"No, nor do I know what hospital looked after her."
"She says she wasn't in a hospital."
"She says!" Margret Rosch broke in. "It's no use asking Cora about this business, she's in denial. Do you know what a trauma is?"
He nodded, thinking of the wall in the brain his questions had demolished.
"Good," she said, "then consult your common sense. I know a lot of doctors, caring doctors, but none that would pick up a badly injured girl lying unconscious by the roadside and take her home with him. That would be irresponsible. I've no idea why she told you that story. Maybe she wishes there had been such a person - someone who would really be there for her. She always was a bit of a loner."
That sounded logical. He hadn't forgotten the doctor's remark about the needle marks in her arms. Next question: "Did your niece ever do drugs?"
Several seconds went by before Margret Rosch gave a reluctant nod. "Yes, heroin, but not for long. It must have been around that time. I assume Johnny administered it to make her compliant. She certainly didn't shoot up herself - she didn't know how to handle the stuff."
She sighed. "She was in a wretched state when she came to me. She thought it was withdrawal symptoms, but that had nothing to do with it. Terrible nightmares, she had, and always just before two in the morning - you could have set your clock by them. I used to give her sleeping pills, but they might as well have been candies. At five to two, on the dot, she would be sitting on the couch, lashing out with her fists and yelling at the top of her voice: `Stop it! Stop it, you swine!' She wasn't awake and I couldn't rouse her. If I spoke to her, she would mumble something about a cellar - about worms and tigers and goats."
Listening intently, Rudolf Grovian felt easier in his mind. He hadn't mentioned the names Billy-Goat and Tiger. It was one thing to torment a young woman with his questions but quite another to goad her into remembering things that could ultimately provide her with a motive.
"I urged her more than once to consult a doctor," Margret Rosch went on, "but she refused, and I didn't want to bully her into it. She was badly in need of help, though, so I ended by dosing her food with tranquillizers. Her condition improved after a couple of months. The nightmares petered out, and she recovered physically as well."
She lapsed into silence for a moment or two. Then: "You won't tell Cora what I've just said, will you? If you tell her I told you about the heroin, she'll slam the door in your face, believe me. To her, keeping it under wraps is the most important thing in the world. It would be best not to mention it at all. Anyway, there's no point in bringing it up again after all this time. Cora must already have told you a lot of things - how the whole thing began, no doubt. It seems Johnny didn't behave like an animal right away. Maybe I can get her to tell you something about the end of the affair. I don't know how much she remembers, if anything at all, but it's worth a try. Will you let me have a word with her?"
"Yes, in due course," said Grovian. He inched his way slowly towards the subject of Cora's childhood and parental home. All he wanted was confirmation of the mother's religious mania and the father's failure to resist it. And also, perhaps, of what was lurking at the back of his mind. Child abuse?
But he had scarcely begun asking about Cora's childhood when her aunt underwent a strange transformation. Her initial eagerness to be communicative vanished.
"I can't tell you much. I had very little contact with my brother's family, mainly because I couldn't stand my sister-in-law's insane goings-on. Cora made a normal impression on me whenever I came to visit. Her mother didn't allow her much freedom, but she managed to get her way despite this. Many a child would have snapped under such constant pressure, but Cora ... How can I put it? She thrived on it. She was always very mature for her age, very sensible and responsible. She took over some of the household chores at an early age, not because she was asked to, but because she saw that her mother couldn't cope. You could say she assumed the role of an adult."
And what of her role in the marriage bed? All the typical signs were there. Bed-wetting at the age of nine, heroin at nineteen! Sexually abused children often ended that way, Margret knew, but Wilhelm had always been a decent fellow That she also knew, and now he was an old man, worn out and tired of his miserable existence. He called her occasionally. "How's Cora?" he would ask, and was always delighted when she replied: "She's fine."
Margret Rosch had been sitting with Rudolf Grovian for nearly an hour. She was obviously disconcerted by what had happened. That apart, she revealed nothing of what was going through her head. She didn't even mention Magdalena's name.
"Now may I see my niece?" she asked at length.
He rose. "I'll go and see how my colleagues are getting on."
His colleagues were standing around in the passage. He only wanted to check on Cora Bender's condition. She was sitting up straight again when lie entered the office. Berrenrath was standing beside the window in conversation with the doctor, and the latter's expression involuntarily reminded him of Winfried Meilhofer's reference to an avenging angel.
He must have got the relevant impression: the police and their brutal interrogation methods, an unconscious young woman with a battered face.
"Your aunt would like to see you, Frau Bender," Grovian said.
Her fixed stare seemed to bore into his brain.
"This woman needs rest," the doctor protested.
"Nonsense," she said. "You said that jab would perk me up, and it has. I've never felt wider awake in my life." She looked up at Grovian. "What has she been telling you?"
"I'll go and get her," was all he said.
He returned two minutes later with Margret Rosch at his heels. Gesturing to Berrenrath and the doctor to leave, he lingered in the background but watched and listened in silence. Margret Rosch remained standing in the middle of the room. He saw the fear on Cora Bender's face, heard the strain in her hoarse voice.
"What have you been telling him?"
"Nothing," her aunt lied. "Don't worry, I only came to see you. A shame you won't be paying me a visit tomorrow; I was looking forward to it. How's the little boy?"
She spoke as if she were visiting someone confined to bed with a broken leg, but Cora Bender's suspicions weren't to be allayed so easily.
"Fine. Have you really told him nothing?"
"Of course not. What's to tell?"
"How would I know? People talk a lot of nonsense in a situation like this. I did so myself - I blathered about the Saviour, Mary Magdalene and all that rubbish."
Margret Rosch shook her head. "No, I haven't said a word."
Cora Bender seemed relieved. She subsided a little and changed the subject. Grovian couldn't tell whether she was really appeased or pursuing some definite objective. She seemed genuinely concerned, just as she had at the lake that afternoon. Berrenrath had reported that she was worried about her son's ears.
"Did Gereon call you?" she asked. When her aunt nodded she went on: "How is he? Did he say anything about his arm? I stabbed him twice, I think. One of the medics at the lido bandaged him up. It was quite a dressing - it covered the whole of his forearm. Let's hope he'll be able to work with it, they're so busy at present. Manni Weber can't handle things on his own. As for the old man, forget it. You know what he's like. Talks big, but he doesn't know a screwdriver from a pipe wrench."
Her aunt nodded again, bit her lip and finally brought the conversation around to what had happened.
"Is there anything you need? Shall I get you a lawyer?"
Cora made a dismissive gesture. "Never mind that, but if you could bring me a few things. Some clothes and my sponge bag. The usual, you know what I mean."
"No, I don't know," Margret Rosch snapped suddenly. "What's `the usual' when you're going to jail? This isn't a vacation, Cora. Do me a favour and tell these people the truth. Don't worry about anyone else, think of yourself for once. Tell them what happened five years ago. Tell them why you left home that August - they'll understand. Tell them everything."
"I already did."
"I don't believe you."
Cora calmly shrugged her shoulders. "Forget it, then. Leave me alone. Pretend Mother was right and I'm dead."
She was silent for some seconds. Then she said quietly: "Will you talk to Father? He'll have to be told, and I'd sooner you did it. But break it to him gently. Tell him I'm all right. I don't want him to get upset. I don't want him coming here either."
Margret Rosch merely nodded, then cast a yearning glance at the door. Grovian escorted her out and thanked her for her help. He meant it too. Johnny, heroin, brutally beaten, thrown out of a car on the move ... He should be able to make something of that, not to mention the sound of the other girl's ribs snapping.
The dialogue between aunt and niece had also been informative. It illustrated the family's displacement mechanisms. When push came to shove, they preferred to talk about the weather.
Grovian was fairly sure that Margret Rosch could have told him a bit more - at least about "the Saviour, Mary Magdalene and all that rubbish". It puzzled him that Cora Bender seemed solely concerned to satisfy herself of her aunt's silence on these matters, even though she herself had talked at length about them.
He mentally corrected himself. No, she had only talked about the crucifix. He distinctly recalled how her face had twitched when she mentioned the Saviour in connection with the penitent Mary Magdalene and how she had promptly initiated a diversion by asking for some water in her coffee.
Not being very well versed in the Bible, he wondered what significance could be attached to a minor biblical figure if, five years after appearing as Satan with the serpent, Georg Frankenberg had now functioned as the Saviour. But it didn't pay to brood on the subject.
A trauma! Without realizing it, he'd touched her on the raw It really wasn't his job to meddle with that trauma - that was a medical responsibility. Grovian never made the same mistake twice. She wouldn't collapse at his feet again. You had to know your own limits, and he had reached his. Or so he thought.
Margret's visits were a mixed blessing from my point of view. She came too seldom and never stayed long enough to really change anything. She came bearing hope for Father but took it away with her when she went home.
I scarcely remember her visits in my early years. There couldn't have been many of them, and she usually turned up accompanied by a very old woman, my grandmother. They always brought some cakes with them. Mother took them and put them in the larder with the bread. What happened to them after that, only Mother and the Saviour knew Those early visits brought me no concessions, so I found them rather a nuisance. My grandmother kept on asking me if I was a good girl, if I obeyed my mother and father and always did as I was told. I nodded every time and felt relieved when she and my aunt went away again.
Then, for the first time, Margret came on her own, my grandmother having died in the interim. We talked together during that visit. She wanted to know if I enjoyed school, if my marks were good, what subject I liked best, whether I liked sleeping in the same room as my father, and whether I could draw her a picture of him because she didn't possess a photo of him.
I wasn't any good at drawing, so I painted her a matchstick man holding a rake and a bucket. She asked what the long thing sticking out of the matchstick man's side was, and I told her. That was the way I saw him.
The rest of the time Margret spent with Mother. During the day, at least, because Father had to work. Mother was strange for days after she left. I don't know how to describe it, but she seemed frightened. She was thoroughly upset and subjected me to endless lectures on "the true sins" - as if there weren't enough of the others.
The true sins, said Mother, were carnal desires. This meant nothing to me, being only nine years old. I thought it might have something to do with the joint she'd had to roast for Margret's benefit. Father had insisted on this, saying you couldn't feed a guest on bean soup two days running. He'd carved two slices of beef for himself and only one for me - the smallest, although Margret pressed me to have another. "Or don't you like meat, Cora?"
Of course I liked meat, but it occurred to me that, if I had another slice, Mother would give me an earful after she left. And she did.
And then, a week after Margret's departure, a parcel arrived. It was during the Christmas vacation, I remember distinctly. The postman delivered it one morning, but Mother didn't dare open it because it was addressed to Father. She put it away in the kitchen cupboard until that evening, when Father came home and cut the string with a grand gesture.
Margret's visit had changed him. A new wind was blowing in our home, he kept saying. Seven lean years must be followed by seven years of plenty, or if there'd been eight lean years, eight years of plenty. By then he'd be old enough to go without for good. I once heard him tell Mother: "If you don't give in soon, I'll get calluses on my hands." Those strange remarks of his made me feel uneasy. The people in our neighbourhood said Mother was crazy, and they said it so I could hear. I was afraid Father was also going mad.
He made a great song and dance about the parcel, almost as if it contained a new heart for Magdalena. The contents turned out to be sweets, some of which he handed around at once in spite of Mother's grim expression. Magdalena got a little tube of multicoloured chocolate candies - Smarties: I'd seen other girls with them in the playground. I got a tube too. I was about to hand it to Mother when Father gripped my wrist.
"They're yours," he said, "and you'll eat them. The rest we'll keep for Christmas, then Mother won't have to betray her principles by buying some herself."
As well as the sweets, Margret had included some other things done up in coloured paper tied with ribbon, and attached to the ribbon were little cards with our names on them. There was an envelope on top.
It was the first letter from Margret that Father read aloud to me, but not to me alone. Mother and Magdalena were also in the kitchen. Mother had fetched both armchairs from the living room and pushed them together so Magdalena could lie down. She wasn't too well that day.
Margret wished us all a happy Christmas and a happy and, above all, a healthy New Year. She was sorry her visit hadn't had the desired result, but she hoped Mother would reflect on her wifely duties and remember that the Saviour had never demanded abstinence of his followers. Other people had claimed that later on, but their only motive had been an unwillingness to distribute the riches they'd amassed among their heirs. Mother was urged to bear in mind that Father didn't have the other bedroom to himself, and it would do no one any good if something untoward occurred. She could well understand Mother's fear of becoming pregnant again, but that needn't happen these days - there were plenty of ways of avoiding it, and Margret felt sure the Saviour approved of them. No one knew human nature better than He, and sacrificing a second lamb would be a waste of which He could never approve.
Father read all this aloud to us. Then he came to the presents. Magdalena got a doll, a cloth doll with a funny face embroidered with sewing cotton. She had big blue eyes, red cheeks and a laughing mouthful of white teeth. Her hair consisted of yellow knitting wool braided into thick plaits. Margret wished Magdalena a face like the doll's, cheerful and healthy. Magdalena was allowed to unwrap the doll at once with my help.
Meantime, Father tossed a little packet to Mother. "Better take that into the living room," he said, "and ask Him if He objects to it." Mother didn't budge. The little packet bounced off her apron and fell to the floor. Last of all, Father handed me my present. It was a book: Alice in Wonderland.
I never got to read more than the title. It was too late to dip into the book that evening, and the next day Mother asked me to put it in the bucket and burn it in front of the altar. She didn't exactly order me to; she preached me a sermon on Margret's letter and the depraved ideas it contained. I must tell her at once if Father exposed himself to me.
She's completely flipped, I thought. I'd known Father for so long, after all, and I also knew by then that he was my real father. I looked very like him and
had long ceased to believe that the Adigars were my family. So I merely nodded to everything Mother said.
I also nodded when she asked me if I didn't believe, as she did, that all one needed in order to lead a full life was knowing the Book of Books. I knew it almost by heart. Mother had told me so much about the sins of mankind, they were coming out of my ears. And now that I could read myself ... Oh, forget it!
She sent me to get the tin bucket and thrust the box of matches into my hand. Then we watched as Alice in Wonderland was reduced to a mound of ashes.
When Father came home late that afternoon and heard what had happened, I'd never seen him fly into such a fury. I only understood half of the things he said. He'd never expected a Tommy's whore to turn into a walking prayer book, he told Mother. She used to enjoy it once upon a time, he said. She'd not only welcomed the insertion of what Nature had provided for the purpose but followed it up with a knitting needle. Mother just stood there, frozen-faced. I felt sorry for her somehow.
Father and I sat together at the kitchen table for a long time afterwards while Mother did the washing up. He told me the story of Alice in Wonderland, although he didn't know it at all. He made up a completely new story about a girl whose mother went mad and wanted to drive the whole family insane. The girl didn't like living at home, but she couldn't run away because she was still too young and had no money, so she made up a world of her own. She invented imaginary people and talked to them although they didn't exist.
"Then the girl was as mad as her mother," I said.
Father smiled. "Yes, probably, but how could she fail to be, with a mother like that? If you never see or hear anything else, it's hardly surprising."
Magdalena was in the kitchen too, stretched out in the two armchairs as before. She was recovering from a hard day: two enemas whose only result had been a stomach ache. She'd listened attentively, glancing at Father and Mother in turn. The thing was, she knew the story of Alice in Wonderland.
On one occasion, the hospital nurse who ensured that she was sometimes allowed to play with other children had pushed her wheelchair into a room where another mother was reading the book aloud to her sick child. Although she'd mentioned this to me later, she didn't tell me what Alice in Wonderland was really about. I didn't ask her, not wanting to know.
The Sinner Page 15
