He was surprised that Holzpuke didn’t show up or call. After all, now it was also the boy’s safety that was at stake, and he couldn’t guarantee that. No doubt there was still a group of lunatics around Bev and Veronica who hadn’t been in favor of sending the boy home. The bucket riders were sure to be already on their way, and Holzpuke was no doubt wrongly assuming that the bucket ride wouldn’t take place. Yet Horrnauken cemetery was situated right in the middle of a recreation area that was swarming with cyclists, close to the Dutch border. Even in November and in the rain there would be cyclists arriving since there were huts and covered camping sites, campfire areas, and it had already become quite a fad to go on cycling tours in the rain; he had seen it at the funeral of Verena Kortschede, he had met her in Berlin, had had tea sometimes at her place with Veronica. She had fallen for a trendy leftist and committed suicide when it turned out that he was only after her money—a loathsome character, a lousy sponger, he had left that quiet, sad, pale-blond girl in the lurch in India when it turned out that she wasn’t getting much money at all. She had written on the hotel mirror with her lipstick: “Socialism will prevail,” and had taken poison.
Sabine had said nothing, had not cried, when she heard about Bev’s death; she had merely drawn Holger I close to her and said: “Veronica is alive, she’s alive. She’ll come back.”
Schubler and Holger seemed to be hitting it off, they brought in some more wood, the women sat silently beside him, the children on the floor. Erna called across from the stove: “There’s a dozen ready, we can start—one and a half for each—with syrup.” The snug atmosphere had returned. He helped Erna divide up the pancakes and put them on the plates, gave her her brother’s message and told her about the donated milk and that she would be welcome. “Peter too?” she asked.
“He was included in the milk donation.”
“Also in the ‘welcome home’? No—am I right? By the way, he knew you in Berlin, in the days when he was throwing rocks and tomatoes.…”
“I read about it in the paper, and for that very reason neither he nor you should go outside the house before the photographers have left, and it’s not only the reporters who are taking pictures.”
“Where can we stay, then?”
“It would be better to spend the night here on a chair than to find yourself in the newspaper tomorrow. Come along, let’s sit in there on the bed. We have enough plates, but not enough chairs.”
Sabine made room for Schubler in the kitchen and sat down beside Erna Breuer, asking softly: “So it’s really true? You’re sure?”
“Yes, I waited longer than usual because I wanted to be sure—I didn’t go to the doctor till yesterday, and there’s no doubt whatever: I’m already in the fourth month—so Breuer lied to me about that too; it wasn’t me, it was him. I’d just like to know where his first wife got her kids from. He probably closed his eyes to a lot of things in her case too—and I suppose that’s sufficient grounds for annulling our marriage—and that’ll make my parents more reasonable. I want so much to stay here, I never want to go back to that apartment. I simply can’t stand it anymore!”
“You’ll find a place, I’m sure, and a job too, and I—I believe I really will go to Paris. I’m so very sorry, it really grieves me to think of all that’s happened to you.”
“I think about it differently now, I suppose it had to happen that way. It was unpleasant, especially for Peter. But a lot of things have been resolved for him too, and he’s as happy about it as I am. It’s funny, I daren’t say it aloud but, you know, we can thank those maniacs for it, those crazy criminals. It makes me quite dizzy to think that, yet I do think it: those people and the police—it’s really a joke. Oh, if only this siege were over!”
Suddenly the bells started ringing, the church was brightly lit, lights were being switched on in every room in the vicarage, even the garden was bathed in light. They all set aside their plates, put down their cups, went to the door. Schubler opened it; now they could not only hear the rain but see it, and the guards standing between vestry and vicarage.
“Don’t go out, no one is to go out!” Rolf said sharply. He yanked Schubler back from the threshold: “They’re sitting right on the wall, just waiting for someone to show his face—if anyone has to go out it’ll be me, they have me anyway. Roickler’s back, he’ll give his speech or his sermon. And you will be sleeping in a nice wide bed,” he said to Erna, “don’t worry. And it’ll be quiet, there won’t be a sound.”
When Erna asked if they had a game that several could play, he suggested Monopoly; she looked at him in amazement, then felt embarrassed, asked: “You—Monopoly? In your home?”
Katharina, who was already pulling the game out from the shelf and opening it out onto the table, said with a smile: “We’re the very people who must know Monopoly and play it, it has to be played ruthlessly, that makes it the best introduction for children to learn about the cruelties of capitalism. The cruelties of socialism, of course, are something they learn in school.”
Solemn Peter Schubler smiled, said he would look on or cut up some more wood, and Holger I said: “But then you’ll have to go alone, I want to play with the others, we often played it in …,” broke off, blushed, and when everyone looked at him expectantly said: “I mean—in the place where I was, we played it.…”
Sabine, insisting she must have “a breath of air,” went outside in spite of his warning headshake, and when he pulled back the curtain and opened the shutters they could see the flashbulbs above the top of the wall. Sabine hesitated, walked on toward the vestry, then closer to the wall and stuck out her tongue at them. A good thing she’s not clenching her fist, he thought, even so there would be a few misinterpretations, but not too many. Anyway she would—one way or another—get into the headlines, and the garden, the brightly lit church in the background, the guard standing in front of it, would all make a fine picture. Katharina had picked up the dice. “Come along, everybody, let’s throw for who starts.”
17
Not content with merely pinpointing the guards’ positions on the map, he had taken them personally to the various locations, where they had discussed the positions in detail, tested visibilities, and paced out the intersections of the cycling paths, the rest areas, and the camping sites. The rain would keep off many cyclists but not all, some of them were already on their way. He issued orders for checkpoints. His suggestion of cordoning off the entire recreation area until after the funeral had been rejected, Dollmer had laughed at his bucket theory and, after talking to Stabski, had said there would be trouble with Holland if they cordoned off the area: bad press, crazy Germans, and all that. He also decided where the two armored vehicles were to be stationed: one among the trees behind the cemetery chapel, the other at the point where several cycling paths crossed the road. Grobmöhler wasn’t coming till tomorrow, the day of the funeral, when he and his men would secure the chapel from the inside as well as the route to the grave and the grave itself. Furthermore someone had, as Dollmer put it, “contrived some ecumenical crap again,” a Catholic was coming after all, a bishop probably, who wasn’t likely to let himself be done out of saying a few words, TV coverage being guaranteed, of course. No doubt—it wouldn’t be the first time either—the bishop would speak about the “fellowship of sufferers,” totally oblivious as always. Certainly no one would have told him anything about Petie, about the mutilated face, let alone about that terrible letter which by this time had become a sort of top Federal secret. Anyone who knew about Petie, about the mutilated face, about the existence of the letter, even if not the contents—and he felt sure the two officers had leaked them, certainly to some of their colleagues—anyone who knew anything would feel a sense of embarrassment. Sacrificial life, sacrificial death. Things like that did nothing to raise the morale of his men, it was all so distasteful and made them cynical.
He cursed with rage on hearing, from the landlady of all people, that they had actually caught Beverloh in Istanbul, and that he was to
phone Dollmer immediately—Dollmer having of course stolen a march on him by holding the press conference without him. The landlady had heard the press conference on the radio and said something about “thanks to some clues pointing to certain purchases, the result of our own deductions.”
Damn it all, there were such things as transceivers, as helicopters, but apparently Dollmer hadn’t wanted to share these juicy spoils with anybody, yet he had laughed at his suggestion about possible shoe purchases. He cursed openly and copiously when Dollmer went on to tell him about the old Tolms’ crazy idea: that meant at least fifty men for that godforsaken hole. The entire scene might blow wide open, there would be crowds of people, and if to top it all the old couple should turn up, there would be—would be a scandal, and those two nice old characters would be ruined. “That has to be stopped, Mr. Dollmer,” he said, “if necessary by force—with roadblocks, by arranging a minor accident—somehow or other that must be stopped. If you can’t get anywhere by reasoning.”
“Are you suggesting I arrest him?” Dollmer shouted.
“No, I told you—roadblocks, arrange for a few accidents, bashed cars making the road impassable.”
“Then he’ll simply walk there.…”
“But he’ll get there too late, the funeral will be over. As it is, I have to cancel all the training courses, call back many of the men from leave, and I’m not even thinking of the problems for the police, we’re used to those, I’m thinking of the political consequences.…”
“Mind you, they’ve known Beverloh from infancy, he was almost like a son to them, at least for many years. You’re forgetting something again, my dear Holzpuke … are you listening? You’re forgetting that letter! What would be worse politically: for him to receive the letter and publish it, or for him to get a bee in his bonnet and go to the wrong funeral? The letter, if he publishes it—and he wouldn’t hesitate—will affect us all, everyone involved: the wrong funeral will only affect him. Stabski completely agrees with me, we’ve discussed it from every possible angle, and once it becomes known that the letter exists it won’t take long for its contents to become public. Well, what do you say?”
“Even so I would see to it that a few wrecks get hopelessly entangled on all the access roads. Of course they’ll have to be supplied with license plates. In any event I’ll cancel all the training courses. Well, what do you say to shoe size thirty-eight?”
“Terrific, practically a stroke of genius. It won’t pass without leaving its mark on your career. But there’s one thing, I believe, we can forget about now: there’ll be no bucket trip.”
“I’m not so sure about that. After all, she did get away, and there are still the sympathizers.”
He started several times to call the manor house, kept sighing, picking up the receiver, replacing it, had to force himself to dial, and was startled when he heard her voice saying: “Yes?” He was silent for a few seconds, until she said: “Who is it, please—who’s there?” He diffidently gave his name, adding: “Don’t be alarmed—you can imagine what I’m calling about.…”
“Yes, I can—but we won’t succumb to your blandishments either. No, my dear Mr. Holzpuke, you have become a good companion to us—I’m only interested in one thing: am I now going to get my reward? You know, because of the shoes, which, you must admit—yes, it’s odd, I mourn his death but I’m not sad about it—can you understand that? And the shoes, the reward—am I going to get it?”
Oh damn, he thought, I mustn’t cry. He was close to it, he had heard it all, all the things the old couple had whispered to each other like lovers, about adultery and no adultery, about Madonnas and children. And every single argument, even those one called or might have called human, was on his side. He too would never forget shoe size 38, and the plain fact was that he was fond of these two old people, more so of him than of her, and if he discounted all the political and police angles he found himself thinking that it was downright fantastic for them to be going to that funeral. He already regretted having given Dollmer the tip about the roadblocks. He wouldn’t put it past Dollmer to use that trick anyway and later—in front of Stabski and elsewhere—claim the credit for it. Yet they knew it wouldn’t be effective, for then the old man would insist on the letter, and that would mean partial if not total disaster: all that stuff in it about nuclear power stations, lobbying, corruption, forecasts for the future, growth. And the old man did still own his newspaper. That meant a score of publications that might, for once, print something inopportune—might.
“Are you still there? Or are you too ashamed?”
“I am very much ashamed, dear Mrs. Tolm—and I’d rather not mention at this point something that I might mention: necessity—no, I’d rather not. I’m only ashamed about the reward—rewards are only for voluntary information, not for involuntary.…”
“Are we going to see you here tomorrow?”
“No, I won’t be able to get away. But we’ll meet the day after. I won’t duck out, forgive me.…”
“Will you do me a favor?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Give them a call in Hubreichen. Tell them no one must leave the house, no one, not even any of the guests. Zummerling is lying in wait.”
18
In the café, as he was helping her off with her coat, Helga grasped his hand and said: “It’s a good thing we’re going to be separated for the next three weeks. The training course in Strüderbeken will do you good, me too. I’ve packed all your things.”
“You’ll have to unpack them again, Helga dear, there’s not going to be any training course. Haven’t you been listening to the news?”
He ordered tea and coffee, asked for the menu, took the lighter from Helga and lit her cigarette, took a cigarette himself from the package. “You must be in a bad way if you’re starting to smoke—yes, of course I’ve heard the news. They caught that fellow Beverloh, he’s dead, and the woman has gone underground. Where d’you think the boy can be?”
“They sent the boy back, the woman will soon turn up again. That all indicates some imminent action, and it wasn’t only those two, you know—it’s a far-reaching network, Helga, a burrow with all kinds of side passages, secret passages. I only hope they cancel Strüderbeken early enough and don’t get us up in the middle of the night again.”
He broke off, waited until the waitress had served the coffee and tea. “Yes, a bit of jogging, a bit of football, target practice, and some theory—maybe that would have done me good, maybe. But at this time of year the heath around Strüderbeken isn’t all that attractive, the woods are damp and chilly, and bare. I’d rather have some proper leave, not go away, just stay home. Get some sleep, have a heart-to-heart with Bernhard, maybe go to the movies, argue with Karl—talk to you. What did you mean when you said my training course would do you good too?”
“To be really separated from you for once, not the way it’s been lately: with you here yet farther away, much farther away, than if you were in Africa. Not to have to talk, talk. You’re kidding yourself: she’s in you, and you’re in her, and when I say that I don’t mean the child she’s expecting, and if it weren’t for our son, for Bernhard, wouldn’t you have taken off with her long ago? Then I would cease to count, and very quickly too. No, I’d rather leave your things packed—maybe you’ll need them if you change your mind and go away with her.” She smiled when he stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. He handed her the menu.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“No thanks, would you?”
“No.” He took back the menu and laid it beside his glass of tea. “Separate, did you say?”
“Yes. Perhaps you should live with her for a while to find out that you can’t live with her. You’re dreaming all the time, aren’t you, of being with her?”
“Yes,” he said—yes, and thought of Sabine’s wet hair when she had brought him some food that night and kissed him and kissed him again, over and over again, and he had put the empty bowl down on the windowsill before
the relief officer had arrived. “Yes, and you may well laugh—it will break my heart when I think of you, not only when I think of Bernhard—and when I have to quit the service.…”
“I won’t laugh, I do know you a little bit—and I know that you’ll go away with her or follow her.”
“And do you know if I’ll come back?”
“No, I don’t know that, but of course I’m hoping you will. Yes, that’s what I’m hoping. I suppose you’re scared of actually doing it?”
“Yes, I am, but I’ll do it. I’m worried, though—I’m worried about our debts, and what am I to do when I have to quit the service, when I have to get out of the police?”