The Search for Heinrich Schlögel

by Martha Baillie

  He looked around as he ran. A set of tire tracks veered across the road. He shot these tire marks, and the cotton grass, and the pristine sky. He raced down the road, ignoring the pain of haphazard, sharp stones under his bare feet. He photographed the rusting husk of a snowmobile, shot a satellite dish, then slipped between two houses and trotted beside the wire fence separating the airport runway from the town. He shot the fence, he shot the runway, then he turned and saw the sea. Slowing his pace because of a stitch in his side, he jogged left then right, between more houses, and came upon a church. Balancing on tiptoe, spying through a window, he framed the pews. He trotted around to the front of the church, and through the vestibule window he zoomed in on a baby’s bottle left on a shelf. Pinned to the wall hung a display of large brown leaves mummified in transparent plastic. The leaves caught his eye and held his attention. They’d been used, perhaps, to teach the names of trees that grew in the south of Canada, trees hard to imagine: oak, maple, cedar, and birch. He shot the leaves. A brief pressure applied to the correct button, the shutter closed, and off he ran. He jogged past the Northern Store, picking up speed, ignoring the soreness of his feet and the invisible blade that jabbed between his ribs. He collapsed on the rocks and meager grass behind the hotel.

  His efforts were wasted. Taking all these photographs proved nothing. What if he was dreaming all of it—the camera in his hands, the dirt and stones under the soles of his feet? It struck him that time had tried to turn him into a photograph. Time had behaved like a camera, snatching him from the regular flow of months and years, so as to set him apart. Would people start staring at him, would they put him on display, as they’d done long ago with Abraham Ulrikab, and sell tickets? “Step right up, see the German who slipped through a hole in time.”

  Not one of his shots proved his sanity; not one of the images captured by his camera could explain what had happened to him or diminish his solitude. He yanked open the back of his camera and allowed the brilliant light to devour everything. He sat on the ground, arms wrapped around his knees, and sobbed.

  Sobbing exhausted him. The name Jeremy Burton surfaced in his mind. I must call Jeremy Burton and give him back his stove, his cooking pots and their lids, he thought. With this as his goal, he lifted his head from his knees. In the hotel lobby he’d seen a pay phone. His money might be out of date, but he had the change given to him by Monsieur Pierre. He pulled on his socks and boots, stood up, and walked around to the front of the hotel.

  In the palm of his hand lay a few nickels, pennies, and dimes, also several quarters and dollar coins. The telephone accepted all but the pennies, said the information on the front of the phone. He hoped he had enough for a brief long-distance call. He punched zero, followed by the set of numbers he’d written on a scrap of paper and tucked, decades or perhaps two weeks ago, into the tiny pocket of his camera case for safekeeping. The cost per minute for an Iqaluit call appeared in bright numbers on a small screen above the coin slot. He counted out the correct amount. The coins, accompanied by a metallic sound, disappeared through the slot. He heard them drop, one by one, inside the telephone’s collection box, and he waited. He’d bought himself one minute of time.

  In Iqaluit, or whatever place Frobisher Bay had become, a telephone rang. The ringing persisted, and Heinrich hoped fervently that Jeremy would be at home, that Jeremy would be the one to answer. The ringing continued, and then it stopped.

  “Hello?” said a woman.

  “Could I speak to Jeremy Burton, please?”

  “There’s no Jeremy here.”

  “Will he be in later?”

  “You have the wrong number.”

  “I am looking for Jeremy Burton.”

  “You don’t hear so good?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No problem. Your friend gave you the wrong number, that’s all.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You sure he lives in Iqaluit? I never heard of him.”

  “He works at the radio station.”

  “You could try there. But my cousin, she works at the station, and she never spoke of no Jeremy Burton.”

  “Thank you. I am sorry, so sorry to bother you.”

  “Like I said, no problem.”

  “Goodbye. I thank you.”

  Heinrich lowered the receiver from his ear. Jeremy had moved and probably didn’t work at the radio station anymore. But did that prove that thirty years had disappeared? A dull humming emanated from the plastic object in his hand. How much proof do I need? he wondered. Too tired to think, he sat down on the stiff chair next to the phone, the receiver still in his hand. After a few seconds, he stood up and hooked the object in its cradle.

  For Germany he’d have to call collect. He punched zero, and a recorded voice spoke to him. He asked to place a collect call to “Tettnang, West Germany.” He enunciated clearly, giving the correct number and his father’s name, then his mother’s. He waited. Far away, a telephone rang. He pictured his father getting up from his reading chair to cross the living room, his mother coming in from the garden. The ringing stopped abruptly.

  “Allo?” asked a voice, an old voice but unmistakably his father’s.

  “Papa?”

  “Who is speaking, please?”

  “It is me, Papa. Heinrich.”

  Something solid shifted. An ashtray or perhaps a book was knocked over onto a hard surface.

  “Papa?”

  Heinrich waited, listening. He could hear his father’s labored breathing.

  “Whoever you are,” said his father’s voice, “you are not my son, and I am not your father.”

  The voice went silent. Then it spoke again, with the same authority.

  “I have read about people like you in the paper.”

  Far away, air entered and left his father’s lungs. Heinrich could hear the rasping.

  “Don’t you recognize my voice, Papa?”

  “You amuse yourself by stealing and intimidating. You try to confuse the old and the weak. But I am not so weak or so easily confused as you’d like me to be.”

  Silence.

  Heinrich’s palms were now sweating, and he wiped his free hand on a leg of his pants. With his other hand he gripped the receiver as tightly as possible.

  “I took the plane from Munich, Papa. You and Mama saw me off.”

  The leg of a chair scraped across the floor.

  “Do you remember? July 2, 1980. Inge was there also. I flew to Ottawa, Canada.”

  The silence at the other end of the line thickened and spread.

  “Please, Papa, I want to explain. I wish I understood, then I could explain. I am staying in a hotel in Pangnirtung, on Baffin Island. I am in room number fourteen. Two weeks ago, I left on foot, I crossed the Arctic Circle, I walked for two weeks, or maybe for thirty years.”

  Again the leg of a chair, or some other piece of furniture, scraped, and his father’s breathing was audible once more.

  “What year is it in Tettnang? 2010? But you see, I’m not any older. No, you don’t see. How can you? How long have I been gone? You must have come looking for me. Did you? I am so sorry, Papa. Did you come all this way? Will you say something?”

  Heinrich held perfectly still. Somewhere, perhaps in his father’s house, or outside an open window, a dog barked, then stopped barking. Heinrich listened. He could no longer hear his father’s breathing. Had his father set the receiver down on a table or chair and gone out into the garden? Maybe he’d gone to get Helene, to get Mama? Heinrich perched on the edge of his chair and waited.

  “Heinrich?”

  It was his father’s voice, the same voice as a few minutes earlier but more tired, and with a new hesitancy.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “Yes. Yes it is possible.”

  A wild hope seized him. He felt intensely eager and his pulse quickened. He heard water rush from a tap, then stop rushing. He pictured a glass being set down, and heard silence surround it.


  “I would like to think so.”

  “Shall I tell you your nickname? Your nickname is Giraffe. Your older brother gave it to you.”

  A fit of coughing, then slow, careful breathing.

  “How did you find this out?”

  “Schiller is your favorite, or one of them, Schiller’s Letters on Aesthetic Education. Chocolate is the only candy you like, and you don’t let anyone else polish your shoes.”

  “Whoever you are, you have done your research well.”

  Heinrich pressed on.

  “On our hikes together, we took dark chocolate and apples. I know that you brought the chocolate to please me and to reward me. I didn’t need a reward. I always loved to walk. It was what I did best. It was the only way I could please you.”

  Heinrich waited. Perhaps, he thought, I’ve said too much? He held perfectly still so as not to scare his father away.

  At last his father spoke.

  “I do not know why you have chosen to make me the object of your nasty little game. Your prank is not amusing. I may be an old man but I am not so old that I have forgotten how to report a crime like yours to the authorities. You have been trying to find things out about me, but you don’t frighten me. You won’t succeed. The police know very well how to stop people like you. If you assault me in this way again, you will be stopped.”

  “Papa, I have frightened you. I’ve said too much. I am sorry.”

  Again the barking of a dog. Was it the same dog? Did his father own a dog? What did it matter if there was a dog or not?

  “I understand that you do not believe me. But you must, Papa. I know things about you, things a stranger could not know. I am not saying this to frighten you but so that you will understand. How could a stranger find out your nickname and know that you have read, over and over, Schiller’s Letters on Aesthetic Education, or that your son lost your knife with the walnut handle when he was thirteen years old? I did that, Papa. I am the one who lost your knife.”

  The line went dead. Had his father hung up the phone and if so, on purpose or inadvertently? Heinrich, the muscles in his throat tightening, again punched zero and stated his father’s name and telephone number. Far away a phone rang. It continued to ring. Someone lifted the receiver but did not speak.

  “May I speak with Helene Schlögel, please?”

  “Who are you?” asked his father.

  Heinrich repeated his request.

  “May I speak with Helene Schlögel, please?”

  “No.”

  “I want to speak with my mother. Even if you do not believe me, perhaps she will listen. I can tell you about her also. When she was a child she was made to stand on a dock for hours because she refused to dive headfirst into Lake Constance.”

  “Your research has been inaccurate. Helene Schlögel no longer lives here.”

  “I have not done any research.” He could no longer keep the anger and frustration from his voice. “Where has she gone?”

  “I will not tell you.”

  “You must tell me.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “And Inge? What about Inge?”

  “I’m sure you will make inquiries. Extensive inquiries. You seem to be very good at finding things out about people.”

  There was a sharp bang, not metallic but wooden, as if a small drawer had been shoved or knocked into place.

  “I am Heinrich Schlögel. I am your son.”

  There was a sound of papers shifting, followed by silence, next a throat being cleared of phlegm. More elastic silence stretched. It was stretching between what fixities?

  “What is your reason for doing this?”

  “I have no reason except to speak with you.”

  Again, the line went dead.

  For several moments Heinrich sat without moving, all coherent thought erased from his mind. Again he punched zero, gave his father’s name and number, and once more he heard ringing. The ringing continued, it persisted. He’s not going to accept the call, thought Heinrich, and he wanted to walk out the door of the hotel lobby, to keep walking, but he was clutching the receiver in his hand and the ringing would not allow him to leave. Then the ringing stopped. He heard a cough escape from deep in his father’s chest.

  “Papa?”

  “Why have you chosen my son? Why is it me you are attacking?”

  “I want to speak with you.”

  “I wish to know your motivation.”

  “I’ve told you. I want to speak with you. You are my father. Please do not look for a logical explanation. You must choose to trust me. If I tell you that I broke my left arm at the age of ten, what use will that be? You’ll just accuse me of doing research. What if I tell you that I slipped through a hole in time? Will that do as an explanation? I do not understand any more than you do. I know only this: you can choose to trust me. Please, Papa. I need you.”

  Once more the barking of a dog. His father’s dog?

  “My son disappeared thirty years ago. People do not reappear after thirty years of absence except in books and films. People do not claim to have slipped through a hole in time unless they are unwell.”

  “Perhaps I did not slip through a hole in time. I was only trying to offer an explanation. The truth is that I don’t understand. I only know who I am, I am Heinrich Schlögel, your son, that’s all I am certain of.”

  A fit of coughing, quickly stifled.

  “Are you all right, Papa? You don’t sound well. Are you alone?”

  “Why do you ask if I’m alone?”

  “I want to be sure you are safe.”

  “You sound just like my son.”

  There was tenderness in his father’s voice. Heinrich felt he’d been punched in the stomach. He listened for the slightest shift in his father’s breathing.

  “You are a very troubled young man.”

  “Yes.”

  “My son had a gentleness, a deep sympathy for all living creatures.”

  “Yes.”

  “It took me a long time to accept his death.”

  Heinrich leaned against the wall beside the pay phone.

  “We are all animals. We die.”

  “Yes.”

  “For a long time, I imagined that one day my son might reappear. There would be a knock on the door, or I would be crossing the town square and I would see him.”

  “And then?”

  “At last, I accepted my son’s death. I no longer fought against it.”

  “Papa, from Pangnirtung, I took a boat to the end of a fjord and for two weeks I walked, the way you and I used to walk on Sundays in the countryside, only this time I was carrying a tent, a camp stove, and twelve days’ worth of food. I never ran out of food or lost my way; at the end of my long walk I met up with some other hikers, and the fisherman that came for them gave me a ride also. That was early this morning. This morning I arrived back in Pangnirtung. Until a few hours ago, I did not realize that anything was wrong.”

  “I can tell that you believe in your story. And you want something from me. My help? What sort of assistance are you hoping for? I am not the right person for you to ask. Your invention has nothing to do with me or with my son. You have robbed my son, taking parts of his life to fabricate your elaborate tale. Why you’ve chosen to include my family in your fantasy, I don’t know. There are many things that I do not understand. Soon enough, it will be my turn to die, and when I do so I will perhaps come to understand more than I do now. Until that time, I wish to be left in peace.”

  Heinrich let go of the receiver. It dangled from its cord. He snatched it up again.

  “I am sorry, Papa. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “I don’t want you to call again. I cannot help you. What you need is a good doctor.”

  “Papa.”

  “I am tired. Goodbye.”

  A click, followed by a dull humming, a meaningless drone that would have continued indefinitely had Heinrich not put an end to it by hanging up the receiver. A profound e
xhaustion overcame him. Only once before had he felt this tired. He’d sat, that other time, on a sidewalk, his feet in the gutter and cars speeding past, while in a hospital bed his sister raved and hallucinated. Now, he slumped on a stiff chair, facing a pay phone attached to a wall.

  Night refused to come. At last, Heinrich Schlögel, who was no longer Heinrich Schlögel according to his father, stood and made his way upstairs to the hotel lounge. On the sofa under the picture window, he stretched out and waited. He did so without asking himself what he was waiting for. The calm surface of the sea glowed pink and orange, reflecting the gaudy sky that would not darken for another month or two.

  On the shore, a figure stood on a wooden dock that jutted out into the water. Heinrich sat up straight to get a better view. The small person appeared to be his mother. She was about ten or eleven years old, dressed in a bathing suit. He pressed his face up to the glass of the window, which was designed not to open. He watched her curl and uncurl her bare toes. Her toes came into sudden, unexpected focus, as if he were observing them through a pair of binoculars.

  For several minutes all she did was curl and uncurl her toes. The water lapped. Through the closed window he could not hear the water’s soothing, repetitive murmur. He contemplated, however, the small waves rumpling the surface of the ocean.

  It pleased Heinrich that his mother’s bare feet remained firmly planted on the dock and that she did not dive. Those children who had already dived sat on the shore and observed her. He imagined his mother’s fingers breaking the surface, her head entering the sea, the sea that concealed large, silently approaching fish.

  Minutes passed. The girls who were gathered on the shore stared at the plump, plain girl who was his mother, his mother as she’d been when she wore thick glasses that might at any moment shatter and blind her, were she to run or try to catch a ball, his mother before beauty pounced.

  The girls on the shore observed his mother’s plainness and feared it; they observed her solitude and feared it. They were united by having already dived. Helene’s refusal to dive, her refusal to join in, offended them. They did not want to witness weakness and strength inextricably intertwined within one solitary girl. Heinrich, watching them through the window, sensed their fear. The girls on the shore, the girls united by having dived, felt insulted by the thick round lenses of Helene’s glasses. Often, at lunch, when she sat in silence, looking down at her plate, they felt that she was passing judgment on them, as if she were an owl or an old woman. Heinrich understood this.