‘I’ll give you a ring Friday or Saturday,’ said the doctor, ‘as soon as the embryos are ready to be implanted.’ He had turned round, but wouldn’t look either of them in the eye.
Lothar nodded. ‘We’ll be waiting by the phone, Doctor.’
God had another thing up his sleeve. Nothing, not even a lightning strike, could have been as devastating to Victor as this was. He had harvested seven ripe eggs, and not one of them had survived the procedure. So he discovered that evening. He collapsed into a chair, overcome with dizziness. He had been so certain the eggs were mature enough to be harvested. The ultrasound had shown him that they were. But, once removed from the woman’s body, they had expired in no time in the Petri dish. He’d seen it happen. It wasn’t really a matter of viable human life yet at this stage, of course; and yet it felt as if he were watching life being snuffed out before his eyes. One by one. Like balloons being popped with a pin.
Watching it happen, he knew: it was the hand of God. God was not going to let him do as he pleased; his all-seeing eye was fixed on Victor. God would brook no competition.
But he, Victor Hoppe, would never capitulate. God should have known he wouldn’t.
So, the very next morning, he began making calls. He rang the universities and the hospitals. Judging from his tone, you’d have thought he was ordering a loaf of bread.
‘Egg cells. Mature human eggs. That’s what I said, yes.’
They’d hung up on him almost everywhere. A few asked him to call back later. One place told him that they couldn’t find any reliable information on him.
No reliable information!
It was a plot. He was convinced of it now. God had mustered all His power and fomented a conspiracy! He had entered into a covenant! And all just to bring Victor to his knees!
Then the woman suddenly appeared before him. He still had the receiver clamped to his ear. The people on the other end of the line hadn’t understood what he was asking. Didn’t want to.
‘Ripe egg cells. Urgent,’ he was saying.
The woman started ranting and raving: ‘Are you still at it? You don’t know when to stop, do you! Haven’t you caused enough suffering? What else do you want to happen? What, in the name of God, will it take for you to stop? Do you hear me? Stop this, right now! You’re insane! Insane!’
In the name of God - that was what she’d said. That was how she had given herself away. But he’d already known it for some time. God had sent her here. It was that simple. Why else would she have come just at this time - when he was on the verge of taking God on at last? She said she had come for the children, but she had nothing to do with the children. She wasn’t their mother. She was nothing to them.
She’ll do more harm than good. That was what was being said about her. So he wasn’t the only one who knew. Everyone knew.
He went upstairs. He found her in the bathroom.
‘I know why you have come,’ he told her. ‘You didn’t come for the children. You came for me. You were sent. You were supposed to make me stop. But you won’t succeed. He won’t succeed. I’m going to go through with it, no matter what.’
Then he turned on his heel, and looked in on the children. They were still in the bed in that other room. He knew that room and that bed. That was the room where God had taken another life years ago. He’d prayed to God that time, the way the nuns had taught him to. But he hadn’t known back then that God was evil. They had kept that from him.
He leaned over the two children and felt their pulse. It would not be long now.
8
‘Rex Cremer speaking.’
‘Herr Cremer, you have to help me! He’s still doing it. Dr Hoppe - he just won’t stop! And the children, my God, the children!’
‘Madam, I can’t hear you very well. Could you please say it again?’
‘I’m at Dr Hoppe’s house. I was just there. I’ve been there since the day before yesterday. I wanted to see the children, remember? You told me where he lived.’
‘Good, so you did find him.’
‘But the children . . .’
‘What’s the matter with the children?’
‘One is already . . . Michael is already . . . And the other two . . . They could go at any time. I don’t know what to do! You have to help me!’
‘I don’t know how . . .’
‘And the doctor just won’t stop! I heard him ordering egg cells - mature human eggs. That’s what he told me. I’m going to go through with it. That’s what he said! And he said I was trying to stop him! He’s gone mad!’
‘. . .’
‘Herr Cremer?’
‘I’m thinking, madam. I’m trying to think what I can do.’
‘He’s capable of anything! The children. When I found them . . . they . . . Terrible! It was terrible! He’s insane! Dr Hoppe has gone insane! You have to . . .’
‘Madam?’
‘. . .’
‘Madam, are you still there? Madam?’
The woman had been standing outside the Café Terminus, yelling and banging on the windows. Martha Bollen had heard her all the way from her shop and had hurried outside. The woman had turned to her in a panic: ‘I have to make a phone call! It’s urgent!’
Martha had taken her to the little office at the back of the shop and shown her the phone. She had left her alone, but listened at the door. She supposed that Dr Hoppe’s sons had passed away; perhaps his phone was out of order. But the woman began to rant and rave. She was saying terrible things about Dr Hoppe, over and over. That he’d gone mad - that was what the woman yelled. At least three times! At that point Martha had heard enough. She marched into the office, snatched the receiver out of her hand and slammed it down.
‘Out!’ she shouted at her. ‘Get out of here! You’re the one who’s insane! Go on, get out of here, or I’ll call the police!’
The woman had run off.
Jacob Weinstein was deadheading flowers in the churchyard that morning when he spotted the woman. He didn’t yet know who she was. She was wending her way along the graves, reading the names on the headstones, shaking her head each time. She was coming towards him but had not yet noticed him. When she came close, he hailed her: ‘Excuse me, ma’am, are you looking for any grave in particular?’
She stared at him as if he had risen from the dead.
‘I am the sexton,’ he tried to reassure her. He saw that she was in a panic. ‘If you’ll just tell me which grave you’re looking for, I may be able to help you.’
She looked around skittishly.
‘Michael,’ she said. ‘Michael . . .’
‘Who?’
‘Michael.’
‘Do you know the last name? The Christian name itself doesn’t give me enough to go by.’
‘Hoppe. Hoppe, maybe.’
‘Hoppe? Like the doctor? Perhaps you are looking for his father. He is here, you are right. He was a doctor too. But his name wasn’t Michael. I can—’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘One of my . . . One of the children. The boys.’
‘Oh, that Michael, you mean? As in Michael, Gabriel and Raphael? Like the archangels?’
She did not seem to understand the reference. She probably wasn’t even religious.
‘Michael Hoppe,’ she said again, ‘the doctor’s . . .’
So he had understood her correctly. But she must be mistaken. ‘He isn’t dead yet, madam.’
Now she was nodding her head. ‘He is,’ she said. ‘He is. It was over a week ago.’
‘I think you must have misunderstood. They are very ill - that much I know. But dead? And a week ago? In that case he’d have been buried by now, and we haven’t had a burial here in four months. I really do think you are mistaken.’
‘No, the doctor said so. I’m sure of it.’
Suddenly the sexton realised who she was. She was the woman everyone was talking about, who had assaulted Maria Moresnet’s children and claimed she was the mother of the doctor’s sons. No one had seen her since the doctor had let her in. It must be her! And she was crazy - that’s what they said.
‘There’s no Michael Hoppe here, madam,’ he said firmly. ‘You are imagining things. He is not dead.’
‘You’re lying! Everyone’s lying!’ she cried loudly, flinging her hands hysterically in the air.
‘This is a churchyard, madam. I cannot allow . . .’
But she had already turned on her heels and was running towards the exit. Hurrying after her, he saw that she was making straight for the doctor’s house. She even had a key. It took her a few moments to get the gate open, but then she scurried up the path to the front door. Not looking back, she disappeared into the house.
The door to the bedroom was open. She was sure she had closed it when she left.
‘Gabriel? Raphael?’ Her voice sounded reedy. She felt her temples throbbing and her stomach ached.
‘Gabriel? Raphael?’ She stuck her head round the door. The bed wasn’t empty, as she’d expected.
She stepped into the room, halting at the foot of the bed, but saw only one child. The side Raphael had occupied was empty. And soiled. It was as if someone had plunged a knife into her belly.
In a daze she walked to the other side of the bed. Leaning down over Gabriel, she gathered him carefully in her arms.
‘Where is Raphael? Gabriel, where is Raphael? Look at me!’
Gabriel gave no indication that he’d heard her. He was still breathing, thank God he was still breathing, but he did not open his eyes.
She lowered him onto the bed again. He was so light that his head barely made a dent in the pillow.
Her breath was coming out ragged and her throat felt as if it was being pinched shut. She looked round, but knew she would not find Raphael here in this room.
He isn’t dead.
The doctor must have taken him to another room, it occurred to her. And Michael would be there too. A straw she could clutch at.
She left the room, turning back one last time.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back with your brothers, Raphael and Michael. I’m going to fetch them.’
She was driven by hope and despair. And, increasingly, hatred. Hatred for the man who had caused all this. And who just merrily went on doing it.
She found him in the consultation room. He was standing with his back to her, washing his hands.
‘Where are they?’
Her voice was hoarse. She had not had anything to drink in quite a while and no longer had any sense of time. She had no idea how long she’d been gone.
The doctor glanced over his shoulder but went on washing his hands. Then he turned off the tap.
‘Where are they? Where are Michael and Raphael? They aren’t dead. I know they aren’t.’
He reached for a towel and began drying his hands with meticulous care. The palms. The backs of the hands. Each individual finger. In between each finger.
She glanced around the office, taking in the examination table with the stirrups. Again she felt a stab to her stomach. As if to feel her hate more intensely, she ran her fingertips across the swollen scar on her belly. Through the cloth of her blouse it felt like a branch with thorns. Forty-eight thorns. She had counted them often.
‘Where are they?’ she insisted.
The doctor hung up the towel. ‘They are dead,’ he said. ‘They are both dead.’ He would not look at her.
‘You’re lying. You’re always lying.’
Snorting audibly, he shook his head. ‘Do you wish to see them? Then will you believe it?’
She hadn’t expected him to give in so easily. She nodded, however. ‘I want to see them. At once.’ Her throat had closed up almost completely.
‘I’ll show them to you. Come with me.’
He walked over to the door behind his desk, opened it and disappeared into the room behind.
For a moment she hesitated. She tried to picture what she would see. The boys lying there, together in one bed, perhaps oxygen masks over their noses, intravenous lines in their arms. Surrounded by all sorts of equipment, probably. That was quite possible. She steeled herself, then stepped into the room.
They were placed next to each other, in brotherly togetherness. He had set them up side by side, fraternally, on an empty table in the centre of the room, and he’d stepped back for her to see.
They were floating. Backs bowed, heads down, eyes closed, hands balled into fists; they were floating in water. Two great, liquid-filled glass jars, and in each jar, a body.
She couldn’t get any air. She could only breathe out. In short puffs. She couldn’t even tear her eyes away from what was on that table.
She clutched the cabinet beside her for support. Her hand hit one of the metal dishes and sent it toppling. The sound startled her. It seemed to be coming from somewhere else, as if she were in a dream. But she did not wake up. She was awake. And the voice she heard was flat and cold, but all too real: ‘You see, they’re dead. I’m not lying.’
If he had kept his mouth shut, if he hadn’t said anything, then perhaps she’d just have walked away.
She caught sight of the scalpel lying on top of the cabinet. It was impossible to miss seeing it; it was impossible to miss picking it up. Receptacles everywhere, and in every receptacle scalpels, and scissors, and needles. She picked up the scalpel, raised her hand in the air and charged at the doctor. She did not slash at him. She didn’t have the strength. She simply let the scalpel descend. Her arm came down in a wide sweep and the scalpel plunged into his side. It sliced easily through the cloth of his coat and drove deep into his flesh.
9
Father Kaisergruber had twice gone round to Dr Hoppe’s with a flask of sacred oil. Both times the gate had remained shut to him. Since the priest knew that Dr Hoppe had not been opening his door to anyone, he did not take it personally. In fact, he didn’t mind in the least, since he’d been reluctant to go in the first place and had only gone because several parishioners had urged him to. They wanted him to administer the last rites to the doctor’s dying sons. He had objected at first, saying the children were too young, and besides, he wasn’t sure they had been baptised, but Bernadette Liebknecht then reminded him of the story of the Canaanite woman, whose faith was so strong that Jesus had healed her sick child for that reason alone.