The Sinner (13 page)

I didn't want to take it, honestly not, but he broke some off and
stuffed it into my mouth. "Go on," he said. "Don't worry, you can
eat it. You can if I say so. It isn't a sin. I'd never encourage you to
commit a sin. You needn't be afraid that Mother will notice. She
thinks it's outside in the dustbin." So I couldn't help it.

The next day Magdalena was worse, and the day after that her
condition deteriorated still more. Father insisted on taking her to
the hospital. Mother didn't agree, but this time Father got his way.
They set off very early in the morning.

I'll never forget that day. Mother returned at lunchtime - alone,
in a taxi. Father had remained at Eppendorf with Magdalena
to have a quiet word with the doctors. I was next door at Grit
Adigar's. Father had told me to go there if no one was in when I
came home from school. Grit had given me a good lunch and later
some sweets for doing my homework properly.

I hadn't meant to eat them until Magdalena came home, but
I told myself it wouldn't matter, not after the chocolate episode,
so I was still sucking away when Mother came to collect me. She
spotted I had something in my mouth, naturally, but she didn't tell
me to spit it out.

Mother wasn't her usual self. She might have been made of stone,
and her voice grated like the white sand in which nothing can grow
The doctors had told her that Magdalena was terminally ill. She
had laughed at death often enough; now her time was finally up.
No treatment, they'd told her. It would only be cruel.

Her various ailments had been joined by yet another. It had
nothing to do with the cold I'd brought home. It was called
leukaemia - cancer, said Mother, and I pictured Magdalena being
devoured from within by a creature armed with crablike claws.

Mother fetched two suitcases from the basement: one for her and
one for Magdalena. I had to accompany her upstairs and stand beside Magdalena's bed while she packed them. "Take a good look
at this bed," she told me. "This is how it's going to stay, and you'll
see your sister lying there for the rest of your life. To the end of your
days you'll ask yourself. Was it worth it? How could I let my sister
die such a terrible death for the sake of a moment's pleasure?"

I believed that. I genuinely believed it, and I was terribly
frightened. Until then I'd never given any thought to how life
would go on when Magdalena wasn't there any more. Now I did. I
looked at the bed as Mother had bidden me, and I thought she was
going to lock me up in there so that I could see Magdalena's empty
bed for the rest of my days.

Mother took a taxi back to Eppendorf, leaving me alone in the
house. She hadn't locked me up in the bedroom, so I was in the
living room when Father came home that evening. I'd lit the candles
and spent the whole afternoon kneeling on the bench, promising
our Saviour that I'd never covet anything ever again. I begged him
to make me drop dead and leave my sister in peace. When I didn't
drop dead I thought I must show Mother what a great sacrifice I
could make. I planned to burn my hands like the blue dress with
the white collar, so I could never again touch anything sweet. But
when I held my hands over the candle flames and the pain became
unbearable, I took them away. The only result was a few blisters.

Father was horrified when lie saw them and asked what Mother
had said to me. I told him. He flew into a rage and swore terribly
"The stupid bitch! She's sick!" and things like that. Then he
went to Grit Adigar's to call the hospital and tell the doctors that
he'd changed his mind: they must treat Magdalena after all. If
they weren't prepared to do so, he would report them and take
Magdalena to another hospital.

He was very quiet when he came back. He made supper for us
- string beans from a preserving jar, which was all there was in the
house. Then he put a smaller saucepan on the stove and poured
some milk into it. We always had some milk for Magdalena's
benefit. I didn't want any. I found it easy to go without milk, but I
always pretended it was a great sacrifice. That shows you what a
deceitful, hypocritical child I was.

Father produced a little paper bag from his trouser pocket and
smiled at me. "Let's see if I can do this," he said. It was custard
powder - he'd begged it from Grit. "I must make her understand
she can eat what she likes," he'd told her. "But what am I going
to do about Magdalena? It would be best to let her die in peace.
The treatment is sheer torture; the doctors explained that to me in
detail. She won't survive it, and I'll have to live with the thought
that she was tortured to death at my instigation. But I have to do
it for Cora's sake."

Grit didn't tell me that until much later, but I always knew Father
loved me. I loved him too - very much.

We were alone together for a long time after that. Those six
months were the best time I'd ever had. Before Father went off to
work in the mornings he'd make me a breakfast of cocoa, boiled
eggs and bread and sausage, and he always gave me a nice big
apple or banana to eat at break.

When I came back at lunchtime I went to Grit's and spent the
afternoon playing with Kerstin and Melanie. They were always
nice to me at home, in fact they sometimes said they were sorry for
ignoring me during break.

The best thing was when Father came home at the end of the
afternoon. He'd clean the windows and wash the curtains while
I dusted and swept the kitchen, so everything looked neat and
clean. When we'd done the housework he cooked for us. There
was meat or sausage and a dessert every day. After supper we sat in
the kitchen. Father assured me that Magdalena's condition would
neither improve nor deteriorate if we had some blancmange. He
also promised to urge Mother to allow me to grow up a normal
child.

"It's enough," he said once, "if the person responsible for this
evil practises self-denial. I'm firmly resolved to do so. God grant I
manage it."

We always went into the living room before bed. Father never lit
the candles. We simply kneeled before the altar in the darkness and
prayed for Magdalena. Mother had asked us to, but I think we'd
have done so of our own accord.

Father sometimes went to the hospital on a Sunday. He didn't
take me with him. I wasn't allowed near Magdalena in case she
caught some minor ailment from me. The treatment he'd insisted
on for my sake was working, but Magdalena had grown so weak, a
common cold might have carried her off.

While Father was visiting her I went next door, where Grit gave
me cocoa and fresh-baked pastries sprinkled with sugar. I was
happy - infinitely happy, especially when Father came home from
the hospital and said: "It looks as if she's going to make it. There's
nothing left of her but two great big eyes, but the doctors say she
has an invincible determination to survive. You could almost believe
she pumps the blood through her veins by willpower alone. She's
such a frail little creature - too weak even to raise her head. The
doctors can't understand it, but all human beings cling to life."

They came home in December. Magdalena had no hair left. She
was so weak, she couldn't be allowed to wait until she did it of her
own accord. Mother gave her an enema every morning, so she didn't
have to strain. Magdalena hated those enemas. She had only to see
Mother coming with the jug and the tube, and she burst into tears.
But she wasn't allowed to do that either; it was too strenuous.

Mother completely lost it when Magdalena started to cry. She
would shoo me into the living room, with the result that I couldn't
come out and do my homework. I regularly got into trouble with
the teacher the next day. She'd liked me to begin with, but now
she thought me lazy and neglectful. I couldn't always blame my
shortcomings on my invalid sister. A couple of times I even got a
black mark in the class book.

Grit Adigar advised me to do my homework at night, after
Mother had sent me to bed. I had to sprawl on the floor with my
exercise books because there was no table in the bedroom. Then
the teacher would complain about my untidy handwriting.

Although I was naturally grateful to our Saviour for having spared
my sister's life, Magdalena's survival wasn't the way I'd imagined
it. Sometimes I thought it would have been better if Mother had
shut me up in the bedroom forever. Then I wouldn't have had as
much hassle.

Every four weeks Magdalena had to go to the hospital for followup treatment. Mother went with her. They remained there for two
or three days each time, and each time I wished they would never
come back - that the doctors would say Magdalena had to stay
at Eppendorf forever, that she could only survive there, and that
Mother would stay with her. She never left her side, after all. Then
I would stay home with Father, and he would be just like he'd been
throughout those six months. I didn't want him to be so sad, but
that was all.

It was like the nightmare she couldn't awake from, except that
this time it was completely different. Nothing remained hidden.
It all escaped her grasp, spilled out of her head and spread in all
directions. She heard herself talking about her birthday, the bar
of chocolate, her daydreams. Just Father and me! She saw herself
gesticulating, seemed to see the chief's perplexed, attentive face
through a mist.

From time to time he nodded.

And she couldn't stop talking, she couldn't afford to. She had
to persuade him to leave her father in peace. Gereon too. Gereon
didn't deserve to be troubled with something for which he bore
no responsibility. As for Father, it would finish him to learn the
truth.

She told the chief about him. Not too much, just what a kind,
warm-hearted man he used to be. A man of wide interests, a
walking treatise on local history. She also spoke of her mother, of
the crucifix and the roses on the home-made altar, of the wooden
Saviour and their prayers. All she omitted to mention was the
reason for them: Magdalena.

Her body trembled spasmodically. Her brain did too, causing
her head to jerk up and down like that of an automaton. But
she still had some self-control left. No one must be allowed near
Magdalena, certainly not a man. Any excitement, any exertion
could spell her death.

She spoke of her conflicting emotions, of her need to be good
and her desire for a life of sin. Sweets in her childhood, young men
and their magical power of attraction in later years. There had
been one in particular, the kind that had only to click his fingers.
Everyone called him Johnny Guitar.

Grit Adigar had once told her: "When you're old enough, do as
I did. Find yourself a nice husband and get him to father a child
on you, then go away with him and forget all this nonsense." She
would gladly have gone away with Johnny and had more than once
wondered what it would be like to have a child by him.

The thought of Johnny brought her back to Gereon. She told of
the day she'd met him for the first time. Gereon was her only route
to normality, and normal was what she longed to be - had to be. A
normal, grown-up woman who had long since left her childhood
behind her. As for the unsavoury episode that had begun in May
five years ago and ended six months later, in November, leaving
such unmistakable traces on her forearms and forehead, that too
must remain a closed book because it would stir up too much
dust.

Her mother-in-law had often tried to pump her. "The hussy!
Who knows what she got up to before!" And the old man with his
stupid remarks: "You're a cunning little vixen, but you can't fool
me."

You bet she could! She'd learned to fool people in her cradle.
She could fool anyone she chose, the chief included. It helped her
to recall her first meeting with Gereon. Four years ago, it was - five
come December. It was shortly before Christmas.

Gereon was in town, shopping for some presents for his parents.
Laden with parcels, he'd walked into the cafe on Herzogstrasse
where she earned her living - an honest living, be it noted! A
chance customer the first time, he'd sat down at a table and waited
for service. He didn't know you had to order at the counter out
front and was embarrassed when she told him.

"Do I have to go back out there?" He was clearly disconcerted.
Feeling that he'd branded himself a country bumpkin, he blushed.
"Couldn't you bring me something?"

"I don't know what you want."

`Anything," he said with a grin. "Something with whipped cream
on it and a coffee."

"Pot or cup?" she asked.

`A cup'll do me," he replied. That was typical of him. He'd
always been modest in his requirements.

She went out front and brought him a slice of Black Forest gateau
and a coffee. "Nice of you," he said. "Would you like something
too? My treat."

"Thanks," she said, "but I work here."

"Yes, of course." Embarrassed once more, he forked up a big
piece of gateau, shoved it into his mouth and started chewing.
His gaze followed her around the room. He smiled whenever she
caught his eye.