My mother bustles around the house. I’m not allowed to sit still either. I have to tidy up for Elly, fetch things or take them away again. Everything is supposed to be lovely, perfect. Nothing can ever get out of control again.

I hurry through the shopping centre in the shade of the concrete roof. The smell of piss by the shopping trolleys, squashed strawberries lying on the ground, a child crawling in front of the kebab van. I need to get butter, cherries, and sausages. I have no imagination when it comes to meat, what tastes good, what’s the least bad for you. It all seems poisonous to me. My glass is always half empty these days. I don’t believe in cures, or promises.

Elly is back at school. My parents wanted to stop her. They said it was too soon. But Elly seems to be the old stubborn Elly again. She insists. She joined a different year group, in a different school. To avoid awkward questions. But everyone in our area knows the story. They stare at Elly behind her back. The unasked questions bore holes in her skin, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Elly hunches over her workbook diligently. She is always doing extra work. If there are three exercises set for homework, she’ll do eight. She revises for class tests late into the night. Her average mark is nearly one hundred per cent. Before she disappeared, Elly tended to be lazy. Now she has a go at me if I smudge my books. She soaks up vocabulary or formulas, even names and the anecdotes that go with them, like a sponge. I am amazed at her memory. She never forgets a birthday or which girl hasn’t been class representative yet, who got the worst marks in PE and who doesn’t tie their shoelaces. Before she was more of a loner. She never used to join in the Mother May I games the other girls played. Now she commits relationships and moods to memory, as swiftly and permanently as a camera. She always knows who went out with whom. She can usually also predict the next pairing. The new Elly is a social oracle. She knows the invisible ties that bind people, the powers of attraction and repulsion. Elly is the buffer in the middle, she uses her foolproof intuition to bring every conflict back into harmony. Quietly and without a fuss, she mends the rifts between friends. She speaks first to one, then the other, brings them back together again. Her schoolmates are impressed by this new Elly. I find her gift unnerving. Maybe this ability was her only chance of survival in the cellar? I can’t imagine lasting a single day in captivity like that. I admire my sister’s strength.

Elly’s class are learning a dance for the school play. The teacher shows them a video of an old Madonna hit. None of the students know the song. It’s a long time since it was at the top of the charts. While it’s playing, Elly sings along. Her lips move in time with the singer’s, she copies her dramatic gestures and movements like a mirror. She writhes in theatrical agony and sings about a hard lesson she had to learn. She claims she was a fortress that her lover in the video had to burn. That pain is a warning that something is wrong, and she prays that it won’t be long. She has barely stopped singing before applause breaks out. Elly gives a little curtsey. Smiling, she bows her head. She is enjoying the ovation.

But at home Elly remains shut tight like an oyster. Our parents and I hold our breath so my sister can catch hers. I rebuke myself for the fact she doesn’t live up to my expectations of her. When I was younger I could bend everything into the shape I wanted. I could even declare that girl Almut was Elly. That doesn’t work any more. I needed to learn that I couldn’t dictate everything. Elly was my hardest lesson. I’m really making an effort now. Then Elly has a go at me when I accidentally use her toothbrush. She acts as if I threatened her with a machine gun. I say: Calm down. I’ll get you a new toothbrush. But she doesn’t want to calm down. She hisses and spits, works herself up. Her accusations grow more and more fanciful. She claims I never liked her. That she had deposed me, the first born, from the parental throne. That I had never forgiven her for it. I say nothing, because the more I say, the angrier she gets. It is as if she has been waiting for an opportunity to explode. Our father hears the screaming in the bathroom. He wants to soothe Elly. But the minute she sees him she bellows. Wordlessly. Like a bull. We stare at her in horror. She hammers on the tiles. Our father wraps his arms round her, she tears herself free. Breathlessly she blurts out that she does actually want to speak to the police now. Our father says she should calm down first. Elly just snorts. He is adamant that Elly doesn’t need to force herself to do it. That it is bound to be very painful for her. That she doesn’t have to summon up these experiences again. But Elly wants to. She says she wants to prevent the same thing happening to others. Later, our mother praises Elly for being very brave. Every day for a week, my sister travels to the police station with an officer. Elly’s eyes stare into space, her hands tremble. But when she comes back home to us on the first day of the police questioning, it’s the officer who is in shock. Elly looks relieved. She has told the story of her captivity. Now the officer knows all the gruesome details. Because of the ongoing investigation, Elly is sworn to silence, although she couldn’t name any names, any places, any dates anyway. There were other girls there. The officer has seen the brands on Elly’s body where cigarettes were stubbed out. Her back is covered with scars. Elly says that the perpetrators tried to change her external appearance. That they bleached her hair. Constant hunger apparently restricted her growth, and even made the curls fall out of her hair. They also broke her nose several times. The X-ray verifies her testimony. The officer doesn’t dare to ask about rape straight away. She tries to keep her composure. But Elly’s testimony weighs heavy on her chest. The anxiety sits deep. After the interview is over, the officer suggests that Elly see a trauma expert. Even if she appears incredibly strong, she says my sister needs support on her journey back to normality. Elly and our parents agree. Our mother and our father want to do everything right. The police officer drives Elly to the therapist.

Less than two hours later, the phone rings. The therapist is calling from the clinic. At first our mother doesn’t understand what the woman wants. What’s wrong with this photo? What are you trying to say? she asks. The therapist is clearly talking about an old holiday photo of us. A tourist snapped it for us on the beach. We are laughing and saying ‘cheesecake’ so our smiles are nice and wide. But the therapist isn’t interested in that. She wants to talk about Elly’s ears. They are easy to make out on the photo. The therapist says: The girl you sent to me can’t be your daughter, it’s impossible. She asks my mother to compare the ears on the photo with Elly’s ears. Do you see the earlobes? They are completely different. The whole outer form of the ear, even the folds leading to the ear canal, are shaped differently. Some things don’t change, the therapist says. Our mother is silent. The therapist continues: Don’t come and collect her. We’ll put her up on our children’s ward for now, though she is most likely a lot older than your daughter. But until we have proof of her real age and identity, you will still be her legal guardians. Do you agree? The colour drains from my mother’s face. She says nothing. The therapist repeats it once more: This girl is not your daughter. We don’t know who she is. She could be dangerous. At the very least she is a liar. My mother is silent. The therapist says: I know that’s too much for you to take in right now. You don’t need to make any arrangements. We’ll take care of it. Please, leave her here in the clinic. My mother moans: Okay. She hangs up. My father furrows his brow. He asks whether that was really the therapist on the phone? How does my mother know that the voice didn’t belong to an imposter? My mother bursts out laughing. She immediately clamps her hand over her mouth. Laughing is completely inappropriate right now. My father asks: What shall we do? My mother says in a monotone: None of this can be true. Then she thinks better of it. She says: This isn’t happening. We have to pick her up. She reaches for the car key.

We drive to the clinic together. The therapist’s eyebrows travel up to her hairline. But she doesn’t mention her suspicions in Elly’s presence. They don’t stop us taking my sister. Elly’s arms are wrapped around her upper body. She gets into our car. The headlights cut through the darkness. The cat’s eyes on the side of the road whizz past. My father says: They’re driving us all mad. It’s not clear who he is talking about. He suggests we go south. My mother is sitting at the wheel. She asks over her shoulder: Elly, are you still awake?