Sisters of Berlin

by Juliet Conlin

  Nina waits a moment, and gently lifts her hands from Frau Lehmholz’s. The shaking has subsided. ‘But nobody came to talk to you afterwards? No detective?’

  ‘Let me think.’ She shrugs, dismissively. ‘There was this one fellow, Kommissar something, who came to the door. He asked if I’d perhaps seen something through my peephole. Like I was an old busybody, who watches the world through a hole in the door.’ She pulls down the corners of her mouth.

  Nina is surprised that Franzen would show such a lack of sensibility. But then again, she’s never met anyone so impossible to read.

  But Frau Lehmholz hasn’t finished. ‘A rude man, he was. Fat. And even with my eyesight I couldn’t miss that hair. Urgh, I’ve never been one for red-heads.’

  ‘Ah.’ That would explain it. ‘I think it’s important that the police know about this man you saw in Marie’s flat,’ Nina says. ‘If you like, I can phone them. The officer I’ve been dealing with, Kommissar Franzen, is really very nice. I think you’d like him.’

  ‘Well, if you think it might help,’ Frau Lehmholz says and sighs.

  ‘I do,’ Nina tells her and, after a pause, ‘So, Marie didn’t chat with you about this new boyfriend, then?’

  ‘No. But I don’t think they had been seeing each other for long. Such a shame about Robert. He was a very polite, thoughtful young man.’ She takes a sip of tea. ‘This new one, he seemed older than she was. I mean, not as old as me.’ She laughs softly. ‘But far too old for Marie. She was such a young spirit.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why she didn’t tell me,’ Nina says quietly, more to herself than to Frau Lehmholz.

  The old woman reaches over and pats her thigh. ‘Don’t look so glum, dear. It was probably nothing serious. And besides,’ she winks at her, ‘everyone’s entitled to a secret or two.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nina replies, with an unintentional edge to her voice. Of course her sister would’ve had secrets, it would be naïve to think otherwise, but this? What else had Marie kept from her?

  She gets up, rattled. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you, Frau Lehmholz,’ she says, ‘but I’d better be off now. I still need to –’ She glances towards the door. ‘I need to see about sorting out Marie’s things.’

  Frau Lehmholz nods. ‘Of course. And do come and visit me again. And bring the children! Yes, Marie told me all about your children. And your handsome husband.’

  ‘I would love to come and see you again,’ Nina says, truthfully. She bends down to place her cup on the table. Frau Lehmholz has closed her eyes. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ she adds in a whisper.

  In the stairwell, she crosses the hall and lets herself into Marie’s flat before she can change her mind again. The air is stale – a tang of disinfectant lingers in the air – and the light is drowsy. The first thing she does is pull back the curtains in the living room and open the windows wide. The air outside is cool, but fresh with rain, and she takes several deep breaths before turning around to look at the room properly.

  In the middle of the room, cardboard boxes have been piled on the floor, Marie’s laptop placed on top. These are the things the police have examined and returned. A fine layer of dust has already settled on top of them. Nina lifts the flaps on one of the boxes. It contains Marie’s letters, journals, photo albums. She shudders and quickly closes the box and goes into the bedroom. It is a small space, but simply furnished with modern furniture, none of the heavy dark wood of their parents’ home. The room is tidy, too tidy. The cleaners must have worked hard – Marie’s capacity for chaos was spectacular. Nina opens the wardrobe, thinking she might begin here, sorting her sister’s clothes into what can be discarded and what might be given away. Her eye is first caught by a green sequined dress that was always Rebekka’s favourite; she called it Marie’s mermaid dress. Then a tailored suit Nina doesn’t recognise. Black jeans. Blue jeans. A red hippie-style skirt with layers of fringes that Marie brought back from a trip to India. A wicker basket full of bras, socks, underpants.

  As she reaches out to stroke the shimmering sequins of the dress, sadness rushes up and hits her like a short, sharp punch to the stomach. She can’t take it. She needs to get out. She pushes the wardrobe door shut, breathing hard. On her way to the front door, she passes the living room again and hesitates. Then, holding her breath, she forces herself to walk back into the room. She opens one of the boxes and snatches out two leather-bound journals, a photo album and a handful of letters. She has to start somewhere.

  *

  February, 2017

  Marie worked the key into the lock. There was a small grinding sound, then a click, and the door opened. They stepped inside. It was dark in the hallway, the air musty. Marie slid her hand along the wall and switched on the light. Nina suppressed the urge to sneeze.

  ‘What do you think?’ Marie asked.

  Nina blinked in the glare of the naked bulb. She took in the scuffed skirting boards and grimy wallpaper.

  ‘It’s . . .’ She arranged her face into a smile, a little too late.

  Marie caught the look, but pretended to ignore it. She grabbed Nina’s hand and led her further inside. ‘I’ll show you around. It’s even got a balcony!’

  It took less than ten minutes to view the flat – probably closer to five. A living room with a tall tiled stove in the corner, a small dark bedroom, a windowless bathroom and a tiny kitchen. Marie kept up her chatter, trying, Nina thought, to distract from the draught at their ankles and the smell – a combination of stale cigarette smoke, mildew and old cooking fat, whose source it was impossible to pinpoint – by describing where she would put what: the sofa here, her writing desk there, just beside the window.

  Then she gushed about the vibrancy and debauchery of the local area: clubs, pubs, flea markets, indie book shops; where a veggie döner only cost two euros fifty and a Berliner Kindl two euros; and that she, Marie, would be living in the east of the city, and Nina in the west, and how that would make them proper Berlin sisters.

  Then, when she had almost run out of steam, she turned serious for a moment. ‘Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. A favour.’

  Nina laughed. ‘Another favour? You’ll be owing me free babysitting for years at this rate.’

  ‘It’s important. It’s . . . my writing.’

  ‘I can hardly help you with that,’ Nina said, frowning.

  ‘No, I mean, I’ve thought about it, a lot, and I want you to burn my stuff if I die.’

  ‘What?’ Nina let out an incredulous laugh. ‘Don’t be daft. I’m older than you, I’ll be gone first.’

  ‘No, but seriously, Nina. You have to promise. I can’t stand the thought of being up for grabs just because I’m dead.’

  ‘But you’re not dead. And –’

  ‘Promise?’

  Nina breathed out a long sigh. ‘Yes, okay, I promise. But only if we stop talking about it.’ She looked around the room again. ‘The deposit’s three months’ rent?’

  Marie gave a small nod. Then she turned away and began to chew on a thumbnail.

  Nina took her sister’s hand, drawing it from her mouth, and smiled. ‘That’s fine. I’ll transfer it to your account as soon as I get home.’

  Marie hugged her. ‘I knew you’d love it,’ she said.

  ‘I do,’ Nina replied with a smile. ‘But it doesn’t really matter what I think. As long as you like it. I just want you to be happy and safe.’

  Marie gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. ‘Same here.’

  ‘What, you want you to be happy, too? Or d’you want me to be happy, too?’

  Marie grinned. ‘You’re my big sister. You’re already happy.’

  13

  The house is quiet when Nina gets home. For a moment, she wonders where everyone is, before remembering it’s Monday afternoon, so Sebastian will have taken Kai to football practice, and Rebekka is at her piano lesson.

  She heads straight for the study. She closes the door behind her and takes a seat at the desk. It’s covered
in Sebastian’s papers, coffee cups, and an ancient Dictaphone and spare batteries. Nina picks up the telephone and dials Franzen’s number from memory. She counts as it rings five times.

  ‘Yes?’ It isn’t Franzen.

  ‘Hello. Is Kommissar Franzen available?’

  ‘He isn’t at his desk right now. Can I help?’

  ‘Kommissar Maslowski?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Nina Bergmann, Marie Bergmann’s sister.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ he says. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Um –’ She hesitates. She hadn’t planned on speaking to Maslowski. ‘I, um, I just wanted . . . Are you expecting him back any time soon?’

  ‘Not today.’ He sniffs. ‘He’ll be in the office tomorrow from nine.’

  ‘Could you take a message please? Can you ask him to call me back? Either on my mobile or at the surgery.’

  There’s no response, as if he’s simply nodding to dismiss her.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she says and presses the red button on the handset to terminate the call. Then she goes into the hall, plucks her coat off the hook and slides her hand into the pocket. The card is still there. She wonders if he’ll be in his office as she dials the number.

  ‘Klopp?’

  ‘Yes, hi. Um, Herr Klopp? It’s me, Nina. Nina Bergmann. We met a couple of weeks ago at –’

  ‘Nina!’ He sounds pleased to hear from her. ‘Actually, I thought you might’ve called sooner.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry, I – I’ve been rather busy.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ he says. ‘So, how are you?’

  ‘Bearing up, as they say. I’m sorry not to have been in touch.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ he says. ‘I don’t want you to worry that I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to call. To be honest, our meeting only crossed my mind again last night, as it happens.’ He pauses. ‘Yesterday was the anniversary of Sophie’s death.’

  Her insides fold. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmurs.

  ‘So I thought of you and realised you hadn’t called. And it occurred to me that you might have thought my offer was . . . I don’t know, insincere, or made in haste.’

  He has a deep, soothing voice. Nina closes her eyes for a moment and tries to picture his office. She imagines an expanse of oak desk, a hefty leather chair, an exquisite Persian rug, and the underlying smell of Bernhard’s scent in the air. Him sitting on his chair, phone in hand, perhaps glancing out of the window. She wonders if he ever contemplates the momentous history of his workplace, the former GDR press office from where, famously, Günter Schabowski announced freedom of movement for East German citizens on that fateful November night. Or perhaps not – perhaps that event, like so much else in Berlin’s turbulent history, has had to make way for new histories.

  She hears him take a breath. She’s grateful to have someone to talk to, someone who understands how she feels. With a tiny stirring in her heart, she wonders how things might have turned out if her own father had been a bit more like this man. ‘I didn’t think your offer was insincere in the slightest, Bernhard,’ she says. ‘It was very generous of you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Are you going to take me up on my offer?’

  It takes her a second to understand. ‘Oh.’ She laughs gently. ‘I just –’ She stops abruptly, feels silly all of a sudden. What should she say? Please put pressure on the police? Tell them to investigate more thoroughly? It sounds childish, needy and unrealistic. Like Sebastian said, Franzen would hardly thank her for it, and besides, her father has already tried.

  ‘Nina, my dear? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I um, this is more of a courtesy call, really.’ Now, embarrassed by her earlier hopefulness, she wants to wrap up the conversation as quickly as possible. ‘To thank you for your support.’

  ‘Oh.’ There’s a hint of disappointment in his voice. ‘If there’s really nothing I can do . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘So, I take it the police are on top of things?’

  ‘Well, it’s early days, yet. That’s what they tell me, anyway.’ She shouldn’t have called him. ‘But if I ever get the feeling they’re stalling, I’ll be sure to call again.’

  ‘You do that, Nina.’

  Her face is burning as she puts down the phone, and she tries to erase the conversation from her mind. But then she remembers another uncomfortable call she needs to make. Might as well get it over with now. She rummages through her handbag, pulls out a slip of paper and dials the number. A man answers and Nina can hear the TV on in the background.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes, hello. This is Dr Nina Bergmann. I was wondering if I could speak to Frau Thiel, please?’

  ‘No, she’s out,’ the man says.

  ‘Oh. In that case,’ she says, ‘could you ask her to call my office when she gets the chance? I have –’ Her professional instinct tells her to lie. ‘I have some test results for her.’ Nina pauses, then: ‘Is that Herr Thiel?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘Just –’ she hesitates. ‘Anyway, if you’d let your wife know I called, that would be great.’

  She replaces the phone on its base, praying that Frau Thiel will call her back, then realises she has got through the whole afternoon without thinking of food once.

  There is a soft tap on the door. She looks up and sees Rebekka standing in the doorway. She’s wearing her favourite Diesel jeans – the cause of a recent major argument between her and Nina, which ended in an unsuspecting Sebastian forking out 120 euros for the trousers – and a faded green sweatshirt. Her hair is pulled up into a ponytail and Nina can’t decide if she looks ten or eighteen.

  ‘Hi Mama,’ she says.

  ‘How was your lesson?’

  She pulls a face. ‘Still on the Chopin. I can’t seem to get the hang of the second movement.’

  ‘Keep at it, sweetheart.’ Nina smiles. ‘It sounds lovely whenever I hear you play.’

  Rebekka leans her head against the door frame. ‘Mama,’ she says in a tight voice, ‘did you go to Aunt Marie’s flat today?’

  ‘I did,’ Nina says slowly. ‘I … I had to start sorting through her things.’

  Rebekka comes into the room and stuffs her hands into her pockets. ‘Was it really – terrible?’ she asks quietly. ‘Being there, I mean.’

  ‘Oh sweetie.’ Nina gets up to hug her. She holds her in her arms and strokes her back. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘yes, it was terrible. But grieving is a process, you know?’ She takes a step back and looks at her daughter. ‘It’s like a path you have to go down, and the first steps are very, very painful, but over time, each step gets a little easier.’

  Rebekka wipes her eyes on the soft cuff of her sweatshirt. ‘I can’t stop thinking about her.’

  ‘Neither can I. But d’you know what? That’s a good thing. That’s how we keep her alive.’ Her words sound hollow, but they’re the best she has. She’s suddenly afraid she won’t have enough emotional resources to see them all through this. And then what? Her heartbeat slows and she fights back her own tears.

  Rebekka leans in again, burrows her face in Nina’s shoulder. ‘Mama?’ she says, her voice muffled. ‘Will the police find who did this?’

  ‘I hope so, Bekka. I . . . I’m afraid I don’t really know how these things work. But I’m sure they’re doing their best.’

  There is a painful catch of Bekka’s breath. ‘Will I . . . will I have to talk to them?’

  ‘No! No, of course not. You don’t have speak to anyone you don’t want to. I’ve already told them that.’ She doesn’t know if she can promise this, but she knows it’s what Bekka needs to hear.

  Rebekka stays in her arms for a while; Nina hears the long, shaky whisper of her daughter’s breath in her ear. Slowly, slowly, she feels Rebekka’s muscles relax. Then she thinks of something and releases Bekka from her arms.

  ‘Sweetie, I found a dress in Marie’s wardrobe. The green one, you know? The mermaid
one with the sequins. Do you think you might like it?’

  Rebekka looks at her, as if terrified, and screws up her face. ‘I –’ She starts crying. Nina takes her in her arms again, unsure of how to take her daughter’s pain away. ‘How could anyone do that to her?’

  ‘I don’t know, Bekka. I honestly don’t know.’

  14

  Nina heaves the shopping bags onto the kitchen counter and goes back into the hall to pick up the post she stepped over coming in. At the bottom of the stairs, Kai is annoying his sister by hooking his fingers through the loops on her waistband and trying to pull her backwards.

  ‘Stop it!’ Rebekka says. When he doesn’t let go, she lowers her face to his. ‘Leave me alone!’ she hisses.

  Nina flicks through the letters in her hand. Nothing important. ‘Kai, that’s enough,’ she says. Then, to Rebekka, ‘He has to sit still in school all day. He gets overexcited, that’s all.’

  ‘I know,’ Rebekka says. ‘But why can’t he – I dunno – run around outside for half an hour?’

  ‘I know you’re talking about me,’ Kai says, all self-important.

  Nina cups his chin gently with one hand. ‘Now you leave your sister alone, all right? And I’ll let you have ice cream for pudding.’ She pulls his face towards hers and gives him a kiss.

  Kai sticks his tongue out at Rebekka and runs up the stairs. She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m trying,’ she says in a low, tired voice.

  ‘I know,’ Nina replies. Then she leans towards Rebekka and kisses her on the cheek, too.

  As Rebekka heads up the stairs, Sebastian arrives home.

  ‘You’re early,’ Nina says.

  He sweeps past. ‘A client didn’t show,’ he says, hanging his coat up and slipping off his shoes. ‘Bloody idiots. Think I haven’t got anything better to do with my time than sit around waiting.’

  ‘Was it Grünblatt?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The client. The one that didn’t show.’