Knut and Janina come over at six.
Cora and Vera embrace, squealing as though they haven’t laid eyes on each other for months, although during the course of the past several days, Vera has been spending almost every afternoon at Cora’s house. Janina’s carrying a bowl of pasta salad, which, together with a bag of veggie burgers, will serve as the evening meal. Richard’s in the kitchen, trying his luck with a crème brûlée. Babak’s sitting at the table with a glass of beer whose foamy head has collapsed, though he hasn’t drunk a bit of it. He looks like a person who hopes he might be allowed to chop a few vegetables. When he stands up to greet Knut and Janina, he bangs his knee against the table leg, murmurs an apology, and gets tangled up with Janina, who tries to hug him as he holds out his hand to her. Although Babak knows the other guests, he behaves as though he’s inadvertently stumbled into a family gathering.
“Children! Stop screaming so much!”
“What are you making there?”
“The key is to make sure the caramel layer is absolutely perfect. Brown sugar doesn’t work, it burns too fast.”
“He must have read that online. He’s making it for the first time.”
“God, Britta!” In the middle of the kitchen, Janina pulls her tight and hugs her long and hard. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Britta returns the embrace. Giddy with happiness at being home again, she lifts her friend off her feet and turns with her in a circle, as though she were her personal savior. Then, slightly embarrassed, she busies herself with transferring the pasta salad to a big ceramic bowl painted inside and out with ants, pill bugs, and other insects.
“Get yourself a beer,” Richard says to Knut. “And pour the girls some prosecco.”
Knut opens the refrigerator, takes out a can, immediately pops the top, and puts a bottle of prosecco on the kitchen table.
“Have you heard that Freyer wants to ban the import of foreign beers?” Knut drops his chin and imitates rather perfectly the chancellor’s way of speaking: “German beer is German tradition.”
“That means no more Staropramen.”
“Or you’ll have to buy it on the black market.”
“Cheers.” They tap beer cans and then hold them out toward Babak, who quickly lifts his glass and takes a sip of the now-tepid liquid.
“How was your vacation?” Janina has sat next to Britta at the table, while the men are standing around the countertop. The girls have disappeared into Vera’s room, where they’re playing a game Britta doesn’t recognize. It apparently involves reciprocal hitting—slapping sounds can be heard, followed by screams of “Owww!” and laughter. Britta pours prosecco into the glasses, raises hers in a toast to the others, empties the glass in one swallow, and pours herself another.
“Sorely needed,” she says, whereupon Janina laughs in agreement.
Britta has told Richard she was going through a collapse, probably burnout, a kind of nervous breakdown that was ultimately the very thing Guido Hatz had predicted. Between one moment and the next, she’d found that she couldn’t go on, she needed a break, she had to get away fast, away from everything, so that she could have time to reflect and to find her way back to herself.
Richard has accepted all this. He hasn’t asked why she didn’t simply call him to explain. Or why she’d said in her note that she had to go away for business reasons. He’s uttered not so much as a word about her ragged clothes, her unwashed hair, or the fact that she’s lost at least fifteen pounds. Only his reserved attitude expresses his disbelief. She thinks highly of him for not trying to drag the truth out of her. She knows that he suffered from unbearable anxiety, which he had to repress so as not to worry Vera, and that he’s almost as exhausted as she is. In spite of everything, they’re not arguing, and she knows it’s because they’ve made a tacit agreement to live with a lie—Richard naturally assumes she has her reasons—and this fact provides further proof that all the decisions she made with the aim of protecting her family were correct.
“So where were you?”
“In a little place outside Celle, not all that far away. A family-run boardinghouse with just a few rooms. I was the only guest. There’s a wellness spa nearby, and also a few hiking trails, but I stayed in my room and didn’t even turn on the TV. I have no idea how the time passed. Apparently it needs no help doing that.”
Knut and Janina laugh. The more Britta tells the story, the more credible its details sound.
Babak gazes at her with friendly approval; he likes not having to talk.
“Why did you tell Richard you were on a business trip?”
“I didn’t want to answer any questions. I didn’t want him to be worried.”
“Well, I was a little worried, all the same,” says Richard, playfully aiming his kitchen torch at Knut, who threatens him with a knife and cries, “Much to learn you still have, young Jedi.”
“And how are you feeling now?”
Britta smiles. “Much better.” She empties her second glass of prosecco and pours another. “A few decisions have been made.” An expectant silence falls, and all eyes turn to Britta, as if this were more than a spontaneous, come-as-you-are gathering, as if they’ve all come here because Britta wants to announce something.
“I’m giving up the practice.”
Knut and Janina stare at her, dumbfounded. For a few seconds, they’re too surprised to say anything. Britta sits between her friends with a grin on her face. She has pulled off a coup.
“You can’t be serious!”
“Are you trying to fool us?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“This is simply the right moment.” Britta’s eyes meet Babak’s, and they nod to each other. “The time is ripe for a change.”
It’s clear from looking at Knut and Janina that they can’t imagine Britta without her practice. Their faces reflect a question she’s been asking herself for days: What will be left of her when The Bridge no longer exists?
“As long as Richard’s so busy with his work, I’ll just take it easy at first. Afterward we’ll see. Something’s sure to occur to me.”
“Well, then.” Knut raises his glass, a little hesitantly. “Congratulations. Or is that wrong?”
“It’s exactly right.”
They clink glasses. While Britta downs her third prosecco, she feels with every fiber of her being that everything is, in fact, exactly right. Although she’s been home from exile for only five days, she’s already adjusting to her new life, and it feels good to her. She has let Henry go and is enjoying the privilege of doing her own housecleaning. She gets up early in the morning, makes breakfast for the family, takes Vera to school, and then calmly dedicates herself to housework. Around ten thirty, Babak blows the Hilux’s horn outside her front door and Britta climbs in beside him for their daily trip to Wiebüttel, where they—as they say—“feed the cat.”
When they went to see him for the first time, he began to bellow as soon as they took the tape off him. Babak tried to put the water bottle to his lips, but he was yelling so loud that they had no choice but to stuff the gag back in his mouth.
“Let’s just wait,” Britta said. “After twenty-four hours without water, he won’t resist when we try to give him some.”
For a while, they observed the spastic convulsions Hatz was having on the floor. These grew weaker as his rage subsided and his mood deteriorated to dull despair.
The next day, things went better. When they removed his gag, he didn’t throw another tantrum; on the contrary, he’d been waiting for them, he watched them, and he swallowed, mutely and greedily, everything they held to his lips. They made a toilet out of a chair without a seat, shoved a bucket under it, and let Hatz, his legs still bound, squat down. When he’s finished, they dispose of his excrement. A distinctly unpleasant activity, but more unpleasant still are the daily dialogues, which repeat the same, unchanging pattern. Because they feel sorry for him, they tell him lies, even when doing so is pointless.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Everything’s turning out the way you wanted. Julietta and two other fighters have joined Empty Hearts. The Bridge is ending all its own operations and getting out of the game.”
“Then why are you still holding me here?”
“For your own safety.”
“But that’s bullshit!” This is the point where Hatz talks himself into a rage, every time. “It makes no sense! My people will find me! They’ll get me out of here!”
“It’s only a question of when,” says Britta.
To gain time, Babak takes care to move the Hilux regularly. He uses Hatz’s crypto phone to write messages to “Heart” as well as to two other numbers that he and Britta believe are those of contacts in the intelligence services. “Everything under control,” or “All going according to plan,” or “New assets placed under Heart’s command.” Julietta, Jawad, and Marquardt have instructions to carry their new cell phones with them at all times and to send occasional messages to Hatz’s crypto phone, in military-style shorthand: “arrived at HQ,” “orders received,” “acquisition of equipment begun.” The last message was received the previous day, so Britta knows it can’t be much longer now. Julietta’s been instructed to fix the time of the action herself. There’s only one criterion: soon. The tension grows daily; it’s like old times, when they were waiting for the start of their first operation.
“And what’s going to happen with…” Janina breaks off and blushes.
“With Babak?”
“To be honest, I was thinking about our house.”
Britta puts a hand on Janina’s arm. “Not to worry. Our deal’s still good.”
Janina tries not to look too relieved. Britta tries not to imagine how one day she’ll drink coffee in that house of horrors, in the kitchen on whose floor she spent the worst hours of her life. She imagines Hatz sitting in that cellar forever, shrunken, isolated, vitiated, while the girls romp around upstairs and Janina serves homemade carrot cake.
“Babak’s about to start working with Swappie,” Richard announces. “He’s going to develop the algorithm that will make us the market leaders.”
An embarrassed Babak demurs while Knut and Janina applaud and demonstrate, with many “ohs” and “ahs,” that his future is just as important as theirs. Babak and Britta exchange an intimate smile. They’ve talked a great deal in the past few days, partly about old times, but also about how things will be, starting now. They’ve agreed that big changes won’t be necessary, that they’ll still see each other regularly, and that Babak, since he’ll be working with Richard, will remain in the family. They’ve held hands and embraced each other a good deal. They’re thoroughly aware that something is coming to an end, and that nothing in the world will replace what The Bridge was for them.
Babak’s presence this evening raises the number of diners to seven, so Richard pulls out the table in the dining area. Vera and Cora come storming in and want to help set the table, a sure sign that they’re hungry. Under Britta’s supervision, they distribute more dishes from the insect series: plates with earwigs, cups with millipedes, small bowls with cockroaches.
“Perfect!” Richard cries from the kitchen. “Simply perfect!” Britta’s happy his crème brûlée has turned out well, as happy as though the dessert were some sort of oracular sign.
The meal runs its course, problem-free. The company chatters about this and that and makes jokes about the threatened beer embargo; Knut mimics Regula Freyer again, and everyone laughs. Talking about politics doesn’t bother Britta anymore. The girls annihilate their pasta salads in seconds and ask if they can watch an episode of Megamania, which broadcasts before the television news on Friday evenings. When Britta consents, the two charge into the television corner, shrieking for joy, whereupon Richard yells after them that they must not be so loud.
Janina tells the others about a teacher who starts to sing when she gets angry, probably to keep herself from screaming.
“Take your see-eats, take your see-eats, and be still, and be still,” Janina sings, to the tune of “Frère Jacques,” while the others bend over with laughter. Then they amuse themselves for a while by singing instead of talking—“Pass the sa-halt, pass the sa-halt, thanks so much, thanks so much”—and go from one laugh attack to the next. It does good to laugh like that, senselessly, foolishly, fueled by a few glasses of prosecco and a gathering of people who want nothing more than to be merry.
“Awesome, babe!”
“Helicopters!”
“Hey, look at that. Are those tanks?”
“Soooo many!”
“Mommy, come see!”
It’s Babak who gets up first.
“What’s going on?”
“They broke into the series,” says Vera.
The government district in Berlin. If the television report were in black-and-white, it could be mistaken for historical footage—a world war, the building of the Berlin Wall, something from the twentieth century. A convoy of armored vehicles drives through the Tiergarten park. Crouching soldiers run across the patch of grass in front of the Reichstag and surround the building while helicopters fly in circles overhead. When the picture changes, a special forces team, dressed in black, can be seen storming the CCC’s party headquarters on Savignyplatz.
“As if by a miracle, no one, except for the suspected terrorists themselves, seems to have been hurt,” says the voice of the female news anchor. “According to the police, three suspects are dead, one woman and two men.”
“So what happened?” Richard asks.
They’re standing in a huddle on the star-shaped rug pattern, five adults, staring at the TV screen while the two little girls bounce excitedly on the couch.
“A string of attacks in Berlin,” Britta says. “Apparently, different government buildings were targeted, but without success.” Babak, who’s standing right next to her, gives her a poke in the side as a reminder that she can’t know more than the television does.
“I can’t believe it.”
“Is this intense or what?”
“It’s a goddamned movie or something.”
Knut, Richard, and Janina vie with one another to express their consternation, which is mingled with a trace of avidity for more information, more egregiousness, more scandal.
“We hear from reliable sources that this operation was in all likelihood an attempted putsch against the CCC government.”
“Putsch?” cries Janina.
“What’s a putsch?” asks Cora.
“An attack on the leaders,” says Knut, in the tone of a parent machine programmed to answer children’s questions.
“Mark Zudowski in Berlin, what details can you give us about what happened there today?”
“It was Mr. Meyer, for sure,” Vera crows.
“Who’s Mr. Meyer?” Richard asks.
“The arithmetic teacher,” Britta says.
“Bam!” Cora cries. “Problem solved!”
“Be quiet! Or you go to bed!”
“There are some indications of an extensive plan,” says Mark Zudowski, who wears round eyeglasses, although he’s clearly not shortsighted. “The three culprits all had tattoos that refer to a larger group.”
And there they are. The pictures were taken by Britta in the tattoo parlor; Babak uploaded them to the Internet so that the broadcast networks would have something to broadcast. The news editors haven’t taken the trouble to pixelate the faces, maybe because there wasn’t enough time, or because dead terrorists have no personal rights, or simply because it would be a shame to cover up Julietta’s face. She looks fabulous, her hair wild, her eyes penetrating. Marquardt gazes expressionlessly at the camera, his shirt so wide-open that part of his new tattoo is visible. Jawad is pictured from the side in order to show his tattoo as well; he’s intentionally projecting a rather fierce image, and only those who know him can see that he’s having fun playing the terrorist.
“ ‘Empty Hearts’ is allegedly the name of an alleged terrorist organization whose alleged objective seems to consist, or to have consisted, in carrying out a large-scale attack on governmental institutions.”
“Mark Zudowski, what went awry in the terrorists’ plan?”
“Precise information on that subject is not yet available to us. There may have been a division within the group or a simple operational misunderstanding. We’re just being notified that the police are carrying out a large-scale raid.” Zudowski puts two fingers on his ear to press the transmissions from his radio unit deeper into his ear canal. “Arrests have already been made.”
Zudowski’s image is replaced by a photograph: a man with broad, powerful shoulders and a strikingly small head, screwing up his eyes as though blinded by the sun.
“That was fast!” cries Babak, and this time it’s Britta who nudges him.
“They’re showing photos of suspects, just like that?” Knut asks.
“Well, they’re public enemies,” Janina says.
“How could the people behind the attacks be identified and taken into custody so quickly?” asks the news announcer, while Zudowski is getting more information from his earpiece.
“Apparently, the suspects operated with extreme carelessness,” Zudowski reports. “Cell phones were found on all three of them, and the movement profiles in the phones led investigators directly to the group’s headquarters.”
Babak and Britta secretly clasp hands, only for an instant, and then they let go again.
“How can people be so dumb?” Richard murmurs.
“What did you say?” Britta asks.
“Imagine if they’d been successful.” A wide grin adorns Knut’s face. “They would have gotten rid of all the CCC creeps at once.”
“A lovely idea,” says Richard. “You wake up in the morning, and the nutcases are all gone.”
“Room for a new beginning,” says Janina.
“Then the old guard comes back!” Knut enthusiastically raises a finger. “It’s a hundred to one that the intelligence services are behind this. Those offices are still full of Merkel’s people.”
“That would be terrific,” Janina raves. “To have a proper government again.”
“Are you really listening to yourselves?” asks Britta. All at once, it’s so quiet that Zudowski’s voice can be heard again. He’s currently showing photographs of the weapons. “First you go years without voting, and then you think it would be great if the government district would get blown up?”
The embarrassed silence persists. Mark Zudowski has acquired more information about Julietta: name, age, family background, education. He calls her “the pretty young woman” and draws parallels to Ulrike Meinhof and Gudrun Ensslin.
“Maybe it’s just a tempting fantasy,” Richard finally says.
Britta keeps quiet and stares at the TV. She takes everything in, the changing images, the changing correspondents. Commentaries, background information. Appeals to the population. Analyses, interpretations, prognoses. Speculations and hypotheses. The others talk some more about what might have happened had the attackers acted less stupidly. They discuss whether there can be such a thing as a democratic coup d’état, whether and when political violence is justifiable. Britta’s familiar with the scenarios they’re sketching out. She herself has dreamed of them. Such a discussion doesn’t elicit any reaction from her anymore. The longer she listens to the others, the surer she is that she did the right thing.
At some point, Knut, Janina, and Cora go home; at some point, Richard puts Vera to bed. After that, the three of them—Richard, Britta, and Babak—sit in front of the TV a while longer, until Richard starts to yawn and says good night. “Tomorrow at eleven?” he asks, and Babak confirms that he’ll be coming to the company offices for their first concept meeting at that time.
“Don’t stay up too long,” says Richard before he disappears.
When they’re alone, Babak says, “We have to think about letting Hatz go.”
“We’ll drive out there early tomorrow morning.”
“Will he be arrested?”
Britta shrugs and shakes her head. Then she says, “People like Hatz don’t go to jail.”
They remain seated, zapping through the channels, watching news reports that only repeat the same information.
“Was she…contented?” Babak asks at some point.
“She was happy.”
“But it wasn’t what she originally wanted.”
“Nevertheless.” Britta strokes his back. “She loved us. In her way.”
Babak starts to cry. Softly at first, and then harder and harder. Britta holds him close. After a while, his sobs grow weaker, and he raises his head.
“You realize, don’t you, that the CCC will emerge from this putsch attempt stronger than ever?”
Britta nods.
“In the next elections, nobody’s going to have a chance against Freyer.”
Britta nods again.
“I’m not sure I understand why you did what you did.”
Britta smiles. She thinks about the gray cat but says nothing. They don’t talk anymore. They watch the next analytical segment and another report. They wait to see Julietta’s picture again. And again, and then again.