The Sinner

by Petra Hammesfahr

  When I told Magdalena how I'd put one over on Mother, she would say: "That's right, fool her whenever you can. Stupidity deserves to be punished."

  Magdalena thought I walked all the way to the supermarket just so I could tell her if anything of interest was happening in town. I never told her the real reason: for one thing, it was easier to pinch things there; for another, Woolworths was nearby.

  A good half of what I brought home was unpaid-for. At the supermarket I stole sweets and some of the groceries I had to get for Mother. In Woolworths I took barrettes, lipsticks and other bits and pieces I could easily slip into my jacket pocket but didn't need myself. Those things I sold in the playground.

  I was an unbelievably good shoplifter. I looked so nice and innocent, no one would have thought me capable of skulduggery. Plenty of people knew who I was. I was just "that poor child" to the checkout girl at the supermarket, who lived on our street, and at Woolworths one of the sales assistants was a good friend of Grit Adigar, so it was just as easy there.

  Nobody ever caught on, not even the girls who bought things from me. All I had to tell them was: "My aunt has sent me another parcel, but the stuff's no use to me. My mother would crucify me if she saw me wearing lipstick." They were all delighted to buy the things from me at half price.

  I was rolling in it. I had my pocket money from Father, the proceeds of my raids on Mother's purse and my income from the playground. And I spent very little. I hoarded it all, the cash as well as the confectionery. I often had so many sweets in the barn I couldn't eat them by myself. In summer the chocolate melted under the old potato sacks, so I often took some to school and gave it to the other girls. This made me their best friend, and they vied with each other for the privilege of playing with me during break.

  And I went on gambling with Magdalena's life. It was like the ladder superstition. You screw up the courage to walk under it and nothing happens, so you do it again and again. In the end you become convinced you're immune to bad luck. But you can't cheat fate like a mother who isn't right in the head. Sooner or later, when you're least expecting it, disaster strikes.

  For a long time it looked as if I had no influence on Magdalena's condition. No matter what I did or didn't do, she remained equally well or unwell. It depended on your point of view She had survived leukaemia. After five years, the doctors said, you were safe to assume a complete cure.

  Because even the doctors called it a miracle, Mother naturally attributed her recovery to our prayers. But I didn't pray any more; I kneeled before the crucifix and thought up stories for Magdalena.

  Once I told her I had a regular girlfriend. I was nearly thirteen and could easily have bought myself one. With eight hundred marks stashed away in the barn, I knew that Magdalena had been wrong in one respect: money can get you anything.

  She found the girlfriend story exciting and asked me to describe her. She wanted to know every detail. How tall was she? Was she fat or thin? Was she pretty? Did we talk about boys? Had she ever been in love with one? Did I think I could get her to walk past our house? Then she could see her.

  One afternoon we were in the bedroom Magdalena shared with Mother, which overlooked the street. She was sitting on her bed, while I kept watch beside the window When a really pretty girl came down the street I helped Magdalena over to the window Holding her tight with one arm, I tapped on the glass to attract the girl's attention. She looked up but shook her head. She probably thought we were daft.

  I told Magdalena my friend knew how careful we had to be because of Mother - that was why she'd shaken her head. Magdalena believed every word of it.

  Once, when I'd frittered away half the afternoon shopping, I told her my friend had invited me to come to the ice-cream parlour and stood me a strawberry sundae with whipped cream. She'd raved about some boy she was very much in love with but the boy himself was unaware of this.

  The next day I told her we'd written the boy a letter, and my friend had asked me to slip it into his pocket. Lies, lies, all lies! There were times when it seemed to me that my life was one big lie.

  Rudolf Grovian was gradually losing his temper, but not with her, with himself. Her aunt's warning - "She'll slam the door in your face" - flashed through his mind. Damnation, he'd tackled things the wrong way, but it ought to be possible to get his foot in the door again. He cast around in vain for the right tone to adopt. Any references to Margret Rosch only bolted the door more firmly.

  When he asked how Margret had lied to him and what she'd stolen - he would "never guess what it was, even in his worst nightmare" - she said: "Do your own work. You're paid for it, I'm not."

  He reverted to the crucial question: if Johnny existed, was he identical with Georg Frankenberg? She didn't answer, so he felt obliged to threaten her although it was the last thing he'd wanted to do. "In that case, Fran Bender, I suppose I'll have to speak to your father after all."

  She smiled. "Why not try my mother? She knows everything. But make sure your knees are well padded."

  She drank the last of her coffee, put the cup down with an air of finality and looked up at him. "That wraps it up, doesn't it? May I change before you hand me over to the examining magistrate? My clothes are all sweaty. I slept in them, and I wore them all yesterday. I'd also like to clean my teeth."

  He felt infinitely sorry for her at that moment. She had always been dependent on herself Why should she believe him, of all people, if he offered to help her? That apart, what help could he offer her? Several years behind bars. With as much neutrality as he could muster, he said: "Your things aren't here yet, Frau Bender. We asked your husband to bring them here, but he still hasn't appeared."

  She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "He won't either. I said Margret should do it."

  Margret turned up half an hour later. In the interim he made three attempts to elicit some information about the other girl. Who was she? The first time he put the question calmly. `Ask my mother," she suggested. "But you're welcome to try my father as well. He's bound to be pleased if you tell him I was raped while another girl was beaten to death."

  He asked a little more forcefully the second time. She turned to Werner Hoss. "Does your boss need a hearing aid, or is he just pig-headed? He's got a major problem - sounds like an old gramophone record with a crack in it."

  The third time he sounded almost imploring. She glanced at the coffee machine. "Is that a reject from home?" she asked. "Can't the police afford a new one? They aren't all that expensive. There are some that boil the water properly; it makes the coffee taste much better. I bought one like that. I'll miss it, unless they let me have one in my cell. If they do I'll send for it. Then, when you visit me, you can also have a cup. You will visit me, won't you? We can spend a cosy afternoon drinking coffee and telling tall stories. Let's see who's better at it."

  Grovian's patience was tested to the limit. He felt almost relieved when there was a knock at the door, and her aunt came in. Margret Rosch had packed a small suitcase. Werner Hoss took it from her and examined the contents. They didn't amount to much, just two nighties, her toilet articles, two blouses, two skirts, some underclothes, two pairs of tights, a pair of flat-heeled shoes and a framed photograph of her son.

  It was a peaceful picture taken on a terrace. The little boy was crouching down with one hand resting on a green tractor, blinking at the sunlight and the camera.

  She waved the photo away when Hoss put it with the rest of her things. Her face had stiffened, her voice was harsh and impersonal, and the look she gave her aunt would have graced an ice maiden. "Take that away," she said.

  Margret Rosch, who had made such a resolute impression on Grovian in the small hours, was now looking helpless and somehow apprehensive. "But why? I thought you'd like to have a picture of him. I'm sure it's allowed, isn't it?" She gave Grovian an almost despairing glance. He merely nodded.

  "I don't want it," said Cora. "Take it away."

  Like a cowed child, her aunt took the snap from the heap of clo
thes and put it in her handbag.

  "Did you bring the tablets?" Cora asked.

  Margret Rosch nodded. She reached in her handbag and took out a small packet. Grovian thought he knew why he'd failed to get his foot in the door. "That's not possible," he said.

  "But she needs them," Margret Rosch protested. "She often suffers from violent headaches - they're the result of a serious head injury. Surely she told you yesterday about that accident?" The stress on the last word was unmistakable.

  Grovian took the packet from her. "I'll give them to the people in charge. If she needs them, she'll be given them. In the prescribed dosage."

  Margret stepped forward as though about to embrace her niece.

  "No, don't bother," Cora said almost casually. "Pretend I'm dead, that's the best plan. You won't need my corpse for that, will you? If you do need one, try the hospital morgue. There are always a few lying around in there."

  To Grovian, that remark sounded plain spiteful. Her aunt reacted accordingly. She swallowed hard, lowered her arms and made for the door without a word of farewell. A moment later the door closed behind her. With a jerk of the head, Grovian signed to Hoss to leave the room as well. As soon as they were alone together he embarked on a final attempt.

  "Well," he said, "now we can talk in private, Fran Bender. Let's do so like sensible adults. The lake didn't work, and neither will these tablets. Don't even think of trying anything else; I'll make sure you don't get the chance."

  She remained impassive.

  `EA serious head injury," he said deliberately. "That's a pretty deep scar on your forehead - not just skin-deep, the skull was obviously fractured. I noticed it last night. Before you fainted you said something about a crystal paw and how cruel it was of your husband to smoke a cigarette beforehand because the ashtray started it all. So don't tell me you walked in front of a car."

  She smirked at him. "I'm telling you nothing more. There should be some of the weekend left once I've said my piece to the magistrate. What does your wife say when you work overtime? Or don't you have a wife?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Good." The smirk became a grin. "Then tuck her up in the car and take her for a nice outing when you've handed me over. Drive to the Otto Maigler Lido and better take Herr Hoss with you. He can show you an interesting spot. A man was killed there yesterday. Just imagine, the poor fellow was butchered simply because he was necking with his wife and listening to some music - butchered by some stupid cow who flipped because she didn't like the tune."

  "Frau Bender," said Grovian, trying to sound authoritative, "spare me the comedy act. How did you get that scar?"

  She stared at him, her uninjured eye like a hole in her face. He longed to know what was smouldering inside it, rage or panic. For a moment lie felt he'd struck the right note. Then she tapped the right side of her head. "I've got a scar here too, an even bigger one, like to see it? You'll have to brush the hair aside, not that there's much to see. It's a good repair job."

  "Who inflicted these injuries on you?"

  She shrugged, and the grin stole back over her battered features. "I already toldyou. If you don't believe me, that's your problem. My head hit the bonnet, more I can't say. I was high when it happened. The doctor explained to you about my arms, and I'm sure my aunt also told you what my problem was. I used to shoot up."

  She held out her left arm and pointed to the inside of the elbow "I wasn't careful enough - I didn't sterilize my needles. The skin got badly inflamed. See? It's all pitted."

  She ran her finger over the scar tissue. "I tried everything on offer," she went on. "Grass, coke and finally heroin." She laughed softly. "But don't worry, you haven't missed anything, I've been clean for years. Now will you show me where I can change?"

  Although offhand, her voice had a harsh, hostile edge. He had no idea how a traumatized person felt, but the wall analogy struck him as appropriate. In her case he was managing to do what he never succeeded in doing with his daughter: remain calm, sympathetic and patient. He simply imagined that she was standing in front of her wall, defending all that lay hidden behind it with tooth and claw

  "Why didn't you tell us last night you were an addict?"

  She gave another shrug. "Because I didn't think it was any of your business. It's a few years ago now, and it's quite irrelevant. My husband knows nothing about it. I hoped he would never find out. It was long before his time."

  "Whose time was it, Georg Frankenberg's? Did he give you the stuff?"

  She cast up her eyes at the ceiling "Who are you investigating: me or him? What are you trying to pin on the poor devil? You want to brand him a criminal, is that it? Doesn't it fit your idea of the world that a woman can kill someone simply because she's annoyed by some loud music? Shall I tell you something? I really wanted to stab the woman. It was his bad luck to be lying on top."

  Grovian smiled. `And to look, from where you were sitting, as if he were attacking her. You were afraid he would hit her. Did it remind you of what happened in the cellar?"

  She didn't reply at once, just heaved a deep, weary sigh. Several seconds went by. Then she said curtly: "If you insist on sticking to that story, find out for yourself. Question a few more people. You're fond of asking questions. Why should I spoil your fun?"

  So saying, she took a blouse, a skirt, a set of underclothes and her toothbrush from the desk. She didn't ask again for permission, just walked to the door with Grovian at her heels. Werner Hoss joined them in the passage, where Grovian tried once more.

  "Frau Bender, it really doesn't pay to be so stubborn. If Georg Frankenberg

  "Who's being stubborn?" she broke in. "Not me, for sure. I just don't like this probing of yours. You've seen what comes out: a load of filth! And I spun you such a pretty yarn. Romantic to begin with and pathetic at the end. A dead baby - dead babies are always pathetic, not dirty. The truth is dirty. The truth is riddled with worms and maggots; it turns black and stinks to high heaven. I don't like filth or foul smells."

  "Nor do I, Frau Bender, but I like the truth, and in a case like this it would only be to your advantage to be frank with us."

  She laughed mirthlessly. "Don't worry about my advantage, I can look after it myself. I always did, even as a child. I went astray quite early on. Someone like me goes right off the rails sooner or later. There's the truth for you. No one had to give me anything, least of all `stuff'. Anything I wanted I took."

  He stood outside in the passage, chaperoned by Hoss, while she was having a quick wash and changing her clothes - with the door open. As he listened to the unmistakable sounds he ran through the nocturnal dialogue between her and Margret Rosch again and again.

  It got to the point where he felt he must be paranoid to detect a covert message in their harmless words and suspect her shocked and worried aunt of being a bringer of death. But, paranoid or not, he would have to take another good look at the contents of her little suitcase. He could have sworn that she had preserved her imperturbability only because Margret Rosch had brought her something more lethal than painkillers. Perhaps they had merely been a ploy to distract attention from a razor blade or something similar.

  Her brain still resembled a block of ice, impossible to melt or chip away, no matter how hard the chief tried. The only warmth inside her was a searing pain behind the ribs. Margret shouldn't have brought that photo with her.

  It had jolted her badly to see the boy again, looking so innocent and carefree, but that had been her last backward glance. Lot's wife had promptly congealed into a pillar of salt. She was stiff inside, as stiff and cold as Mother had been when she sat on the bed with Magdalena and spoke of the sins the Lord had not forgiven.

  But the boy was in good hands with his grandparents - she no longer thought of them as her parents-in-law - and sooner or later they could tell him his mother was dead. When they told him it would be the truth. The chief could take as many precautions as he liked; she knew what she had to do. She also knew how to do it! Margret also seemed to
have known that opportunities in a prison cell were limited and that she must restrict herself to something outwardly natural and innocuous-looking. The authorities were bound to close the case after the death of the accused. Why should they go on rooting around in filth?

  They drove to Briihl in silence, Werner Hoss at the wheel, the chief sitting beside her in the back. He seemed at last to have grasped that she would remain adamant whether he threatened, implored or even entreated her on his knees.

  Her confrontation with the examining magistrate passed off surprisingly quickly. In a businesslike tone, the chief stated what she was charged with. She listened to it all with an impassive expression. The magistrate asked if she wished to say anything. She said she had already made a detailed statement and had no wish to keep on repeating herself. The magistrate advised her of her rights and formally remanded her in custody. Then it was over.

  A minor shock awaited her when the chief re-examined her suitcase with the greatest care. He even felt the lining as if he suspected the presence of a couple of grains of sand and ended by confiscating the tights.

  "Hey, what are you doing?" she protested. "You've no right to pinch my things."

  "I've every right," lie said. "Besides, it's too hot for tights. You aren't wearing any at the moment."

  Then he left her alone. She had lunch in her cell. It wasn't bad. Compared to what her mother used to dish up, in fact, it was excellent.

  So there she was. It was as if the past had been her life's true objective - as if she were having to recollect once more, with extreme clarity, what a bad person she'd been. Yet the memories she had broached hitherto were still comparatively innocuous.

  She could hear a noise outside the door at brief, regular intervals. So the chief really had given instructions for her to be watched, but he was much mistaken if he imagined he could compel her to delve into the past. Resentment of him stiffened her resolve; and her head, still frozen, generated ideas as clear as glass. She waited for someone else to ask her some questions, but she didn't have to wait for long.