Silence (17 page)

The war—everyone said so, after all—would be over soon. Then Yuri would be able to come back, and she could go away with him. Yuri did not necessarily want to go home; he had said so several times. “It’s no better there,” he had said.

She stroked the familiar face and said, “I asked Wilhelm for help.”

He pressed her close to him. In a whisper, he told her what had happened to him.

Gerhard had picked him up. “He produced a piece of paper saying he was supposed to bring me to Kranenburg for questioning.” And she thought idiotic thoughts like,
So he was in jail nearby the whole time.

There had been another prisoner sitting in the van. Halfway into the transfer, in an isolated place, the van stopped. Gerhard opened the door, took Yuri’s handcuffs off, and said, “Get lost.” Yuri had stood still, firmly convinced that Gerhard would shoot him if he ran away. Gerhard laughed. “Shitting yourself now, eh?” He closed up the van, left Yuri standing at the rear, and went back to the cab. He stopped there for a moment. “You have your whore to thank for this,” he said with a grin. He grabbed his crotch and thrust his pelvis back and forth. Then he climbed in and drove off.

Therese reassured Yuri. “Gerhard’s lying. Wilhelm helped because he’s an old friend.”

When they parted, there was a measure of childlike optimism alongside the pain of separation. Yuri was going to hide out in the forest and try to cross the border into Holland by night. He said, “As soon as I’m safe, I’ll send word to you.” When he hobbled off into the fog and disappeared, she was sure she would see him again. Not in the next few days, not in the next few weeks. But soon.

Chapter 32

April 25, 1998

Robert Lubisch had rented a car at the airport. It was a little after nine and dark by the time he reached the resort. The hotel was near the beach and furnished in an airy, Mediterranean style; it being early in the season, the staff was friendly and helpful toward the few guests. His room with a balcony gave onto the inner courtyard, where an unused kidney-shaped swimming pool glowed turquoise.

He decided to take an evening walk and look around the town. He wrote Therese Mende’s address, but not her name, on a slip of paper and asked for directions at reception. The concierge smiled and said promptly, “Ah, you want Señora Mende. It’s not far.” He explained the route, and Robert strolled through the balmy evening air. The restaurants, cafés, and bars along the short promenade were still uncrowded. He went up some steps, leaving these establishments behind, and entered a narrow alleyway that led steeply uphill. “Señora Mende lives a little out of town, at the highest point,” the concierge had said, and Robert walked up the hill. The one-story house looked unimpressive from the street. Going past the house and viewing it from the side, he saw the terrace lighting, which seemed to float over the sea. Only then did he realize that a second story had been built into the cliff. He stood there for a moment, lost in thought, and a woman carrying a basket came out of the house. She stopped at the wrought-iron gate, looked at him suspiciously, and asked him sharply, in Spanish, what he wanted. He had not planned on visiting Mende until the next day, and in any case he had wanted to inform Michael Dollinger first, but now he made a spontaneous decision. He approached the woman, introduced himself, and cast about for the few Spanish words he knew. Then he gave up and said, in German, that he would like to speak to Frau Mende.

“It’s late,” the woman said reproachfully.

Robert nodded. “Oh, it doesn’t have to be today. But perhaps she has some time tomorrow.”

The woman asked his name again and went back into the house. Ten minutes went by, and he was about to leave, when the door opened and she waved him in. She led him along a spacious hallway with four broad, sweeping, marble steps that led down into a large room. Fine antiques and plain, modern furniture mingled in an uncluttered way. A large picture window led onto a terrace, covered near the house and then open beyond it.

Therese Mende was sitting in a delicate Chippendale chair, wearing a sleeveless, dove-gray roll-neck sweater over light-colored trousers. She gave an impression of brittleness. Robert told her his name, but she did not react; she sat motionless and stared at him. He felt he was dealing with a confused old woman, and he momentarily regretted his trip. He was embarrassed by his curiosity, and his suspicions now seemed utterly ridiculous.

She stood up slowly and walked toward him, her posture very erect. “Please forgive me, Herr Lubisch. I didn’t mean to be impolite.” Her voice sounded hoarse, and the hand she held out to him was cool and bony. She cleared her throat and said, firmly and matter-of-factly, “So, what can I do for you?”

While on the plane, he had considered what he wanted to say to her, but now he felt unprepared and did not really know where he should begin. He decided on the direct route. “Frau Mende, I’m here because I’ve come across something that has to do with you. Does the name Rita Albers mean anything to you?”

He could not discern any movement in her face. She remained silent for several seconds, then pushed a strand of her chin-length gray hair behind her left ear and asked, “May I offer you something? A glass of wine, perhaps, a whiskey . . . or would you rather have coffee?” He chose white wine. She took a woolen shawl from the back of the chair, draped it over her shoulders, and invited him outside. There were two wicker chairs at the end of the terrace. He had not been mistaken. The surface rested, platform-like, on a rocky outcrop from the cliff. The unhindered view of the bay and sea was impressive. They stood there in silence, listening to the gentle, regular rolling of the waves far beneath them.

The Spanish woman placed a small table between the chairs, gave them a glass each, and laid out Mallorcan white wine and a pitcher of water. “You don’t have to stay, Luisa.” Therese Mende smiled at the woman. “My talk with Herr Lubisch will probably go on for a while, don’t worry.”

Luisa glanced critically at Robert Lubisch and then left.

There were low, shaded lamps mounted on the wall on the left- and right-hand sides of the terrace, and their soft, yellowish light illuminated the tiled floor. They did not sit down until the front door had been locked shut. Therese Mende said calmly, as if talking to herself, “Frau Albers called me just before her death. She had found out that I was married to Wilhelm Peters and that I had been suspected of murder back then.” She looked at him. “You know about this?”

Robert nodded. She went on, her voice cracking from time to time. “You say you came across the story, so I can probably assume it was you who gave her the photo?” Again, he nodded mutely. Therese Mende smiled bitterly. “I always knew my past would catch up with me eventually. A worry that has accompanied my life ever since I left, all those years ago. A kind of certainty, almost, that it would happen someday.” She shivered and pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. Then she went on, her voice firm. “I told Frau Albers I would let my lawyers loose on her if she dared to spread half-truths. But she was a journalist, and it was clear to me that she wouldn’t let go.” She cleared her throat. “But please, tell me about yourself first.”

Robert told the story of his father, his death and his papers, the photograph, and how he had come across Rita Albers. “You see,” he said in conclusion, “the police seem to think I had something to do with Frau Albers’s death. I didn’t, or at least I didn’t kill her. But if her death did in fact have something to do with that photo, then I feel guilty.”

Therese Mende smiled out at the sea. She said, quite neutrally, “And now you want to know if I had something to do with it.”

Robert Lubisch said nothing for a moment, then asked, “Does that really surprise you?”

She looked at him. Her face was tanned, and the pale fine lines around her blue eyes stood out in contrast. “No, it’s probably not surprising. I’ve been suspected of murder once before.”

“Do you know how my father came to have the photo? I mean, did you know him?”

There was a short pause.

She did not answer. Instead, she asked, “Have you allowed some time for this?”

He told her he would be leaving on Sunday. He felt a slight unease, suspecting he had relinquished control.

Therese Mende talked, telling him about her youth in the lower Rhine, her parents and friends, and the war. Sometimes she broke off for minutes at a time, looking out to sea as if fishing for the right words there. And when she talked about the prisoner of war named Yuri, he thought he saw again the expression that had so moved him in the photograph. She told him about her love for Yuri and his escape.

It was long after midnight when she closed her eyes, exhausted, and said, “I’m tired. Come again tomorrow morning. Let’s say about ten.”

The wine and the water were finished, and together they carried the pitcher, the bottle, and the glasses into the kitchen. Robert thanked her for the frankness of her account.

“Over the years, I thought I had distanced myself from it all,” she said quietly. “When I went away, in 1950, I only wanted one thing: to forget. Start a new life. But you don’t forget. You cut those years off, and what’s left is a kind of inexplicable grief that overcomes you every now and then.”

Chapter 33

April 24, 1998

He said something to Lili, but she turned her head away, offended because he had ignored her unambiguous nudging at the feeding bowl when he came in. He took an hourglass from the shelf and sat down at the kitchen counter. He owned at least fifty hourglasses; the particularly fine and expensive ones lived in a glass case in the living room. The cases were made of cherrywood, silver, and brass, decorated with figures or painted with great skill. He had bought a gold one in England: it measured out three minutes and was offered as a timer for tea.

This one was made of marble. It was four inches high and measured out fifteen minutes. He loved this visible, silent way of passing the time. Marlene crept up on him, placed her forepaws against his thigh, and looked at him intently with her green eyes. He scratched her head. “Maybe the guys in Homicide are right and it was something to do with a relationship. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.” Marlene curled up in his lap. “This Gerhard. When Therese Peters disappears, he looks around halfheartedly for a bit and then closes the file. It was convenient for him that she disappeared—I’m sure of it.” Marlene meowed, and he stroked her marmalade fur. “You’re a clever girl.”

Lili turned her head, looked at Karl reproachfully, and closed her eyes in boredom, as if to say, Creep!

Karl did not allow himself to be distracted. “And Paul says Gerhard has skeletons in his closet.”

He pushed Marlene onto the bench beside him and stood up. He opened a can of cat food in the pantry. Lili and Marlene leapt to the floor and paced frantically to and fro in front of the feeding bowls. “If this Wilhelm was killed back then, and if his wife did it, where did she put him? They dug up the plot of land. Says so in the police report. But the cottage is isolated, fields and meadows all around.” He filled the two bowls with food. When he looked up, half the fine-grained time already lay in the lower glass cylinder.

He had found the timer in an antiques shop in Nimwegen, and the owner had said, when he turned it over again after fifteen minutes, “So, now time runs back again.” The hourglass was nothing special, and perhaps he had only bought it because he liked this remark so much.

As he was returning it to the shelf, he remembered. “Friday. Today’s Friday, isn’t it,” he said, adding a reproachful, “Why didn’t you say anything?” directed at the cats.

He picked up his jacket and left the house in a hurry. If he was lucky, he would find Paul at the Linden Tree pub. And without Hanna.

The pub was full of customers. The regulars were playing skat at the big old oak table, the bar was packed solid, and a couple of youths were playing billiards in the small adjoining room. A wide brass shade hung over the regulars’ table, and dense cigar smoke curled in its light. Some of the shelves behind the bar were glassed in, protecting trophies and medals from the local marksmen’s association, decorated with pennants and ribbons.

Paul was sitting by himself, as he always did, at the small table next to the counter. He sometimes joined in the general conversation, but usually he just listened to the others, drank two or three beers, and drove home. Karl rapped his knuckles on the bar, said, “Evening, all,” and ordered a dark ale.

Lothar, the owner, immediately started questioning him about the murder, though he did not use the word, referring instead to “the woman who died over there.” Karl was reminded of the saying, “He who lives by the sword will die by the sword,” and thought Lothar had chosen an interesting turn of phrase.

“So tell me, have you caught anyone yet? Was it someone from around here?”

“All in good time,” Karl replied evasively, looking over at Paul. Schwers, the painter and decorator, joined in. “Was it a robbery or what?” Karl shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not in charge of the investigation.”

There was a roar from the youths at the billiards table, and Sebastian came over to the bar. “Six vodkas on Marius’s tab,” he said, grinning broadly. When he saw Karl, he said hello and left hurriedly.

Sebastian had always been in trouble. At fourteen he had broken into his own school; he had been caught selling suspect cell phones, and, most recently, he had stolen a car. Karl caught himself thinking,
What if it really was a robbery that went wrong?

He watched Sebastian, skillfully placing the six shot glasses between his long fingers and avoiding eye contact with him. No. No, the boy would have run away. He would never have struck the woman from behind.

He took his ale and sat down at the table opposite Paul. He came to the point immediately.

“I went to see Theo Gerhard.”

Paul did not look up; his eyes dived deeper into his glass of beer.

“He told me Therese Peters was a slut, whereas he was a thoroughly upstanding citizen who had always done his duty. And no problems during the war. Everything by the book, he says, otherwise he would never have been able to get back into the police force.”

Paul looked up at Karl calmly. “Is that what he says? Must be true then.”

“For goodness’ sake, Paul, if you know something . . . I mean, tell me truthfully, do you think Gerhard had something to do with Albers’s death?”

“I don’t know.” He looked past Karl at the regulars’ table. “He could have.” He took a sip of beer. “That table over there,” he said, “it’s pretty old—did you know that? Four years ago Lothar had a one-hundredth-anniversary party, and the table is probably as old as that . . . They’ve always sat there, all of them. When I was eight or nine, my father used to bring me in here occasionally. Gerhard and Peters sat there, and Hollmann, and the rest of them in their fancy uniforms. It made an impression on me. The flashes on their shoulders, the shiny buttons, the pistols at their belts.”

Karl said nothing. Hermann Gärtner banged the table and laid down his cards. “The rest are mine,” he said triumphantly in his high, feminine voice.

“We had two prisoners of war at the farm, and Peters used to come and check on them regularly. He seemed to respect my father, or at least he let quite a few things pass. The Russians ate with us, and in winter my father used to let them sleep in the house. Peters knew about it, but he never reported us.” He snorted with laughter briefly. “It wasn’t until long after the war that I found out his Aryan credentials weren’t all that clean. His mother, Erna, came from one of the neighboring farms. The farmer was her father, and he acknowledged her as his daughter, but her mother, that’s to say Wilhelm’s grandma, was one of the maids, and her background certainly wasn’t Aryan. They got Wilhelm his Aryan certificate by registering her as the farmer’s legitimate daughter by his wife. When Peters and Gerhard beat up one of the Russians, my father went to see Wilhelm in the town hall and said to him, ‘If you want to go on being an Aryan, I’d advise you never to lay a finger on any of my workers again.’ ”

He fell silent, holding his glass by the stem and twiddling it back and forth. He shook his head in resignation.

“When I came out of school, Peters would often pull up in that big car of his and give me a ride. ‘Hey, Paul,’ he’d say, ‘I’m going over to your place. Do you want to come?’ and the other boys would envy me. I was as proud as could be.”

He raised his glass, looked over at Lothar, and nodded.

“The Russians were taken away in the fall of 1943. I had no idea why, and when I asked at home, all I got from Hanna and my father was, ‘That needn’t concern a snot-nosed kid like you.’ I didn’t know Therese had been arrested too. I hadn’t seen her for a few days, and when I asked Hanna, she told me she’d gone away.

“Then Peters started giving me rides again, even though he didn’t need to go to our place. He asked me if I’d seen one of the Russians with Therese, told me it was my patriotic duty to tell him everything. Therese had gotten involved with the enemy and had betrayed her people and the fatherland, he said. People like her were a threat to our final victory, and I would be doing Germany a great service if I had seen anything.”

Lothar brought a beer and made a mark on the beer mat. Karl ordered another dark ale. Paul leaned forward, pushed his glass to one side, picked up the beer mat, and turned it over and over in his hand.

“I told him I’d seen them together at the edge of the forest from time to time, and that they had hugged and kissed each other.” He snapped the beer mat in two and looked at Karl. “He praised me, said this was an important and secret matter, and that I shouldn’t discuss it with anyone.” He looked down and nodded to himself. “And I thought I was a hero. Me, little Paul. I was sharing a secret of the utmost national importance with SS Squad Leader Peters.”

Lothar brought the dark ale and looked reproachfully at Paul’s hands, which were busy tearing the beer mat into smaller and smaller pieces. “Hey, what are you doing? How am I supposed to know what to charge you if you tear up the beer mat?”

“Three,” said Paul, looking up at Lothar.

“I know,” Lothar growled back, making three marks on a new beer mat and pushing it up to the far end of the table, out of Paul’s reach.

Lothar had been back behind the bar for several minutes, but Paul had fallen silent.

“What happened to Therese?” asked Karl cautiously.

“She was released after a few days. Gerhard had beaten her half to death during questioning.” He pushed away the scraps of beer mat. “She never said. She never said she knew about my telling on her.”

It took Karl a moment. “I don’t understand. She knew, and she married him anyway?”

Paul shook his head.

“She knew I betrayed her. But she thought I had told Gerhard. She didn’t know about Wilhelm’s part in the story until much later.”

Karl was not given to agitation, but right now he was feeling slightly nervous. “So did she really do it? Did she kill Wilhelm Peters back then?”

Paul fished for the beer mat at the end of the table and waved to Lothar. He paid, and Karl hurriedly put some money on the table too.

Karl was on foot. He walked Paul to his old Mercedes.

He made one more attempt: “Did she do it?”

Paul unlocked the car. He shook his head slowly, and Karl did not know whether he was answering his question or refusing to answer.