The Truth About Murder

by Chris Collett

  ‘On occasion she would come to the church in the evening to sit in silence. It was on one such instance that she stole up behind me while I was working, watching and waiting while I finished what I was doing.

  ‘“Would you like me to hear your confession, Mrs Keller?” When I turned to face her, I noticed immediately the bluish shadow, not quite concealed by make-up, that ran down her left cheek.

  ‘She saw me observe it and turned away. “No, Father, but I would like to sit for a few moments, if you have time?”

  ‘“Of course.” I indicated the front row of the pews, before the altar, and when she sat down, I sat beside her. For a few moments we sat in quiet contemplation, just inches apart. I don’t know if she was aware, as I was, of the thickness of the air between us.

  ‘“Your husband is violent towards you,” I said, after a while. There followed another lengthy pause. Perhaps she was deciding whether to deny it and fabricate an explanation for the bruise. That her eventual reply was an honest one came as no surprise.

  ‘“Not often.” She continued to stare straight ahead at the altar.

  ‘“I don’t understand,” I ventured. “Why don’t you—?”

  ‘“What?” She rounded on me, her voice low and controlled. “Leave him? Where would I go? How would I live, and what would happen to my children?”

  ‘I had no answer for her, recognising, not for the first time, my pitiful grasp on the realities of family life.

  ‘“We all carry our burdens,” she said after a long pause. Her tone had lightened, as if she was challenging or even teasing me.

  ‘“All of us?” I responded in kind, knowing straight away that it was a mistake.

  ‘She moved a little closer to me, so that her shoulder touched mine.

  ‘“If I am not mistaken, you sometimes wish you were not a priest.”

  ‘I should have been appalled and heeded the warning, but I didn’t. Some weeks later, I rode over to an outlying village, to visit a sick and elderly woman. A minor infection had turned into pneumonia, and as she was already frail, there was little hope. I blessed and anointed her and was heartened to find that she seemed better. My mood was lifted, but in my eagerness, cycling up the small incline out of the village, the chain on my bicycle snapped, which meant pushing it the five miles back. A low rumble in the darkening sky signalled an oncoming summer storm, so I took the quickest route, along the river path, across the fields. But I hadn’t gone far when the rain began to fall in great sheets. I knew that there was a byre in one of the fields, so I pushed on to it and ran inside to shelter until the storm had passed. I think we were both equally startled when I came face to face with Martha Keller.

  ‘“Father Franck! You were caught too,” she said. “I came out for some air. The house is so stifling today.”

  By now the young priest is sitting forward in his seat, holding his head between his hands. I know what he is about to say next, and now I think I understand what it is that torments him. I feel a crushing disappointment, but wait patiently for him to continue, even though I now see how it will end.

  ‘Common sense told me that this was stupid,’ he said eventually. ‘That I should walk on, regardless of the rain. But then the thunder crashed directly overhead, seeming to shake the foundations of the building, and she grabbed at my arm, drawing herself closer to me.

  ‘I put a protective arm around her, and tried to reassure her.

  ‘“It’s only nature,” I said. “It’s nothing to be frightened of.” I cannot make excuses for what happened next, except to say that it had been so long since I’d held another human being so close to me, and all control and reason left me. But just as quickly, the heat of desire was subsumed by the agony of guilt and shame.

  ‘And do you know what she said?’ On his face is a sardonic smile. ‘“It’s only nature. It’s nothing to be frightened of.”

  ‘Of course, I was worried about the . . . consequences of our actions. But she told me there could be none.

  ‘She was so calm. “I am already expecting a child, by my husband. It’s early and I haven’t been to the doctor yet but I’m quite certain. I will tell Gregor when he returns home.”

  ‘And I naively thought that I was being spared for my recklessness, and that all I was left with, on the long trudge back to the church, was the revulsion I felt for my own weakness. Afterwards I was convinced that my guilt was visible, like stigmata, and spent hours in private prayer, asking for forgiveness.’ He pauses, lost in his own torment.

  ‘And after that?’ I ask.

  ‘We never alluded to that day,’ he says. ‘Though she stopped coming to the church in the evenings. She seemed more radiant than ever as the pregnancy began to show. It made me wonder if I had simply been a challenge for her to overcome. As time went on, my life returned to some semblance of normality.’

  I make to say something to reassure him that one aberration need not damage his vocation, but he silences me with a hand. He hasn’t finished.

  ‘Some months later, I was awoken from deep sleep by the persistent ringing of the telephone. It was a little past three a.m. A call at this time of night means only one thing, doesn’t it? Though I couldn’t bring to mind any parishioners on the cusp of their final journey. Though thick with emotion, the voice I heard was instantly recognisable and I recoiled with shock.

  ‘“Father Franck, you have to come. It’s all going wrong. You have to come.”

  ‘The Keller residence was on the opposite side of the town and I pedalled for all I was worth through the deserted streets, the cobbles slick with rain and my heart clenched with anxiety. The house was the only one ablaze with lights. It was big and square, a testament to Gregor Keller’s wealth and ambition. They had anticipated my arrival, and the door opened immediately. I climbed the steps. Maria, the help, greeted me with hope and expectation — now the Father was here, he would make things right. An agonised howl erupted from somewhere upstairs and as I handed my coat and hat to Maria, Gregor Keller descended the stairs towards me, for once lacking in composure.

  ‘“Come in here, Father, the doctor and midwife are with her now.” He took me into his study and offered me a drink. When I declined, he poured a large one for himself.

  ‘We made rather desperate small talk while the cries from upstairs continued, then I asked if he would like to pray. Suddenly there was the loudest cry followed by a dreadful, ominous silence. When Doctor Vengt appeared, he was grim.

  ‘“It’s done,” was all he said. “Your wife lost a good deal of blood, so she is weak, but with rest and a good diet she will recover. The baby seems robust,” he added. “However . . . well, you will see for yourself.” He placed a hand on Keller’s shoulder. “Father Franck,” he said. “Mrs Keller would like to see you now. She wants you to bless the child.” He raised his eyebrows, as if this was an extraordinary request. Leaving the room, I lingered for a moment by the door and overheard the doctor.

  ‘“I did suggest to your wife that we deal with things now, but she became rather distressed, and with the priest in the house. . .” I climbed the stairs, preparing for the worst.

  ‘Pale and damp with exhaustion, Martha Keller sat up in bed cradling her baby, while the midwife fussed around her. She was in better spirits than expected.

  ‘“I’m so glad you’re here,” she smiled. “Isn’t she beautiful?” I realised that, until that moment, I had not known if the child was a girl or boy. I stepped closer to look, and wondered how the doctor could be so sure of his conclusions.

  ‘“She is,” I agreed.

  ‘I blessed the child and afterwards I walked Fraulein Edelman — the midwife — back to her home.

  ‘“One of my most difficult deliveries,” she told me. “I was so afraid that one or both of them might die.”

  ‘“The doctor thinks the child should be sent away,” I told her.

  ‘She nodded. “Mrs Keller told him that she and her husband will decide when she is feeling stronger. She’s a woman who k
nows her own mind.”

  ‘“She does indeed.”

  ‘As Isabel grew, the doctor’s recommendations became all the more baffling. She perhaps did not progress in the same way as other children, but the only cloud over her young life was the seizures which seemed to occur with increasing regularity. She developed into a delightful toddler, fair-haired, blue-eyed and with chubby, pink cheeks. Her older siblings adored her and it seemed to me that she made the Keller family complete.

  ‘A few months ago, Martha told me it had been suggested that Isabel be sent to a specialist clinic, where she could receive the most up to date therapies. Knowing that she must do the best thing for her little girl, she sought God’s guidance and was persuaded. She would miss Isabel enormously, but would be able to visit in a few weeks, when Isabel had settled into her new life.

  ‘On the Sunday after Isabel left for the hospital, Martha’s distress was palpable. It was as if some of the light had gone out of her world. When the first visit was due, I called in at the bookseller’s and bought a picture book of nursery stories, which I wrapped and took to the Keller house. Maria answered the door.

  ‘“Who is it, Maria?”

  ‘I heard her voice first, and then Martha herself appeared, her eyes raw from crying. I scrutinised her face for bruises, but could see none.

  ‘“Is everything all right?” I asked, and followed her inside, where she handed me a letter.

  ‘“This came yesterday.” It was from the hospital and explained that regrettably Isabel had developed an infection, making it necessary to postpone the visit.

  ‘“I’m sorry, you must be disappointed. I know how much you were looking forward to it.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “Perhaps by next week—?”

  ‘Her hand shaking, she passed me a second letter.

  ‘“It came today,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  ‘In the starkest of terms, the letter stated that Isabel Keller was dead. The infection had worsened, and she had succumbed to it. Holy Mother of God. Martha wanted to collect her ashes right away, but her husband had forbidden her to go. With some reluctance, I agreed to help, which meant travelling to the hospital where Isabel had died, a twenty-mile bus ride away. To be honest, I was partly driven by curiosity — I wanted to see for myself. The director was businesslike. The nameplate on his door bore an impressive set of medical credentials. He seemed not the least bit perturbed by my visit, and explained to me the course that Isabel’s illness had taken.

  ‘“The speed of it took us all by surprise, Father,” he said. “It was an especially virulent form of scarlet fever and Isabel Keller was one of several children we lost at the same time. It was distressing for everyone. I did tell Mr Keller all of this, and he seemed to accept it and understand.” He gave me the urn containing a pitifully small quantity of remains. “Perhaps you would like to see more of the hospital?” he offered.

  ‘It was saddening to see so many unfortunates together in the one place, though I would be able to tell Martha that Isabel’s last days were spent in a pleasant environment. But when the director showed me out at the end of the visit, I felt . . . unsatisfied, as if it was somehow all too good to be true. I walked back down the long drive a little way behind three people, two men and a woman in hospital uniforms. They were talking and laughing, shaking off the cares of their working day.

  ‘Guided by some inexplicable instinct, I followed them back to the town. As we reached a junction, the woman bid goodbye to her companions and peeled away from the men. In the town centre the men parted company, too — one making off along a side street, while the other went into a bar. I followed him inside, wrapping my scarf over my collar. He was at the bar paying for beer and a shot of something stronger, which he took to an empty corner of the room. The bar was a lively place, but the man avoided eye contact and ignored the banter. I ordered a beer and took it to an adjacent table. The young man emptied both glasses quickly and was soon ordering more. As he returned to his seat and passed my table, I raised my glass to him. His eyes fleetingly met mine, before he returned to his seat and went back to staring sightlessly in front of him.

  ‘“You work at the hospital,” I said, raising my voice a little.

  ‘“How do you know that?” He was instantly on his guard.

  ‘“I was visiting. I left at the same time you did.” I loosened my scarf so that he would see my collar, knowing it would either reassure him or frighten him off. “It must be challenging work that you do.”

  ‘“If that’s what you want to call it,” he said. He was already halfway through his second beer.

  ‘“Can I get you another?” After the smallest hesitation, he acquiesced and, returning with the drinks, I joined him. He didn’t object.

  ‘“Are you a Jesuit?” he asked.

  ‘I shook my head. “Roman. And you?”

  ‘He shook his head. “Were you at the hospital to pray for those poor souls?”

  ‘“I knew a patient there, a child. She died.”

  ‘The combination of the drink and perhaps the implicit trust in a man of the cloth was loosening his tongue.

  ‘“They’ll all die,” he said, contemptuously. “One by one.”

  ‘“Her name was Isabel Keller. Did you know her?”

  ‘“We’re not told their names,” he said, staring into space. “They say that would make it harder.”

  ‘“Oh?” My heart began beating a little faster and I sipped my beer, my mouth suddenly dry.

  ‘He looked at me sympathetically.

  ‘“What were you told, Father?” he said. “That it’s a wonderful hospital, with the latest up to date treatments, that the child benefited from the most modern interventions?” He sneered. “It’s all lies. The child was brought here to die, along with all the others like her. I should know — we’re the ones who carry out their sentences, my two colleagues and me. Everyone in the town here knows. They pretend not to, but they do.” For the first time, he let his eyes sweep around the room. “That’s why no one comes near me. But what frightens them most is that they’re glad that it’s done, and even more glad that it isn’t them who has to do it, or has to live with it.” He told me a little bit more about his job, about what he did every day at the hospital, and revulsion made my skin crawl and my stomach churn.

  ‘“So,” he said finally, swigging back what remained of his schnapps and wiping a hand across his mouth. “Ask your God to forgive me that.”

  ‘Placing his glass down on the table, he got up and lurched out of the bar before I could think of a rejoinder. Many pairs of eyes watched him go, I noticed, though no one spoke a word. After his departure, I drank a couple more beers to try and quell the turmoil inside me. I was the worse for wear when I returned late that night on the bus.’

  * * *

  A flicker of lightning illuminates the room.

  ‘That was more than a week ago,’ he tells me. ‘I still have Isabel Keller’s ashes — if that’s what they really are. But how can I even face Martha Keller now that I know what goes on at that place? How can I stand in the pulpit and preach about a merciful God?’ His eyes blaze at me. ‘Do you know how it works, what they do to those children? In the early days, they were simply given an overdose of medication. The method was favoured over slow starvation as being more humane. But that was the old way. What they have now is much more efficient — a kind of a holding room into which noxious gas is introduced. It’s over in minutes. The staff who administer this are paid handsomely for their work, and after every fifty deaths, they celebrate. They have a party with wine that Herr Director brings in specially, to toast their contribution to this great country of ours.’

  I am stricken with shame and he sees it on my face.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ he says. ‘You know all this and yet you say and do nothing.’

  And I have no answer, none that would satisfy him. I could tell him that until now, I’ve had only hearsay and testimony within the seal of the confessional. I c
ould fall back on the Fulda agreement, citing the fragility of our Church’s relationship with the state. But he is right, it is not enough. The time for prevarication is over.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say, as I walk with him to the door, ‘why are you so affected by this child? Martha Keller is one of your flock, but why do all this for her?’ He says nothing. ‘Is it because on that afternoon in the barn, she lied to you? Is it because you knew, from the night she was born, that Isabel Keller was your child?’

  His silence is my answer.

  * * *

  When the young priest arrived, the storm had yet to break. Now, it seems like a portent. Shortly after his departure, at around six, when the heat and airlessness are suffocating, an enormous crack shakes the foundations of the Bishop’s Palace. Clemens von Galen goes to the window and is dazzled by lightning that splits the sky in two, illuminating the cobbled streets that are soon slick with rain. Booming thunder rumbles all around while he grapples with what he has just been told. In his head now is the proof with which he’d hoped he would never be presented, in words so plain that he can, in good conscience, no longer ignore it. The young priest was right, for too long the Church had stood by and done nothing, or, even worse, looked the other way. Now, it is time to act. Rain batters the leaded windows as the storm rages. In this increasingly chaotic world, his would always be a difficult path to tread. He has recently been made aware of the nickname that is being attributed to him locally, and it seems now as if God Himself is challenging it through the elements: Do you deserve it, this title that has been bestowed? Are you a lion or merely a weak and feeble lamb? Closing the window and turning away from the wild night, the bishop sits down at his desk to compose the most significant sermon of his life.