“You can stay with us as long as you want—as long as you like.”
“And I won’t have to use the bishop’s room?”
“No.”
Sabine insisted on washing the children and putting them to bed, absolutely insisted. It was lovely to see them together, cuddled up with the scruffy lion and the Disney dog: “really sweet.”
“And now,” said Sabine, “I can tell you: I’ve left Fischer for good, left him for good, and the child I’m expecting is not his, not Fischer’s—I know, you’re staggered, you find it just as hard to believe as Father and Käthe did, but it’s true.”
It was Katharina’s idea to drink a toast to the child. She was always having bright ideas like that, and at the second glass something resembling “defiant happiness” spread over Sabine’s face as she said with a laugh: “If it’s a boy I’ll call him Holger, if only to annoy him: ‘all clear for the weekend’!”
“One should never name a child merely to annoy someone. That’s not good for the child, and maybe it’ll be a girl,” said Katharina.
“Then I’ll call her Katharina—not Veronica, though that’s a beautiful name too. Father is going to help me, and Käthe already sees me as a great journalist. Is there something special about the priest that you didn’t want to tell me in front of the children?”
“Yes, he’s left for good—he won’t be back, at least not as a priest. He’s gone to a woman, his woman. I wanted to spare you that.…”
“Spare me? Why? D’you think I don’t know what’s going on with Kohlschröder—and anyway, it confirms your analyses.”
“One isn’t always glad to see such analyses confirmed. And by the way, three Holgers in one family—that would simply be too much.”
7
Once again he had to enter the gray area where discretion and security collide and one or the other could explode. If someone had ever predicted that it would one day be part of his security duties to find out in which month and by whom a woman was pregnant, he would have laughed. But, strictly speaking, it could be of the utmost importance to know with whom this woman had taken up that somewhat intimate connection which led to a condition known as pregnancy. And since for obvious reasons the safety of young Mrs. Fischer—and even of her brother, himself a security risk—had been so graphically impressed upon him, it was clearly his duty to pursue the matter. Behind the most charming, socially acceptable mask, the “impregnator”—as he called him for the time being—could be at least as dubious (not morally but security-wise) as that odd young Schubler, who had, if not impregnated (at least as far as was known), intimately associated with Mrs. Fischer’s neighbor.
The case of Mrs. Fischer was a rather delicate one. It was not his business to track down or prove adultery, he was merely responsible for her security and, apart from the fact that she happened to be one of the women most at risk, it had now become incontrovertible that she was expecting a child not by her husband. That newspaper fellow who had phoned him at noon had never yet let him down. He had also drawn his attention to the weird contraptions made by old man Schröter, who, after all, did have a clear line of fire on the manor. The fellow had also pointed out old Beverloh’s rage and the deep-seated bitterness of Dr. Zelger, all elderly gentlemen whom he had hitherto been keeping only under cursory surveillance as marginal figures, possible contact persons, never as potential activists. However, it was entirely possible that, behind their anger, rage, or bitterness, violence might lurk.
When all was said and done, Mrs. Fischer was a Tolm, was doubly at risk, and all these people stood in some sort of relationship to the Tolms, whom it was hard enough to discipline anyway—the old couple irresponsible, sometimes reckless, especially the old lady, whose kind heart and innocuous nature he would never doubt. Their son Rolf he regarded as completely above suspicion, although he—but that was long ago, and in conversation he had proved himself to be a valuable analyst of the scene. As for their son Herbert, he didn’t quite trust him: that AAA (Anti-Auto Action) was something that could turn nastier than the fellow could ever imagine. And now he had reliable reports that Sabine Fischer née Tolm was in her sixth, not her third, month of pregnancy; five months ago, however, her husband Erwin Fischer had been away for almost three months—that in itself had meant plenty of work—he happened to have a taste for shady nightclubs and naïve playboy behavior, liked to show off, and those two things—showing off and security—were difficult to reconcile. It put an unnecessary stress on the frustration of the officers. Well, there was always help from headquarters, and the details were no concern of his. Naturally they had to investigate every love affair or even casual adventure, by now one had to be prepared for anything, and at the same time maintain and guarantee total discretion!
It was the Bleibls who caused him the most trouble, she with her idiotic tit-wiggling and the whole business of titillation that drove his men up the wall—her shopping sprees, trips, parties—and Bleibl with his hookers, whom it was impossible to check up on all that thoroughly, seeing that on this scene, too, there was a kind of “leftist breeze” blowing these days that had to do with women’s libbers; in the old days, you had been able to count on almost every hooker being a reactionary, but now the libbers had changed all that, and you had to keep your eyes peeled. He was also having trouble with that nice old Kortschede, who had fallen hopelessly and irrevocably in love with that young fellow—you might call it an old man’s last love: though the wretched youth wasn’t a putative terrorist, he was still enough of a criminal to be capable of anything—an obnoxiously brutal young punk.
And now Mrs. Fischer, whose pregnancy offended him inasmuch as it cast doubt on the effectiveness of his surveillance. There must be someone around whom they hadn’t caught—somewhere, somehow, she must have met him, got in touch with him, yet she had been guarded day and night, for her own protection. Nor could she have made any arrangements with him—with whom?—by phone, since her phone in particular was fully monitored—had to be because of that damn female they called “Mary, Queen of Heaven,” who was bound to be caught someday; and Mrs. Fischer knew this and wanted her phone monitored.
Furthermore, of course, he was in a way morally disappointed in her: this nice, serious young woman who was known to be such a devout churchgoer, a shy beauty, almost a Madonna with that cute little kid, but what a cunning minx she must be for her lover to have eluded them. There had been no point in reading and rereading all the statements and reports: visits she had received, visits she had made—it had been totally impossible for a lover to have crept into her room at night. Hardly a house was as strictly guarded as hers, and damn it all, if she did have someone she loved—which (in his private opinion) was hardly surprising considering what a pompous ass her husband was—surely she could have had enough confidence in him to tell him all about it, he talked to her often enough, didn’t he? But perhaps the experience of her neighbor, whom they all called “sex-starved Erna,” had held her back. For the investigations—justified in terms of security—into Erna’s love affair had ended up by wrecking that marriage. It wasn’t his business to track down adultery and destroy marriages—damn it all, he wasn’t a detective agency—but it so happened that there were border zones, risk-filled conflicts, that one couldn’t keep out of. How odd, incidentally, that her own husband had apparently forgotten the simplest of arithmetic. Or might she be feeding him that “third month” myth?
Then, too, there was the strange part played by Dr. Grebnitzer, her doctor. It had required the pressure of higher authority—and pretty high at that—to convince him that, in a case like this, it was necessary for him to break professional silence. This naïve, exceptionally nice elderly doctor—one of the old school who would still sit on the edge of the bed, his stethoscope around his neck, and who had brought young Mrs. Fischer into the world—was completely stunned when it had been necessary, and possible, to confront him with figures to show that the human being growing in her womb (and obviously “thriving, thriving”) c
ould not be her husband’s. “Sabine never, Sabine—never!” and although eventually he confirmed the sixth month and had to admit to Fischer’s lengthy absence during the time in question, he had still insisted on his “Sabine? Never!” and muttered something about: “You can’t always go by figures!”
What can you go by, then, if not figures, when it was a question of paternity? If the young woman had managed, under maximum surveillance, to pursue a love affair unobserved, then Lühler, Zurmack, and Hendler—it was during their time that she had become pregnant—must have missed something. Perhaps she had met the “impregnator” when she had gone for the milk, had “given herself” to him—in her case vulgar, popular expressions were out of place, she was the type who would call it “giving herself”—in the Beeretz stable or barn, in which case she must have had accomplices at the Beeretz farm; not very likely, for while she was getting the milk all approaches to the farm were under close observation, and barns and stables were searched in advance. Not even when she was still going horseback riding had she been left unguarded, nor when she went shopping, nor in the dress store, not even when taking a shower at the Tennis Club. Any assignation made over the phone would inevitably be noted, for her phone in particular—she knew this and agreed to it—had to be strictly monitored, since they were still hoping to be able to intercept a call from “Mary, Queen of Heaven.”
Yet somewhere she must have performed, unobserved, the act without which no pregnancy can occur. Statements, checklists, read and reread—they yielded nothing: take Breuer, take Klober, Schubler, Helmsfeld, the farmers in Blorr—somewhat unlikely although not impossible—young Beeretz was a thoroughly attractive, articulate, reasonably well-educated young farmer, and she was only human, female, quite often alone and for long periods of time, and in a far from enviable position, God knows. Among the ladies whom she sometimes had to tea there may have been some lesbian goings-on, certainly not on her part or with her, but then, of course, no one ever got pregnant from that. Besides, during the time in question she had hardly gone out, only to one or two cocktail parties, and one thing he felt sure of: she was not the type to do it on the wing, as it were, no, she was a quiet, serious young woman whose devoutness was public knowledge. And even if he was aware that devoutness was no guarantee against a lapse, he was also pretty sure that, if it happened, it would have to be romantic, she certainly wouldn’t be interested in a frivolous porn escapade, the kind that sometimes gave his men trouble.
That damnable area between the needs for security and discretion, that jungle of entangled decisions—not only might he stumble but yet another marriage might be broken up, one that would make headlines. That newspaper fellow had hinted as much to him: the Fischer marriage—glorified throughout the press as the ideal, indeed the “most ideal,” of marriages, this model marriage between newspaper and Beehive in which, as was constantly being emphasized, “harmony of outlook reigns supreme”—would not disintegrate without a splash. There was still always the possibility that Fischer, in his apparent ignorance and overweening self-confidence, had never so much as dreamed of counting the months of pregnancy, or that he would pull a secret rendezvous with his wife out of a hat, in the Bahamas or some such place: he would have no trouble refuting such a version at any time.
This affair had to be handled with extreme caution. That newspaper fellow was usually very well informed. He had also been the one to draw his attention to Kortschede’s homosexual leanings, and that was how they got onto Peter Schlumm, who was capable of anything (and they had been able to, forced to, listen in on Kortschede tenderly calling him “dearest Petie”). This fellow Schlumm was undeniably a considerable security risk, by no means “putative” but nearly convicted of blackmail and attempted manslaughter, certainly of pimping plus hashish and heroin, barely twenty years old, a devastatingly attractive youth with blond curls and the face of an angel. There were plenty of slip-ups to be expected in that area, slip-ups of a worse nature than in the case of Mrs. Fischer’s unexpectedly advanced pregnancy. Maybe he would have another talk with her after all, submit the outcome of his cogitations to her, and ask her outright, for the sake of her own security and that of her child, to let him in on the secret: he would guarantee her full discretion, also advise her of the result of the investigation of the “impregnator,” and put no obstacles in the path of her love life; after all, he wasn’t a snooper who put spies in beds and closets. If she refused to reveal her secret he would have to talk to Dollmer, and Dollmer possibly to Stabski, before he could instigate strong measures to track down the “impregnator.”
He couldn’t afford any slip-ups here, and if the marriage broke up it must not be the fault of the police. There was no denying that a Fischer was right in there with Zummerling—and the lapse of a Fischer daughter-in-law would in no time turn into a police fiasco, even though some of the papers were already hinting at a shaky marriage.
It was annoying that the telephone in Blorr was answered only by the housekeeper, who told him that Mrs. Fischer had driven off a few minutes earlier with her mother and little girl; annoying that Kübler didn’t report this until five minutes later, adding that “quite a bit of luggage had been taken along” and that it had looked “almost as if they were moving out.” Shortly after that, Hendler, in surprisingly similar words, reported from Tolmshoven the arrival of the ladies with the child—“almost as if they were moving in,” he had added. Rohner, who had followed the ladies, asked for new instructions: was he to return to Blorr or remain in Tolmshoven? But then Kübler reported from Blorr that Fischer had turned up shortly after his wife’s departure, had only picked up some papers and driven off again with a number of suitcases in his car. In his arrogant way Fischer had told him he would be away for a few weeks; and since Miss Blum had also left now, Kübler said, and Miss Blum had merely had instructions to look in on the place now and again—i.e., not regularly—it would no longer be necessary to keep the house under such strict surveillance, and would it be all right for him to go home? At this point Holzpuke showed unexpected irritation and sharply ordered Kübler to be good enough to await instructions. He had reason to be annoyed, up to then Mrs. Fischer had always been most cooperative and understanding, had informed him of any change in her situation and allowed him plenty of time to make new arrangements. All this—the “headlong flight” from Blorr with her mother and the child—indicated tensions, perhaps even panic. Fischer’s departure may have been a coincidence, but things became almost chaotic when Rohner reported from Tolmshoven that, after a brief stay, Mrs. Fischer had proceeded with her child to Hubreichen, to her brother, and that he, Rohner, because everything had had to be decided so quickly, had sent along Hendler for her protection; until final arrangements were made, he, Rohner, would take over Hendler’s duties in Tolmshoven, things being relatively quiet now that the conference was over—he was just waiting to be relieved by Lühler and would then return for the time being to Blorr.
He confirmed Rohner’s arrangements, called Kübler, apologized for his fit of temper, and caught himself feeling disappointed at missing a confidential chat with Sabine Fischer over a cup of tea. From time to time it had been necessary for him to talk to her, explain certain things to her, also to ask for some information, and he had always enjoyed being with the young lady: she had a surprisingly childlike manner of laughing at many things, letting one forget her damnable “station in life,” always made the tea herself, sometimes even apologized for the trouble she was causing. He imagined himself to be in her full confidence and had felt capable of broaching even this touchy subject to her, and explaining that the most charming lover might be a front for elements requiring investigation. He had even already prepared some phrases, such as: “My deliberations have led me to the conclusion that the child you are expecting—well, it was security reasons, not moral ones, that pointed to this possibility—well, that it might be the product” (he would have to correct that: “product” wasn’t good) “of an intimate relationship other than that
with your husband—and since I am responsible for your security, you will forgive me …” Probably she would blush, pour some more tea, maybe smile or get angry, indignant, offended, maybe she would throw him out, and it would lead to a reprimand—would have, would have led to a reprimand. For now that she was staying in Hubreichen at her brother’s, in that cramped little house, such a confidential chat was no longer possible, let alone on such a subject.
The longer he thought about it, the more improbable did a love affair outside Blorr seem to him. If she had wanted to meet the “impregnator” outside Blorr, she would have had to be away at least a couple of hours, and that would have shown up in the reports, if only with a query, but the query would have been followed up, just as it was when she used to take the child to the Groebels in Hetzigrath, or that time she suddenly changed her hairdresser, stopped going to Szymanski in Blückhoven and switched to Picksehne in Hurbelheim. There were no queries left in the reports; in the end she had stopped going to either hairdresser and had washed and set her own hair, that glorious golden-blond hair he wanted so much to admire over a cup of tea and a confidential chat.
As for the neighbors: his thoughts turned first to the Blömers, that somewhat irresponsible crowd that liked to give free-and-easy parties—a nuisance because some of the shadier guests at these parties had to be checked out at least cursorily—and especially Blömer’s brother-in-law Sculcz, obviously a wealthy man (source of wealth still unclarified, he was rumored to be writing popular porn under a pseudonym). Both of them, Blömer and his brother-in-law, were hardly her type, they were too shallow, too irresponsible, certainly not “romantic”—besides he suddenly remembered that he could have saved himself those Blömer ideas: they had only been living there for two and a half months, and she was in her sixth month and was definitely known to have had no previous contact with the Blömers. So there remained young Beeretz, old Hermanns, Klober, Helmsfeld, and, at that time, Breuer; none of them likely, but he had learned not to take probabilities or type-attractions for granted in sexual affairs: Kortschede, that fine, sensitive elderly gentleman who was married, after all, with grown-up children, and played the harpsichord. If one had thought him capable of lapses at all, one would have matched him up with a cultivated, elegant actress or soprano of about thirty-eight as being “his type,” yet Kortschede had succumbed to the cheapest type of male prostitute—that thoroughly vulgar, brutal fellow Schlumm. And Bleibl, in whose case one would have guessed at gypsy or at least flamenco types, had taken for his third wife a gentle, smiling Yugoslav cleaning woman: positively an angel of gentleness, yet nevertheless unable to stand living with him for more than two years.