CHAPTER FOUR

~

Running through the dense silent forests of home, Sophia tried to escape her dream and woke longing for her mother. What had Hajo’s father done to make his mother able to leave when Dagmar could not? Stories about POW camps were similar to the Gulag. Soldiers placed in fields surrounded by barbed wire. Men reduced to drinking their own blood to survive. Petrus had had no such hardship. He’d chosen to seek out female company while Dagmar waited, stubbornly refusing to face reality.

The night’s dream whispered of a confined room that stank of chlorine. Inside that room, a girl cut her skin. The fine slicing of metal against flesh released a line of pink bubbles. The girl’s body was strong, so strong she wasn’t able to control the heat that burned inside. Red dripped to the floor. No one was there to stop the whisper of the blade as it sliced through a freshly healed layer. The child’s face seemed familiar, her eyes, nose, cheekbones mixed up portions of Maria, Diertha and Käthe. The sense of them was so strong she’d felt she could swim through their minds. Taste their sour thoughts.

Sophia tiptoed into the bathroom; twisted the shower tap. Wait a minute. The spare-room door was wide open, the room empty.Mia?

The girl had lied. No doubt she’d helped herself to money. No way was Sophia going to be taken in by one bedraggled Ossi camped out on her doorstep, behaving as if she were still in the GDR, bleating about how she was family, really she was.

Nothing had been taken. In fact, her visitor had tidied up. The hand towel, folded but damp, lay on the shelf in front of the shower-room window.A battered hairgrip by the sink displayed a partial set of fake diamonds. A strand of curly baby hair remained, stuck in between the two remaining diamonds and metal clasp.

The medicine cabinet had been rearranged. Her ecstasy tablets! Why was the bottle on the bottom shelf?She shook them onto her hand. Counted. Oh thank god. All there – but the girl had used up a whole tube of lotion; and Sophia’s favourite hair scrunchie had vanished. Her friendship bracelet? No. Thank goodness. Where had the child gone? She glanced at the table. Maria’s letters remained, stacked in a neat pile. When/if she saw the girl again she’d tell her a thing or two about messing around with other people’s stuff.

She’d need sweet strong coffee before she rang father. He’d be livid, his voice controlled and quiet: Sophia should have woken, heard Mia or preferably stayed up all night to make sure.

‘She took a taxi. Can you believe it! Rang from your phone using the list you keep there, and there she was, standing by the front door.’ Petrus paused, adding rather inconsequently: ‘I am cooking breakfast. Pancakes! The child wanted pancakes.’

Mia had sought to escape, as if she were afraid. Sophia put the phone down and stared at the neatly rolled umbrella. She didn’t have pancakes, toast or cereal.

As the hot shower eased the tension in her shoulders, the morning circled back to just another day listening to the splash of water hitting the basin. Sophia ran soap suds along her left arm, feeling the narrow scaly ridges. Her mind shifted from denial to uncertainty. Käthe’s voice, so easily recognised from many years ago, murmured: Coward.

Enough. If she didn’t act now she never would. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, she tried not to wince before dialling the station and asking to speak to Hajo. Really, it would be better to put her uniform on, stop being an idiot and go to work, but Käthe had been her friend. She’d take the leave she was due and take Mia home, then find out what had happened to Käthe the only way she knew how. She’d face them all: her mother, Maria and Käthe’s parents; she owed them that at least. Hajo would be furious because she’d kept back vital information.

‘Sophia?’ Hajo paused. Sophia imagined his eyes searching the meeting room. ‘Where are you? I need to talk to you about your home town.’

‘What?’ Hang on. What did Breden have to do with Hajo?

‘You said the girl came from there.’

‘The girl who was murdered?’

‘No, Sophia, the girl who came to your apartment, Mia.’ He sounded just like her father deliberately slowing down so stupid Sophia understood.

‘Yes, she came from there.’ She had to tell him about poor Käthe. Had to. ‘Hajo, listen. I know her.’She couldn’t even get that right. You couldn’t know a dead person.

‘Yes, you’ve explained – the girl is your niece.’

‘No Hajo, listen.’

‘I don’t have time for this.’ He was being deliberately sharp, the shared confidences of last night quite gone. ‘We’ve been allocated three former GDR police precincts to inspect. Breden is on that list. I want you to go.’

She could hang up, pretend not to have heard.

‘Sophia?’

If she pretended hard enough, perhaps his words would cease to exist. Her inspect Breden police station? She’d recognise people. People who’d worked for the Stasi.

‘Hajo, her name’s Käthe.’ Her fingers were sore from gripping the phone.

‘You said Mia?’

‘Mia is my niece. Just shut up and listen.’ She mimicked the stupid Sophia voice. ‘I know who the dead girl is.’

‘What?’

She heard his door close with a decisive click. Oh help. Better not tell him about the letters and how she’d not wanted to read them.

‘Go on.’

‘Her name’s Käthe. Käthe Niedermann. From Breden. We were at primary school together. Me, Käthe, Maria. We did everything together, you know. Climb trees, build dens, sneak out when we shouldn’t have.’ She was blabbering on, letting the awful truth gain momentum. ‘Hajo?’ Oh, he was still there, breathing down the phone line. ‘Mia has gone to my father’s house. I’m going to drive over, then I’ll drive Mia home.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I was frightened.’

‘Of me?’ He sounded furious, as if her fear was worse than keeping secrets.

‘No, Hajo. Of the Stasi.’

‘There is no more Stasi, and if there was, what would they want with you?’

Everything. Nothing. ‘They might have had something to do with Käthe’s death.’ She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the scrap of paper that bore her name and address. ‘I have to find out.’

‘Without telling me?’

‘No. Yes. I was going to, just not yet.’

‘Ah, well, that makes it all right, I suppose?’

She couldn’t blame him for being angry. In his shoes she’d have fired an officer who withheld information. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes, sorry.’

‘Sophia, I’m not your bloody father.’

Perhaps she would be fired after all? She’d have to return home, to a place that terrified her, without even a badge to keep her safe.

‘You’re best placed to inspect the local police precinct, and, I suppose, find out about your friend.’

Bastard. This was why Hajo had been promoted so fast. He turned everything round to his advantage.

‘Shall I send an officer to go with you?’

My god – that would be Ernst. ‘No, I’ll be fine.’

‘You needn’t come to the office. The case file and my instructions will come in the post. No, I know, I’m not daft – not to your apartment. What’s your mother’s address?’ Hajo was tapping his pen on the receiver, a sure sign he’d lost patience.

‘I don’t know.’ How embarrassing. Who didn’t know their own mother’s address?

‘Sophia, you’re a damn investigator – find out,’ he answered, and she knew his eyes were rolling skyward. ‘I’ll let them know you’re coming. Thursday? That gives you two days to be with your family. I’ll tell the Breden police about our victim and ask them to assist you.’

He really had no idea. The People’s Police could re-write history to suit purpose, doctor police records so that each appeared unblemished. The knowledge made her fingers tingle.

It was already nine in the morning. The streets were quiet for the fifteen-minute lull before the shoppers arrived. She drove across Schifffahrtskanal heading past the Universitätsmedizin into Wedding. In March ’77, following their escape, age sixteen and still living with her father, Sophia had been desperate to find a message from her mother.She’d steamed open Petrus’ mail; trying to find answers. Imagining the unimaginable but wanting so much to read that Dagmar missed her. Holding the seal to the steaming kettle, she’d become expert at knowing how near or how far to go: so her fingers didn’t burn, or the contents warp. Just close enough to slowly loosen glue. She’d sweated, a sharp metallic odour, like an animal caught on barbed wire, and learned to reseal each envelope perfectly. The only giveaway being that the paper didn’t lie quite as flat as before. At first, finding nothing, she’d begun leafing through her father’s treasured books on medical research. He might have hidden those letters, the ones she needed to read, inside books. She’d tried to find the key to unlock the desk drawer, and one day there it was – hidden inside a bowl filled with rancid potpourri. Barely pausing to breathe, she’d slotted the key into the miniscule lock, and the drawer had opened. Inside was a crisp pile of envelopes with her father’s name clearly written.

The first had been from Ilse: her mother’s replacement, the woman everyone had talked about. Sophia had seen her, once, after swimming practice. Ilse peering down at her as if she were some unpleasant portion of her lover’s life.The letter didn’t say that Ilse was coming to live with him (a thing of permanent dread). No, the note had been nothing more than a series of dates: one every month, right up to last month. No explanation, no love and greetings, nothing. The dates corresponded to the times her father was away on conferences. He’d told her where to call if she needed him, and how long it would take him to get back. She was told, ‘Only phone in an emergency. You’re old enough to cope on your own.’

Confused, Sophia had been about to put the letter back, when she saw the upside-down photo.She’d turned it over. Petrus naked. The back of his head straining back, his body bunched tight, bearing down into the girl’s arched body. One hand-sized flushed breast visible. Ilse.

The front door had opened. Petrus calling her name. She’d slammed the drawer, turned the key, dumped it in the potpourri and – the day she turned seventeen – moved out. Her mother had said Petrus was a good for nothing. Well she’d been right. But, the worst of it was, you couldn’t choose; parents just were.

Her father’s house was next door to a popular Kindergarten grown from a brave venture to a business bursting at the seams. Petrus helped out, a charitable pastime Sophia found hard to place. He visited twice a year to talk about being a doctor and how each person, little or grown up, should be healthy. In addition to that he was happy to drop everything and give advice should a child become ill. Naturally the mothers adored him, sending gifts: cakes, biscuits and cards.

First thing in the morning the street was chock-a-block with the day’s drop-me-off routine. By nine it was all over and the neighbourhood slowly unwound as noise levels dropped with each departing parent and child. Now the mini-students were inside, doing whatever they did when the weather was too cold for outdoor morning play. Lights shone from the window where a group of children fidgeted as they were kitted out in plastic aprons; most clutched oversized paintbrushes that dripped pink, yellow and red. One little blonde girl stared at her yellow brush with such a focus that she caught Sophia’s attention. The child waved the paintbrush slowly through the air, then shovelled it into her mouth.

Sophia shuddered and turned towards her father’s front door. No one, she thought, not even a dreamed-up whispery voice, was going to call her a coward.

Inside the porch the smell of burnt pancake lingered. Petrus came to the door wearing a carefully tied, floral-print apron, no doubt belonging to his current partner. His eyes widened.

‘Sophia? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’ He reluctantly opened the door to the hallway, where Mia’s jacket hung next to his long coat, side by side with an assortment of fur and silk. Petrus’ new lady, the latest in the string of hopefuls, was attempting to move in. Sophia knew only too well that the minute clothes started gathering, coats conveniently left until next time, the relationship was over.

Mia was chewing her way through a pile of oddly shaped pancakes drowning in treacle. She looked up; face tight, eyes huge and defiant. Her hair was tied back with the missing scrunchie but a number of wispy tendrils had escaped; they curled their way round her ears and slender pink neck, spoiling the intended statement. I dare you, her eyes said; I dare you.

‘Yummy.’ She waved her fork, a chunk of massacred pancake circling, pulling Petrus’ attention where she wanted it. Clever girl. Sophia leaned against the door listening to the rise and fall of her voice. Those grubby jeans and purple hand-knitted jumper were far too young, but the child was undeniably pretty in a coltish way: long legs and arms, that silly baby hair twirling around a thin, stern face.

Her father was entranced. As he did with each new lover, he danced to attention, showering Mia with offers of chocolate spread, orange juice, biscuits. When she seemed taken by the offer of strawberry Nesquik, he sidestepped to the cupboard, reaching with surgeon’s hands, long fingers, as slim as a girl’s, to place the tub on the counter. Sophia glanced at her own bitten fingernails; put her hands behind her back. Who came to visit and drank strawberry milkshake? More to the point: how would she have reacted if he had focussed on her like that, just once, as she grew from child to woman?

Mia was a true professional. Shooting icy glances at Sophia whenever Petrus looked her way, she chattered enthusiastically about how long it had taken her to travel to Berlin. Petrus praised her heroic efforts and talked about Dagmar as if he’d seen her only days before, finding out what he needed without alarming the child. His face arranged, his eyes gentle and observant, he constituted a careful study of how to be kind – and Mia began to relax. There was no hint of the steel Sophia knew so well. His obsession with maintaining reputation with astute social climbing: one step forward, two back, never repeating the same mistake. He’d juggled his liaisons effortlessly; until Ilse, when, for a time, things changed. However, even during that strange, almost perpetual absence, he paid attention when Sophi swam. He’d become the pop-up version of ‘proud father’, carefully noting the envious glances of the other men, the coquettish heavy-lidded gaze from the mothers as Sophia tore along the length of the pool, leaping out to greet him.

That was before. She’d adapted. Become stronger. Able to survive.

Mia finished stuffing herself with pancakes, and there were no more questions to ask. In the silence Petrus cleared his throat and both turned, as if there were no way of avoiding it, to Sophia.

‘Dagmar wrote to me, so I’ll drive us there.’ I’ll find out who hurt you, Käthe, I will, she silently promised her dead friend.

Mia, about to hand her plate to Petrus, mistimed. The plate fell to the floor with a loud clunk.

‘I’ve been given leave.’ Not quite the truth. Father needn’t know about the inspection, or Käthe, yet.But she’d broken their bloody tight-knit chatter. Petrus pretended he hadn’t heard; sweeping up the broken crockery before telling Mia she could phone Oma, leading the child away to the safety of his office. Was this what a wasp felt like before it stung its prey? She saw him touch Mia on the shoulder, leaning, as if, given the choice, he would have kissed her hair as he had the evening before.

‘Everything will be all right, my darling child,’ he said.

His darling? She wanted to kill him, anything to stop feeling pain at his easy love for this scrap of a girl.

‘Sophia, why would you want to go back?’ he asked, folding the cloth from the sink into perfect corners.

‘She’s my mother.’

‘I am quite aware who she is.’

‘You knew she was ill, didn’t you?’ How did he manage to reduce her to confused fury with such ease?

‘Why must you be so objectionable?’ He was watching, mouth curled, as if he’d eaten something that left a repulsive aftertaste.

‘Whatever you decide makes no difference. Besides it’ll be faster by car.’There, that was adult reasoning. Sophia stared at the floor. Eyes aching. Käthe was dead. Her mother was dying and her father saw no reason for her to return.

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but aren’t you a little old to cry?’

***

On the phone Mia told Oma all about the early morning taxi drive across the city, the nervous wait watching the car headlamps sweep by. She said nothing about meeting Sophia, or her terror that morning because at any moment Sophia might wake up and, like a man-eating bat, swoop down and snatch her. Oma didn’t like that Mia had gone to Petrus’ house. Why hadn’t she stayed with Sophia? She sounded nervous, almost afraid, as if Petrus were dangerous! Oma had that all the wrong way round. Now she didn’t want to talk, so Mia went on and on how nice Petrus was, how clean his house was, how it looked out onto an avenue of linden trees.

‘Maybe he’s changed.’ Oma didn’t sound convinced.

‘He made me pancakes!’ She explained how she could hear some of the children playing a game of catch in the Kindergarten playroom next door. Oma tried to laugh; a dry rasping that had neither of them fooled.

She wanted to say how awful Sophia was, that she was mean, with eyes that seemed to see right into Mia’s head. When Sophia smiled it was as though she had a big fat secret, something only she knew. She was skinny: Oma would say way too skinny, but privately Mia decided she wouldn’t mind looking like that – rather than dumpy like Oma.

‘Oma,’ she said. ‘How d’you describe a grin that’s hateful, you know – not just nasty? You said it to me once.’

‘Who’s being unkind, sweetheart?’

‘No one, Oma. It’s just something I heard on the train.’

‘What a thing to ask! I don’t remember.’

‘Yes you do.’ It was better to keep her talking, to try to hear if she was all right.

‘You mean: Grinsen wie ein Honigkuchenpferd?’

Yes. Grinning like a gingerbread horse! That was exactly how Sophia looked, except she didn’t really look like a horse; which was a shame. Sophia didn’t really know anything; she just pretended she did. When Petrus had told Mia about Sophia being a police officer, she’d been scared. Police were dangerous. They were the last people you went to for help.

‘Oma,’ she said. ‘Promise you’ll rest. Don’t cook anything, okay? We’ll be there really soon. We won’t need supper. I love you.’ And Oma was gone.

Maybe she could have a shower; her hair really needed washing. Better to wait until Petrus had sorted Sophia out. He’d been so kind but Mia had noticed the way his mouth tightened when he was irritated. She worried about Oma, but the worry was so old it had become part of her skin, working its way deep inside her shoulder joints, behind her eyes, inside her stomach. Oma was sick. Not just sick until she got better, but ill enough that she might not. When Mia was afraid about Oma dying, she thought straight ahead. One action came after the other. She edged the panic to a blue place she’d painted inside her head, a place where all terrors could go.

Petrus and Sophia were in the kitchen talking in loud tight voices. He’d send Nasty back to do her work, and Mia and Petrus would travel to Breden by train. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that Oma could have phoned or written to Petrus, but had sent her instead – as though a letter or call wouldn’t produce the same reaction. On the three-hour train home she’d buy a magazine and some chocolate. Better still, Petrus would pay. There’d be no Sophia to spoil it. Petrus was a doctor; he could make Oma better, no need to worry any more.

Mia trailed her hands over the soft leather that made up the centre of his writing desk. Neat and tidy. Nothing to be frightened of. The shelves around the room were filled with medical books. She could be a doctor. Oma was taking more painkillers than she should. She’d have to tell Petrus. Even with those extra medicines, it took Oma ages to get out of bed and downstairs. Last week she’d been stuck in her bed all day without a hot drink or food. That night Mia had cried, hiding the sound by running Oma a bath. Now every morning she brought her coffee and biscuits. Oma’s favourites: the ones with thick coffee icing.

Behind Petrus’ desk was a picture of Sophia: young and smiling: her first day at work? It had to have been taken before she started arresting and beating people up, before she learned how to look so mean. There were no pictures of Diertha or Oma. No matter, soon there would be photos of Mia on that wall, pictures of her at school showing off her latest maths certificate.

One other photo looked familiar. A man in a dark green jumper held the hand of a girl who was showing her medal to the photographer: Sophia and her father. Mia couldn’t remember where she’d seen it, but was sure she had. Next to it was a picture of Petrus with his arm around someone else. A woman. Not Oma, not Sophia, a young, slim, blonde woman who looked at him sideways like she knew exactly what she was doing. Mia looked at the back. No date, no name.

Mia put the picture back. She knew Petrus had left her grandmother. That didn’t mean he was a bad person, did it? Nothing mattered as long as he came to help. Still, he didn’t seem quite so nice any more.

***

The tea towel, rose pink with a recipe for dumpling stew, was old and faded, the list of instructions barely visible: grate two medium-sized potatoes, mix together with flour and semolina. Sophia dried, placing one plate on top of the other, before placing the tea towel on the radiator – imagining Mia, ear to door, scowling when she realised they were all going.

Driving home, heart pounding, the car full with Petrus’ suitcase, medicines, and two silent passengers, she had just enough sense left to ask her father to write Dagmar’s address on a scrap of paper.

‘I won’t be long.’ She parked as near the garage as possible. She’d pack a bag and be back in ten minutes, tops. Jogging up the stairs gasping, ‘Bloody hell, bloody hell,’ at each step, she paused at the top to lean her head against the front door. Worst-case scenario, she’d be back by the weekend. Forget the whole mess and move on. She threw the mail into her workbag. Maria. She’d see Maria, and she’d see Frau Schöller. The thought made her giddy, as if at sea. What would Maria’s mother do? She’d hug her tight, no doubt. She’d say how much she’d been missed as if the world were truly a better place now that Sophia was back. They’d talk about painting and how much improved Sophia was. Oh. What would they say about Käthe? Would they blame her, or be furious Sophia did nothing to save her friend, never mind that Sophia hadn’t known Käthe was arriving. She’d have tell them and deal with whatever happened.

Sophia’s running trousers and party gear went into an overnight suitcase. The bathroom mirror reflected tired eyes as she yanked open the medicine cabinet and took out the bottle of ecstasy pills. Just in case.

‘Hajo,’ she said, when she was finally put through, ‘I forgot. Get the lab to check Käthe’s blood for steroids, will you.’

‘What makes you think she was taking drugs?’

‘Her muscles.’ Steroids made you feel invincible and Käthe had fought her attackers with a ferocious strength. Her over-muscular body had been broken, bones snapped, muscles purple with bruising.

‘Did you take steroids?’

‘Hajo, what has that to do with anything?’

She had to repeat Dagmar’s address three times. Did he want to annoy her? When she asked, he laughed as she closed her eyes, as if to catch the fleeting warmth of his humour. He was playing with her, knowing full well she’d only given him a portion of the truth.

Like father like daughter. The echo had her wincing and asking about travel expenses. Did Breden even had a hotel?

‘Sophia?’

He was going to ask her why she couldn’t, wouldn’t, stay with Dagmar.

‘I have the number of the hotel. You’ll get reimbursement if you stay there, though I’ll send a copy of the case file and inspection list to your mother’s address.’

‘Yes, all right.’

She called the hotel, requesting a single room, adding the possibility of a second reservation for her father. Downstairs Frau Weiner was delighted to have a visitor. Less delighted when Sophia explained she wanted someone to cancel her milk order until the weekend. In the cellar, she chose her oldest running shoes, folded her working clothes straight from the dryer to the suitcase. Did she really need party clothes? An image of Hajo worked its way into her mind, watching from across a gloomy dance floor, undressing her with his eyes. Breden was a backwater town, but she’d take them, just in case. She stood quite still. It had happened. The thing to avoid at all cost, against all odds, was here.