thrust his pelvis back and forth. Then he climbed in and drove off.
Therese reassured Yuri. “Gerhard’s lying. Wilhelm helped because he’s an old friend.”
When they parted, there was a measure of child
like optimism alongside the pain of separation. Yuri was going to hide out in the forest and try to cross the border into Holland by night. He said, “As soon as I’m safe, I’ll send word to you.” When he hobbled off into the fog and disappeared, she was sure she would see him again. Not in the next few days, not in the next few weeks. But soon.
Chapter 32
April 25, 1998
Robert Lubisch had rented a car at the airport. It was a little after nine and dark by the time he reached the resort. The hotel was near the beach and furnished in an airy, Mediterranean style; it being early in the season, the staff was friendly and helpful toward the few guests. His room with a balcony gave onto the inner courtyard, where an unused kidney-shaped swimming pool glowed turquoise.
He decided to take an evening walk and look around the town. He wrote Therese Mende’s address, but not her name, on a slip of paper and asked for directions at reception. The concierge smiled and said promptly, “Ah, you want Señora Mende. It’s not far.” He explained the route, and Robert strolled through the balmy evening air. The restaurants, cafés, and bars along the short promenade were still uncrowded. He went up some steps, leaving these establishments behind, and entered a narrow alleyway that led steeply uphill. “Señora Mende lives a little out of town, at the highest point,” the concierge had said, and Robert walked up the hill. The one-story house looked unimpressive from the street. Going past the house and viewing it from the side, he saw the terrace lighting, which seemed to float over the sea. Only then did he realize that a second story had been built into the cliff. He stood there for a moment, lost in thought, and a woman carrying a basket came out of the house. She stopped at the wrought-iron gate, looked at him suspiciously, and asked him sharply, in Spanish, what he wanted. He had not planned on visiting Mende until the next day, and in any case he had wanted to inform Michael Dollinger first, but now he made a spontaneous decision. He approached the woman, introduced himself, and cast about for the few Spanish words he knew. Then he gave up and said, in German, that he would like to speak to Frau Mende.
“It’s late,” the woman said reproachfully.
Robert nodded. “Oh, it doesn’t have to be today. But perhaps she has some time tomorrow.”
The woman asked his name again and went back into the house. Ten minutes went by, and he was about to leave, when the door opened and she waved him in. She led him along a spacious hallway with four broad, sweeping, marble steps that led down into a large room. Fine antiques and plain, modern furniture mingled in an uncluttered way. A large picture window led onto a terrace, covered near the house and then open beyond it.
Therese Mende was sitting in a delicate Chippendale chair, wearing a sleeveless, dove-gray roll-neck sweater over light-colored trousers. She gave an impression of brittleness. Robert told her his name, but she did not react; she sat motionless and stared at him. He felt he was dealing with a confused old woman, and he momentarily regretted his trip. He was embarrassed by his curiosity, and his suspicions now seemed utterly ridiculous.
She stood up slowly and walked toward him, her posture very erect. “Please forgive me, Herr Lubisch. I didn’t mean to be impolite.” Her voice sounded hoarse, and the hand she held out to him was cool and bony. She cleared her throat and said, firmly and matter-of-factly, “So, what can I do for you?”
While on the plane, he had considered what he wanted to say to her, but now he felt unprepared and did not really know where he should begin. He decided on the direct route. “Frau Mende, I’m here because I’ve come across something that has to do with you. Does the name Rita Albers mean anything to you?”
He could not discern any movement in her face. She remained silent for several seconds, then pushed a strand of her chin-length gray hair behind her left ear and asked, “May I offer you something? A glass of wine, perhaps, a whiskey . . . or would you rather have coffee?” He chose white wine. She took a woolen shawl from the back of the chair, draped it over her shoulders, and invited him outside. There were two wicker chairs at the end of the terrace. He had not been mistaken. The surface rested, platform-like, on a rocky outcrop from the cliff. The unhindered view of the bay and sea was impressive. They stood there in silence, listening to the gentle, regular rolling of the waves far beneath them.
The Spanish woman placed a small table between the chairs, gave them a glass each, and laid out Mallorcan white wine and a pitcher of water. “You don’t have to stay, Luisa.” Therese Mende smiled at the woman. “My talk with Herr Lubisch will probably go on for a while, don’t worry.”
Luisa glanced critically at Robert Lubisch and then left.
There were low, shaded lamps mounted on the wall on the left- and right-hand sides of the terrace, and their soft, yellowish light illuminated the tiled floor. They did not sit down until the front door had been locked shut. Therese Mende said calmly, as if talking to herself, “Frau Albers called me just before her death. She had found out that I was married to Wilhelm Peters and that I had been suspected of murder back then.” She looked at him. “You know about this?”
Robert nodded. She went on, her voice cracking from time to time. “You say you came across the story, so I can probably assume it was you who gave her the photo?” Again, he nodded mutely. Therese Mende smiled bitterly. “I always knew my past would catch up with me eventually. A worry that has accompanied my life ever since I left, all those years ago. A kind of certainty, almost, that it would happen someday.” She shivered and pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. Then she went on, her voice firm. “I told Frau Albers I would let my lawyers loose on her if she dared to spread half-truths. But she was a journalist, and it was clear to me that she wouldn’t let go.” She cleared her throat. “But please, tell me about yourself first.”
Robert told the story of his father, his death and his papers, the photograph, and how he had come across Rita Albers. “You see,” he said in conclusion, “the police seem to think I had something to do with Frau Albers’s death. I didn’t, or at least I didn’t kill her. But if her death did in fact have something to do with that photo, then I feel guilty.”
Therese Mende smiled out at the sea. She said, quite neutrally, “And now you want to know if I had something to do with it.”
Robert Lubisch said nothing for a moment, then asked, “Does that really surprise you?”
She looked at him. Her face was tanned, and the pale fine lines around her blue eyes stood out in contrast. “No, it’s probably not surprising. I’ve been suspected of murder once before.”
“Do you know how my father came to have the photo? I mean, did you know him?”
There was a short pause.
She did not answer. Instead, she asked, “Have you allowed some time for this?”
He told her he would be leaving on Sunday. He felt a slight unease, suspecting he had relinquished control.
Therese Mende talked, telling him about her youth in the lower Rhine, her parents and friends, and the war. Sometimes she broke off for minutes at a time, looking out to sea as if fishing for the right words there. And when she talked about the prisoner of war named Yuri, he thought he saw again the expression that had so moved him in the photograph. She told him about her love for Yuri and his escape.
It was long after midnight when she closed her eyes, exhausted, and said, “I’m tired. Come again tomorrow morning. Let’s say about ten.”
The wine and the water were finished, and together they carried the pitcher, the bottle, and the glasses into the kitchen. Robert thanked her for the frankness of her account.
“Over the years, I thought I had distanced myself from it all,” she said quietly. “When I went away, in 1950, I only wanted one thing: to forget. Start a new life. But you don’t forget. You cut those years off, and what’s left is a kind of inexplicable grief that overcomes you every now and then.”
Chapter 33
April 24, 1998
He said somethi
ng to Lili, but she turned her head away, offended because he had ignored her unambiguous nudging at the feeding bowl when he came in. He took an hourglass from the shelf and sat down at the kitchen counter. He owned at least fifty hourglasses; the particularly fine and expensive ones lived in a glass case in the living room. The cases were made of cherrywood, silver, and brass, decorated with figures or painted with great skill. He had bought a gold one in England: it measured out three minutes and was offered as a timer for tea.
This one was made of marble. It was four inches high and measured out fifteen minutes. He loved this visible, silent way of passing the time. Marlene crept up on him, placed her forepaws against his thigh, and looked at him intently with her green eyes. He scratched her head. “Maybe the guys in Homicide are right and it was something to do with a relationship. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.” Marlene curled up in his lap. “This Gerhard. When Therese Peters disappears, he looks around halfheartedly for a bit and then closes the file. It was convenient for him that she disappeared—I’m sure of it.” Marlene meowed, and he stroked her marmalade fur. “You’re a clever girl.”
Lili turned her head, looked at Karl reproachfully, and closed her eyes in boredom, as if to say, Creep!
Karl did not allow himself to be distracted. “And Paul says Gerhard has skeletons in his closet.”
He pushed Marlene onto the bench beside him and stood up. He opened a can of cat food in the pantry. Lili and Marlene leapt to the floor and paced frantically to and fro in front of the feeding bowls. “If this Wilhelm was killed back then, and if his wife did it, where did she put him? They dug up the plot of land. Says so in the police report. But the cottage is isolated, fields and meadows all around.” He filled the two bowls with food. When he looked up, half the fine-grained time already lay in the lower glass cylinder.
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