Sisters of Berlin

by Juliet Conlin

  ‘Mama?’ he says again. ‘If they ever built a wall around our house, I’d blow it to pieces.’ And he claps his hands together and makes the kind of exploding noise only excitable six-year-olds can make.

  ‘That’s good to know,’ she says. ‘Now, close your eyes and go to sleep. Sweet dreams.’

  ‘Night, Mama,’ he says as she crosses the room. Then: ‘I dream of Auntie Marie sometimes.’

  It is enough to make her legs buckle slightly. She turns, and Kai is looking straight at her, his face illuminated by the light from the hall.

  ‘She’s in heaven, I think. She’s happy. In my dreams.’

  She goes back and perches on the side of his bed. ‘Do you miss her terribly?’ she asks.

  He smiles. ‘Sometimes, not always. But don’t cry, Mama. I think Auntie Marie’s having a nice time in heaven.’ He reaches up and wipes a tear from her cheek.

  ‘You’re my very best boy,’ she whispers. ‘You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

  ‘And Bekka?’

  ‘Bekka too, of course. My two very best things to happen to me, how about that?’

  He snuggles into his pillow and yawns. ‘I love you, Mama.’

  ‘Love you too, always.’ She strokes the hair from his face. ‘Nightie-night, then. Sleep tight.’

  She leaves the door slightly ajar and goes downstairs.

  Rebekka and Sebastian are watching TV in the dark. It’s the last few minutes of the news. Sebastian is on the sofa, and Rebekka is curled up in the armchair with her legs tucked underneath her. The remnants of the meal – hamburger wrappers, a couple of pale, cold French fries, small plastic pots of soy sauce and wasabi – are strewn across the coffee table. Rebekka catches Nina looking.

  ‘I’ll tidy up later,’ she says, ‘promise, Mama.’

  ‘Sure,’ Nina says and sits down beside Sebastian. For the first time in ages, she feels the need to be close to him. She hitches up her legs and leans into him, appreciating his warmth. He puts his arm around her shoulder and gently twines his fingers in a strand of her hair. Her edges soften. It wasn’t a lie; they’ll get through this. Everything will be okay. A quiet, barely discernible thought begins to form in her mind, lazily at first, unthreatening. The thought that it’s wonderful to be vulnerable sometimes, to just let go, relinquish control. And Sebastian is so kind, so sweet when she’s feeling low and bruised. But then the thought ripens and twists. He is kind when she is weak. Is this the price she has to pay to make this marriage work? Is this how he wants her to be all the time? She slaps the thought down, panicked. Sebastian is not like that. He isn’t.

  The news ends with the weather forecast, and an indication that the subsequent programme will be replaced by a special broadcast on the day’s breaking news. They’re told how a senior civil servant has just been arrested on suspicion of spying for the former GDR.

  Sebastian grunts. ‘God, they’ve just played this out in detail on the news. What more can they squeeze out of it?’

  On the screen, a man, his face obscured by a raincoat thrown over his head, is being led by police officers through a crowd of reporters.

  ‘I wonder if my father knows him,’ Nina says and immediately thinks of what Frau Lehmholz said about these men being pulled out of the woodwork.

  ‘Probably,’ Sebastian says, but is interrupted by Rebekka.

  ‘Um, Mama, Papa? Would it be okay if I went round to Emily’s for a bit?’

  Nina glances out of the window. It’s pitch-black outside. ‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just for an hour. And she only lives ten minutes away.’

  ‘I know, but it’s dark. And you’ll see her tomorrow at school, hmm?’

  Rebekka lets out a sigh of dismay. ‘Oh, go on, Mama, please!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s a school night, and I don’t like the thought of you out and about at this hour.’

  ‘Papa?’

  Sebastian lifts his shoulders, utterly indifferent.

  ‘Basti,’ Nina says. ‘I need your support on this one.’

  ‘Papa!’

  Sebastian looks pained for a moment, then he says, ‘I’m staying out of this one, girls. You’ll have to sort it out yourselves.’

  Rebekka jumps out of her chair. ‘I don’t believe it! I never get to go out! It’s so unfair! Like I’m a baby or something. All the kids at school get to hang out. Except me. Why is that?’

  ‘Bekka,’ Nina says. She throws Sebastian a look, annoyed that he isn’t backing her up.

  Rebekka pulls a face. ‘What am I supposed to do? Sit in my room? Listen to music? I always do my homework, I study for my tests, I even practise the piano – all without being asked. It’s not like I’m taking drugs or sharing tit pics on Snapchat. It’s so unfair!’

  Sebastian gets up. ‘Come on, Bekka, it’s not the end of the world.’ He holds his arms out, but she wraps her arms around herself instead.

  ‘I think about her all the time,’ she says, all her fire extinguished. ‘When I’m on the bus, at school, especially when I’m on my own in my room.’ She looks up, and has tears in her eyes. ‘And you never talk about her. It’s like she never even existed.’

  Nina jumps up and rushes forward. ‘Oh, Bekka! No, it’s not like that. I think about her all the time, too. And I talk about her with you, don’t I, sweetie?’ She puts her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and tries to pull her into a hug. But Rebekka tenses her body, then turns and dashes out of the room.

  Nina turns to Sebastian. ‘God, I feel so guilty,’ she whispers as they both listen to Bekka running upstairs, sobbing loudly.

  ‘She’s not really coping, is she?’ Sebastian says.

  ‘No, she isn’t. But what do you think we should do?’

  He half-turns away from her. ‘It might help if you ease up a little. Back off, let her live a little and get it out of her system.’

  Nina takes a step back. ‘What? So this is all my fault?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You implied it.’

  Sebastian picks up the remote control. ‘I don’t want to talk to you if you’re in this kind of mood.’

  A high-pitched laugh escapes her mouth. ‘Mood? You think I’m in a mood?’

  ‘Leave it, Nina. I’m not talking to you until you calm down.’

  ‘Calm like you, you mean?’ Her cheeks are flushed and her heart is galloping. ‘My sister’s been murdered, and my kids are completely fucking traumatised about it, and I’ve just been attacked at work by some psychopath who bites his wife’s vulva – and you want me to stay calm? I wouldn’t call that calm, I’d call it cold.’

  She pauses for breath and Sebastian spins around to face her. The sight of his tight-set mouth and clenched jaw sets her on edge and she tenses. A perverse thrill runs through her. Bring it on! she thinks, recklessly.

  But then his face goes slack, his eyes widen. ‘Is that what you think? That I’m cold?’

  His reaction is not what she expected at all. She opens her mouth but no words come out.

  He drops heavily onto the sofa. ‘You have no idea how much that hurts,’ he says, his voice neutral. ‘I feel –’ he pauses and rubs his face. ‘I sometimes feel like I’m out there,’ he gestures around the room, ‘while everyone in here is falling to pieces. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.’ He looks up at her. She’s afraid he might start to cry. ‘And when you say things like that, you make feel like some kind of monster. Like I don’t care, like I have no real emotions. But I do, believe me.’ He looks down, his chin trembling, and blots his eyes with his sleeve.

  Nina’s breathing sharpens. ‘Oh god, Basti. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’ She stumbles forward and kneels down in front of him. How could she be so cruel? He’s not cold, he’s a compassionate, caring husband and father. He’s suffering as much as she is.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Basti,’ she repeats softly. She cups his face with her hands, draws him close. She can smell whisky on his brea
th. ‘But we’ll be okay. I’m sure we’ll be okay.’

  21

  It’s a cool grey day as Nina turns onto Schönhauser Allee. A long, arterial road that cuts through the district of Prenzlauer Berg, it is always, always busy, with everyone improvising their own traffic rules as they go along. As usual, parking is a nightmare. Nina has to weave from lane to lane – looking out for parking on the right, veering left again to avoid double-parked delivery vans. Every third shop is a bar or restaurant, needing their daily replenishment of goods. Honking car horns, the loud rush and rattle of the overhead U-Bahn, cyclists darting out from side streets at speeds that suggest they have some sort of death wish.

  Nina grips the steering wheel and tries to block it all out. But then she’s lucky; she spots a free space about ten metres from the entrance to number 83. She flicks the indicator on and almost collides with a passing cyclist in her rush to turn into the space. The tattooed young woman in short dungarees turns to shout an expletive at her, but doesn’t stop, and as Nina looks up, she sees a sign on the pavement. Loading bay only. No wonder the space was unoccupied. She puts the gear into reverse, hesitates, then pulls the handbrake and switches off the engine. She has no intention of staying long; she probably won’t even get out of the car.

  It took her less than five minutes at lunchtime to find out the address. She only had one patient this morning – Anita informed her ruefully when she arrived that eighteen patients scheduled for the next few days had rung to cancel their appointments, of which Anita was able to persuade only four to postpone instead. Herr Thiel’s thuggery, coupled with Nina’s unplanned days off, has had the worst possible effect: her patients are fleeing in droves. So, she spent her unexpected free time tackling paperwork, but after barely an hour, gave up trying to concentrate. And here now is something she’s been meaning to do ever since Franzen gave her the man’s name.

  There are only two numbers for a J. Fraunhofer listed in the online telephone directory, one in Spandau, the other here in Prenzlauer Berg. Nina was slightly disappointed at first that he doesn’t have a website – at least, if he does, it isn’t easy to find. Regardless of the search terms she used, she couldn’t seem to get past sites for the Fraunhofer Institute. Then, riding on a brainwave, she googled images of Jakob Fraunhofer, and sure enough, found three pictures of a young man. The photos were all taken on different occasions – an engineering conference, the Siemens’ homepage, some writers’ event – but it’s the same face as on the photo Franzen showed her: gaunt, a close-cropped beard, round spectacles, short dark hair. She noted down the address and told Anita to go home early.

  This area of town was once populated by workers, then squatters and now students and artists with healthy incomes. Nina recalls reading how it’s become such a popular area that rental properties are fiercely fought over. Even so, the dark green door to number 83 is covered in scrawled tags. Nina looks up at the building; it’s tall and imposing, with wrought iron balconies and a slightly grubby sandstone façade. She sits in the car and waits. The pavement outside is full of life. It’s a young area of town – even those who aren’t interested in demographics couldn’t help but notice the large proportion of toddlers and pregnant women. As if to prove a point, two women – one heavily pregnant, the other pushing a pram – stop to chat in front of Nina’s car, blocking her view of the front door to the building. The pregnant woman is wearing a woollen hat and a purple-and-brown checked poncho. The other has on khaki cargo pants, lace-up boots and a slightly worn black jacket. But the apparent scruffiness of the clothes worn by adults and their children in Prenzlauer Berg is, Nina knows, a shabby chic.

  She doesn’t have a plan. And she has only two hours to kill until she meets Sara at Marie’s flat. Franzen hasn’t been in touch, and Nina won’t call him, because she can’t bear the thought of being told yet again that the investigation is ‘ongoing’. So she sits in her car and waits. Fraunhofer is probably at work on a Thursday afternoon, and really, Nina just wants to see where he lives. How he lives. One of those Berlin hipsters who may or may not have killed her sister.

  She reaches over to the passenger seat to get a bottle of Diet Coke from her bag. As she tips the bottle to her lips, she spots a traffic warden in the rear-view mirror, on the opposite side of the street. Nina takes a sip, replaces the bottle and goes to start the engine. Then the green door to number 83 opens and a man comes out.

  He stands for a few moments facing in Nina’s direction, as though, in some weird way, presenting himself to her for identification. Then he looks up at the darkening sky and sets off in the opposite direction. Nina doesn’t think twice. She scrambles out, glancing over her shoulder, just long enough to notice the traffic warden making a beeline for her car. She locks the car hurriedly and rushes off.

  Fraunhofer is wearing a knee-length black coat that flaps about his body like wings, and a bright red scarf that makes it easy enough for Nina to keep track of him as she threads her way through prams and pedestrians and bicycles. He doesn’t stop, keeps walking purposefully ahead. He has a laptop bag slung around his body that bounces off his back with every step. Then he crosses the road, not bothering to wait for the green light, dodging traffic, under the green U-Bahn bridge and into a side street. There is a sudden rush of traffic and Nina is forced to wait on her side of the street, until she spots a gap, runs across and barely misses being hit. The Doppler sound of the car’s horn rings in her ears until she reaches the side street Fraunhofer turned into moments earlier.

  At first, she’s afraid she might have lost him and doesn’t stop to consider what she might do, or say, if she does catch up with him. She just wants to see him, look at him, take him in – the way Marie did. She draws a deep breath, but the stench of diesel makes her gag. The street she’s on is largely residential, but she soon sees a bookshop up ahead on the left, with three or four rummage bins outside. As she crosses the road, she notices a café a little further on from that. Bookshop or café, that’s where he must be, and at that moment, he materialises from behind one of the rummage bins. Nina almost runs right into him, but manages to stop a metre in front of him and pretend that her mobile has just gone off. She reaches into her pocket for the phone and self-consciously begins a phoney conversation, feeling like a character in a bad Cold War spy novel.

  But Fraunhofer pays her no attention. He turns and heads in the direction of the café. Nina tracks him along the empty pavement, feeling spectacularly conspicuous. Despite the building’s elegant 19th-century architecture, the café inside turns out to be a Starbucks. Nina follows him in, smiling her thanks awkwardly as he stops to hold the door open for her. He heads for the counter. Nina hesitates, not sure what to do, but is promptly addressed by a uniformed barista, who leans over the counter and waves to attract her attention.

  ‘Hi there, what can I get you?’ he says.

  ‘Um, a coffee, please,’ Nina says quietly, although she feels foolish now, keeping her voice down to prevent Fraunhofer noticing her. She registers an unpleasant taste in her mouth and the beginnings of a headache.

  The barista reels off a list of coffee bean varieties – Maragogype, Ethiopian Harar, Ethiopian Sidano, Arusha, Mayagüez – that mean nothing to her.

  ‘Just a black coffee,’ she says. ‘No sugar.’

  The barista frowns, then smiles. ‘Our weekly special, then. Mayagüez.’

  ‘Please.’ Nina takes some coins out of her purse, trying to keep Fraunhofer in her line of sight without making it obvious that she’s watching him.

  ‘For here or to go?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Would you like to drink it here, or take it out?’ the barista says. He gives her a smile that suggests he’s professionally immune to complicated – or slightly backward – customers.

  Nina casts a look to the left. Fraunhofer is taking a mug of coffee from the counter.

  ‘For here, please,’ she says. She pays and grabs the coffee. Fraunhofer has taken a seat close to the counter, but sits
with his back to her. She hovers for a second – the café is fairly full – but decides on a table near the window, one table away from Fraunhofer. A cardboard shelf displaying bags of coffee beans, which stands between her table and his, enables her to watch him without fear of being noticed.

  But Nina needn’t worry. He appears oblivious to her presence. He opens his laptop and switches it on. His fingers are thin and white, pink at the cuticles, and he taps away expertly at the keys. He appears withdrawn into himself, shoulders hunched, eyebrows pulled together into a frown. Nina takes in his profile. A slightly hook-shaped, but attractive nose; dark eyelashes framing blue? grey? eyes; a busy mouth, his lips working away in some silent incantation as he types insistently on his keyboard. He looks so harmless. And yet. Marie kissed that mouth, ran her hands through his short dark hair, grazed her soft cheek against his stubbly chin, allowed his thin fingers to touch her . . . She probably overwhelmed him, blew his mind. And then abandoned him, left him to his own devices. Until the day he became so incensed by her rejection he battered her to death.

  Then, he turns his head. Before Nina can look away, she sees the brief flicker of a question in his eyes, and she’s afraid he might come right out and ask why she’s staring at him, or worse, why she’s been following him. But his eyes soften almost instantly, as though the question never quite surfaces into consciousness.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says, and his voice is a little reedy, but pleasant. Melodious. ‘May I have the sugar? Or do you still need it?’

  He smiles and points at the sugar shaker in front of her. It takes her a moment to process what he’s saying.

  Then she says, ‘Oh, no, please.’ She hands him the sugar. He smiles and turns away.

  Nina looks back down at her coffee and realises she can’t bear the taste of it. She gets to her feet and, ignoring the sign politely requesting that customers clear their tables, slings her handbag over her shoulder and leaves the café, and heads back to the car and her newly acquired parking ticket.