*
It is almost six o’clock when they decide there’s no more they can do. Boxes and bags for the dump have been clearly marked; the boxes Nina will take with her are piled at the front door. The rest will be left for the clearance company. When she goes to lift a box to carry it out of the flat, Nina feels a stinging pain in her shoulder.
‘Shit.’ She drops the box.
‘What’s up?’ Sara asks.
‘My back’s giving out,’ Nina tells her. She can’t face explaining the whole Thiel episode.
Sara opens the front door. ‘Here, let me take the heavy ones, Grandma.’ She grins. ‘You’re getting old.’
One box at a time, they shift the lot into the shadowy hallway. Nina doesn’t linger in the flat, doesn’t take one last look, but instead, closes the door behind her and locks it with a sharp turn of the key. She looks at Sara.
‘Sebastian wants another baby,’ she says, and her voice resonates throughout the stairwell.
‘Oh.’ Babies aren’t Sara’s thing: she doesn’t have children and doesn’t want any, either.
‘I think he’s serious.’
‘How about you?’
Nina lets out a small, sad laugh. ‘I don’t know, Sara, I really don’t. He’s such a wonderful dad, everyone says so. And maybe . . . maybe it has something to do with Marie’s death. New beginnings. I don’t know.’ She takes a shaky breath. ‘But I – I don’t think I can. I can’t have another baby. I don’t have the energy.’
Sara puts her hands on Nina’s shoulders. They are heavy and warm, grounding her. ‘Then don’t,’ she says firmly. ‘And don’t let him pressure you, either. God –’ she looks up to the ceiling and shakes her head, ‘men are just so – so pathetic sometimes.’
They’re interrupted by the sound of a door unlocking and a keychain being unbolted. Nina glances across the hall just as the door opens a fraction.
‘Marie?’ a voice asks.
Nina takes a step forward. ‘No, Frau Lehmholz. It’s Nina. Marie’s sister. We met the other day, remember?’
Frau Lehmholz pokes her head out of the door, giving her the appearance of a turtle with its head outside the shell. ‘Marie? Is that you?’ She squints in Nina’s direction.
‘No, it’s Nina,’ she repeats. And adds gently, ‘Marie doesn’t live here anymore.’
‘Did you bring my medicine?’ Frau Lehmholz asks, annoyed. ‘I’ve been waiting all day.’
Nina looks back at Sara. She shrugs.
‘I don’t have your prescription,’ Nina tells the old woman. ‘But if you get it for me, then I’ll happily pop out and fetch your medicine.’
Frau Lehmholz looks as though she’s about to cry. But then her face darkens. ‘Don’t bother then,’ she snaps, and retreats inside with a slam of the door.
‘That was weird,’ Sara says. ‘Who’s she?’
Nina stares at Frau Lehmholz’s door. ‘I didn’t realise,’ she murmurs. ‘I – I spoke to her just recently. We had a cup of tea together and talked about Marie. She seemed so lucid, then –’
‘Seemed pretty confused to me,’ Sara says. ‘Poor old thing.’
‘Perhaps –’
‘What?’
‘No, nothing.’ Nina picks up a box and heads down the stairs, making a mental note to contact someone about making a welfare check on Frau Lehmholz.
23
Nina scrapes the rest of her muesli from the side of the bowl and licks it off the spoon. She weighed 48.3 kilos this morning, better than expected, and has decided to reward herself with her full daily allowance. The persistent dizziness is beginning to get on her nerves, and the heart arrhythmia worries her slightly. But by next week, she should have hit the 47 mark. This gives her a comfortable three-kilo buffer, just in case.
Then she’ll stop.
Kai comes into the kitchen, early morning chirpy as always.
‘I think I’ll have –’ He places a forefinger on his chin and puts on his thinking face. Nina can’t help but laugh.
‘I think I’ll have banana porridge and Nutella toast,’ he says.
‘Good morning to you too.’
‘Sorry, Mama. Good morning. May I have banana porridge and Nutella toast, please?’
‘Coming right up, young sir.’ She places a saucepan on the stove and pours in some milk. ‘Oh, would you go and ask Papa if he’d like some? Save me cooking twice.’
Kai turns to run out of the kitchen but Sebastian is already coming in the door.
‘Morning,’ he says. He has showered and shaved and looks rather handsome. All clean and scrubbed like that. Last night, he helped her burn Marie’s papers, letters and journals out in the garden, including the letters from Fraunhofer. In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to read them.
Sebastian built the fire quite close to the house to stop the rain from putting it out, never once complaining when the smoke drifted right up towards their bedroom window, never once suggesting, in word or deed, that this was somehow a childish, superstitious thing to do. He got on with it, tolerating the acrid stink of the wet fire as Nina stood watching Marie’s personal life go up in flames. She kept nothing but the drawings. It was harder, much harder than she could have ever imagined, all her grief honed to a fine, white-hot point. When they were done, they went upstairs together, an almost forgotten intimacy between them, but Sebastian didn’t make any advances towards sex; instead, he just held her close until she fell asleep.
But when she woke, things had shifted. The quality of pain had changed. It wasn’t gone, not by a long stretch, but it has spread out more evenly, now more of a dull persistent ache than that scorching pain. As though something had fallen into place overnight with a soft, satisfying click.
She smiles at Sebastian. ‘No Bekka?’
‘I tapped on her door on my way down. She’s probably still getting dressed.’
She adds the porridge oats to the hot milk and stirs.
‘What are you making?’ he asks.
‘Banana porridge. Kai’s request.’
‘And Nutella toast,’ adds Kai.
Sebastian goes to him and strokes his hair. ‘Good choice, Tarzan.’
Nina looks up at the kitchen clock. It’s seven fifteen.
‘I’d better go up and check on Bekka,’ she says. ‘She’s got an exam this morning.’
‘You want me to go?’ Sebastian asks.
‘No. You sit down and eat.’ She spoons the porridge into two bowls. ‘You’ll just need to add the banana.’
‘Aren’t you having any, Mama?’ Kai asks as she sets the bowls on the table.
‘No, I was up early. I’ve already eaten.’ She points at the muesli bowl, as evidence. ‘Right, bon appétit, you two. I’ll go and get Bekka out of bed.’
*
It is a long morning at the surgery. Before the first patient arrives (one of two women, both in for a check-up, which brings in no more than sixty euros apiece), Nina calls social services to arrange for a welfare check on Frau Lehmholz. They assure her they can add her to their list, but are equally clear that the list is a very long one.
The fewer patients Nina has, the more time she has on her hands to worry about not having more patients. Needing to distract herself, she begins her exercises. She could, of course, tidy up the cabinets, make an inventory of gloves, and spatulas, and swabs, and needles; she could answer her accountant’s emails; she could return the calls from the various pharma company reps, to refill her stock of samples. She could do all of the above, but instead, she takes off her white coat and lies down on the floor. Her abdominal muscles are hard and strong; it takes some fifty or so sit-ups for them to start burning. She has counted eighty-six when she hears a sharp knock and the door opens.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to –’
Nina scrambles to her feet and smiles awkwardly. ‘I – I thought I’d –’
‘No, that’s great. I mean,’ Anita pats her own stomach, ‘I could use some exercise myself.’
Flushed
, Nina goes around behind her desk and sits down. Anita steps forward, clasping her hands together in front of her.
‘Dr Bergmann, I was wondering . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You see, I was printing out the prescription for Frau Markert – for the Dulcolax?’
Nina nods. ‘For her constipation. She phoned earlier and I said I’d write her a prescription.’
‘Yes, but, I was wondering, because Frau Markert’s pregnant, and –’
‘It’s perfectly safe for pregnant women to take.’
‘Well, yes, but she’s in the thirty-first week, and I remember her telling me a couple of weeks ago, when I was taking her blood pressure, that this is her third attempt. At having a baby? She’s had two miscarriages. And when I saw you’d prescribed the Dulcolax, I just thought, you know, maybe she shouldn’t be taking that.’
Nina’s heart lurches. Anita is right. She’s absolutely right. With a risk of miscarriage or premature birth, the patient shouldn’t go anywhere near laxatives like that. How could she have missed it? She, who is usually so scrupulous, so conscientious about what she prescribes to whom. A Freudian would say that this was – in truth – no mistake at all. That she is on a path to self-destruction, and that what she really needs, really, is a malpractice suit to finish her off. She feels the heat rising up her already uncomfortably flushed face.
‘You’re absolutely right, Anita,’ she says. ‘Thank you. I wasn’t thinking. I –’
Anita is blushing, her discomfort evident in the twisting of her hands in front of her. ‘It’s just, I didn’t want to do anything wrong. I’m really sorry.’
‘There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.’ She feels utterly, desperately sick. ‘Could you get me Frau Markert’s phone number please? I’ll give her a call and tell her to drink plenty of water and make sure she’s getting enough fibre.’
Anita nods, then opens her mouth as though to speak, but instead turns and almost runs from the room. Nina takes a patient file from her pile, but can’t bring herself to open it. The energy she felt a few moments ago escapes her body in one unstoppable rush leaving her with nothing other than horror at her own professional misjudgement. Perhaps she should lock up for the day, go home, have a bath. But even the thought of getting up and crossing the room exhausts her. She drags her eyes away from the file to the window. The bottom half of the windowpane is frosted to prevent anyone looking into the examination room from the outside; through the clear glass at the top she can see a flat leaden sky. She feels the weight of it, it makes her weariness complete.
Just then, there’s another knock at the door.
She turns her head. ‘Yes, Anita? What can I –’
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be a nuisance, Dr Bergmann.’ It’s Franzen. He wears a discreetly elegant tan raincoat, and his shoulders are spotted with rain. ‘Do you have a minute?’ As usual, his face gives away absolutely nothing.
‘Oh.’ The sight of him brings her close to tears and she realises how good it feels to see him. She nods and tucks a strand behind her ear. ‘Yes. Please, come in. I’m –’ She gestures in a lazy sweeping motion at the papers on her desk.
Franzen steps in. He has a leather briefcase with him, which he opens and – without a word – pulls out a laptop. ‘Do you mind?’ he asks, and places it on her desk without waiting for an answer.
‘What is this?’ she asks, unnerved.
‘It’s – well, it’s best if I just show you.’ He waits for the laptop to boot. ‘Would you mind?’ he says again and turns the screen to face her. ‘I’d like you to look at something.’
‘Look at what?’ she asks, with a small lurch in her stomach warning her that she might not like whatever it is he has to show her. But he doesn’t answer, just comes to stand behind her.
He double-clicks on an icon and a YouTube video appears.
‘The recording isn’t very good,’ he says. ‘A bit shaky. It was taken on a mobile phone.’
Nina bends closer to the screen, confused. The video shows around thirty people facing forward in what looks like some kind of hall; a school hall perhaps, or a community centre. The light is dim, and, as Franzen said, the image is shaky. The sound quality is poor and Nina can only hear the voice of a man off-screen. He speaks in a rant, angry and loveless, but when he pauses, the crowd laughs and cheers.
Nina doesn’t understand what she’s looking at. Why is he showing this to her? She opens her mouth to speak, but Franzen gets in first.
‘It’s a meeting of Neue Ordnung, New Order, a right-wing extremist organisation.’
‘Neo-Nazis?’
He nods.
‘And why are you showing it to me?’
Franzen fast-forwards a few minutes. ‘Here.’ He freezes the video on an image of the speaker.
On the screen, Nina sees a man, teeth bared and eyes torn open in a grimace of fervour. ‘Who is that?’ she asks, instinctively recoiling from him.
Franzen rubs his chin. It’s the first time she’s seen him unshaven and she can’t help but think that it doesn’t suit him. ‘Günther Lehmholz,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘Lehmholz?’ Nina’s thoughts can’t connect. ‘The old woman’s son?’ Her ears are buzzing.
‘Yes. My colleague, Herr Maslowski, thought he recognised the name from a couple of years back, and it turns out his instincts were right. This man Lehmholz is a long-standing member of Neue Ordnung.’
‘But why are you showing me this?’ she asks. She is suddenly and intensely thirsty, her head is spinning. ‘I think I need –’
‘Please, just another minute. There’s something else.’
Franzen presses play, and the camera scans the crowd once again. Almost immediately, he pauses the video and points at the screen. ‘Here. Behind this man, can you see?’ He removes his finger and straightens up, standing so close behind her she can feel his body heat.
Her stomach flips. ‘Oh my god,’ she whispers.
‘Is it her?’
Nina shakes her head, not in response to his question, but to the image in front of her. On a chair in one of the back rows sits a woman, dressed in black, staring ahead with her mouth slightly open and her eyebrows pulled together.
‘Dr Bergmann?’
She stares at the screen until her eyes sting. She is trembling.
‘Dr Bergmann.’ Franzen’s voice is calm. ‘Can you confirm that this is your sister, Marie?’
Nina closes her eyes and breathes in and out, as deeply as she can. The buzzing in her ears gets louder. Then she nods. ‘Yes.’ The word comes out as a croak. ‘Yes, but –’
‘That’s what I thought,’ he continues in that calm tone, as though what he has made her watch isn’t causing her heart to jolt and tilt inside her ribcage. He crosses the room and fills a glass with water from the sink in the corner. When he places the glass in front of her, all she can do is stare at it.
Franzen closes the laptop. He takes a seat opposite and places his hands, palms together, on the desk between them. ‘This is what we know. We spoke to the informant on the assumption that this is, indeed, your sister. We didn’t give him any details. He said he saw Marie twice, maybe three times at the meetings, he isn’t sure. She came and went without speaking much. Unfortunately, we can’t lean on him too heavily. The anti-extremist division is very – how should I put it? – protective of their informants.’
‘But she’s my sister!’ she bursts out, unable to control the volume of her voice. ‘And this is a murder case!’
‘I know.’ Franzen presses his lips together for a moment. ‘I know, and this is one of the many things that stand in the way of our work. Politics before truth.’ He sighs. ‘But let’s not get into that here. The fact is, these organisations are extremely difficult to penetrate. They don’t just let people walk in off the streets. So –’
Nina interrupts him. ‘Marie was not a Nazi.’ Her voice is almost a growl. ‘I don’t care what you showed me. That was –’ she shakes her head rapi
dly, ‘that was not really Marie.’
Franzen nods. ‘I understand.’
A pause.
‘Do you?’ she says, ‘because I don’t.’
She must have spoken more aggressively, or more frenzied, than she thought, because Franzen opens his hands, palms facing upwards. It is a gesture intended to calm her.
‘Please,’ he says gently. ‘Let me tell you what we are thinking. It’s possible that Marie encountered Lehmholz via his mother. She and the old lady were quite close, you told me.’
Nina nods her head.
‘We’ve ruled out Lehmholz as a suspect – he’s been in South Africa for the past three months.’ He pauses.
He doesn’t live in Berlin any more, so I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like. That’s what Frau Lehmholz told her. Had she known about her son’s involvement with the neo-Nazis? Is he connected with the outcast supremacists of South Africa now? Nina’s mind is contracting and expanding at the same time. She has the feeling she’s in some dream, where nothing and everything makes sense.
‘Are you all right?’ Franzen asks. ‘Maybe you should have some water.’ He gestures towards the glass in front of her.
Nina reaches for the glass and empties it in a few gulps. Her insides are sick and light. When Franzen continues, she hears his voice as if through a layer of cotton wool, dull and edgeless.
‘We’re thinking Marie met Lehmholz in connection with his mother and got access to Neue Ordnung through him. To be honest, I’d hoped you might be able to tell us what she was doing there – right-wing extremism doesn’t quite square with what we know about her. So,’ he tilts his head at her, ‘we’re at a bit of a loss. Is there anything you can think of that might shed some light on this?’
The buzzing in her ears stops suddenly – so suddenly, the quiet is uncanny. She hears the clicking of Anita’s typing from beyond the closed door, Franzen’s calm and steady breathing, a mobile ring-tone from the pavement below.
‘No,’ she says finally, to break the silence. ‘I can’t think of anything.’
Sisters of Berlin Page 17
