I Confess (33 page)

"What did he do?"

"He tried to hang a smaller, weaker boy," Dr. Freund said quietly, "and he almost succeeded."

"But for God's sake, how could that happen?"

"The children were playing war criminal trials," Dr. Freund replied. "Martin was the presiding judge of the Niirnberg tribunal. He sentenced his little friend to death by hanging."

There are hmits to what a man can bear. I could see them and rose. "Dr. Freund," I said, "please understand one thing—I cannot make any decisions in the case of

this child. I don't have the right and I don't feel equal to the situation. We'll have to wait until ... until my wife gets back."

"We can't wait," he said earnestly. Now he got up too. His shadow on the wall behind him was gigantic. "You have to help me,"

"I can't help you."

"But you're the only one who can."

"But he's not my chHd."

"He is the child of your wife. You married her."

I felt close to tears. "I can't. I just told you, I can't. I am a sick man. I den't like children. I don't want the boy."

"Herr Frank." Suddenly Dr. Freund's voice was icy. "If you don't take the boy, I shall have to report you to the police."

Thanks, Yolanda, I thought. Then I said, "Forgive me for getting so excited. Let's go."

"That sounds better," said Dr. Freund.

"How do we get there?"

"We take a streetcar," he said. "It's just outside the city."

We drove through partially farmed land to the last stop. Then we walked for about a quarter of an hour over a loamy field path to the home. The wind was wild, we had to brace ourselves against it. Dr. Freund walked a little ahead of me, holding his ridiculous bowler jammed down on his head with both hands. I stumbled into a puddle and could feel the water running into my shoes. It was

pitch dark out there in the fields. A little light could be

seen in the distance from the street we had left where a few lamps were swaying in the wind. I considered that it wouldn't be difficult to run away from Dr. Freund. He would never catch up with me. And if he cried out for help, nobody could hear him. But where would I go? He knew me now, my name, what I looked like. They surely had a telephone at the home. In ten minutes the police would be notified. I wouldn't even get out of the city. No. It wouldn't do. But it wouldn't do either for this pathological child to make a prisoner of me, to be with me until the end. I hadn't done what I had done for that. No. Not for that. I wanted to get away. I had to get away. But I had to get away in a sensible fashion.

The home was surrounded by a high wall. Next to the wrought iron gate there was a gate house. Dr. Freund rang the bell. An old man with an umbrella came and unlocked the gate. He seemed to know Dr. Freund well. "Good evening, Herr Doktor." He let us in and looked at me disapprovingly. "And is this the father?"

"Yes," said Dr. Freund. "He has come for Martin."

The gatekeeper shook his head. "Fm glad Tm not in your shoes," he said to me.

The head of the home, a fat old lady with iron grey hair that stood out wildly from her head, received me in her office with obvious contempt. She spoke to Dr. Freund and behaved as if I wasn't there. Then she began to fill out a form which posed questions I should have been answering, but she preferred to ask Dr. Freund

"The father is willing to take the child?"

"Yes."

"Where does he live?"

Dr. Freund gave my address. The woman wrote it down. "His profession?"

"Your profession?" asked Dr. Freund, looking at me.

"Merchant," I said.

The woman continued to ienore me.

"Merchant," said Dr. Freund.

Merchant, the woman entered in the form.

"The mother is , . ."

"Away. But Herr Frank has promised to look after the chad."

"Is that true?" she asked and looked at me for the &st time. "Is that reaUy your intention?"

"Yes," I Hed and looked down at the table.

She turned the form to the other side. "Is the ... hm .. . father agreed that the child enter your school, Dr. Freund?"

"We haven't discussed that yet," said Dr. Freimd.

"I am agreed," I said hastily.

"No other school will take him."

"I know."

She lifted her head, looked at me, and wrote on. Then she rang a bell and a young woman appeared: "Are Martin's things packed?"

"Yes, Frau Doktor, His suitcase is in the haU."

"Good. Bring Martin in."

The young woman left. At the door she turned for a moment and looked at me curiously.

"Dr. Freund will have told you, I am sure,** now the director of the home was addressing me, "that we are in a position to bring suit against you if you continue to neglect your parental duties toward Martin.'*

"Yes, he did."

"Good," she said, pushing the form across to me. "Sign here."

I signed a statement that everything I had herewith attested to was the truth, that from now on I would care for "the above mentioned child, Martin Frank, bom 5/3/1942, to the best of my ability and conscience and in accordance with my means." Then there was a knock on the door and the young woman came back. "Martin is ready," she said.

"Let him come in," said the director.

Martin came in.

He was small for his age and looked frail. It was hard

to believe him physically capable of the brutality of which he was accused. He was pale; his black, shifty eyes lay in deep shadowy hollows, his short blonde hair stuck to his scalp. His thin, bloodless lips twitched nervously and their expression was ironic as he stepped forward and said, as he had been taught, "Good evening."

Dr. Freund rose and went to him, smiling. "Good evening, Martin. It's good to see you."

They shook hands. There was a fleeting light in the boy's eyes which was gone again when he saw me.

"Martin," said the director, "you are leaving us this evening. Your father has come to get you."

"This is your father, Martin." Dr. Freund moved me forward.

"Hello, young man," I murmured and held out my hand. He didn't take it. He looked at me sceptically and inimically. "You are not my father," he said.

I let my hand fall again. "I married your mother," I began, but he interrupted me. "I know. My mother told me about it You are her husband but you are not my father."

"That's right," I said amiably. "But Fm sure we can still be friends in spite of that." The boy said nothing. "Don't you thmk so?"

"No, I don't think so," he said, "and I don't care. I don't need friends."

"Everybody needs friends, Martin," said Dr. Freund. "That's something we've often talked about, isn't it?"

Martin nodded impatiently. "Yes, we have. But I don't beUeve it any more. It's all nonsense."

"Come, come, Martin." Dr. Freund patted the boy on the shoulder. "What you're saying is nonsense."

"It isn't nonsense! I'm right! There's no such thing as friends."

"So . .. and you and I ... what are we? Aren't we friends?"

"That's different," said Martin, looking down at his feet.

He was wearing good leather shoes and a blue sailor suit. He was surprisingly well dressed.

"Why is it different?"

"Because. . . because you're an exception."

He sounded embarrassed. His lips were twitching again. It seemed a reflex action when he was excited, and it reminded me of Yolanda's twitching nostrils. Suddenly the boy looked at me and asked, "Where is my mother?"

"She's in Germany. She'll be back soon."

His lips curled scornfully. "She'll never come back." (My God, I thought.) "But I don't care." His voice was cutting. "I don't need her."

"Everybody needs a mother," said Dr. Freund.

"I don't," said the child. "I don't need anybody. Goodbye, Frau Direktor." He shook ha(nds with her without looking at her.

"Goodbye Martin. I hope things go well with you and that you'll be a good boy from now on. I know you feel sorry for what you've done . . ."

"I don't feel sorry for what I've done," said Martin, withdrawing his hand, "and you don't hope things will go well with me. You're glad to be rid of me."

"That's not true, Martin."

He nodded like an old man. "I know how it is. All of you hate me."

"Nobody hates you, Martin," said Dr. Freund. "Where do you get such a crazy idea?"

"It's not crazy. I know what I'm talking about. And I don't care. I hate all of you too. One day . . ." His voice petered out.

"One day what, Martin?"

"You'll see," he mumbled darkly as he walked to the door. He didn't turn around again. "I shall carry my suitcase myself, Herr Doktor/* he said over his shoulder. To me he paid no attention at all.

When we got outside, he picked up his suitcase and dragged it to the stairs. I looked back at the director, at

the young woman. "Good night," I said, feeling embarrassed.

They didn't answer.

Dr. Freund came back into town with us. Nothing much was said. When we got to my house, Dr. Freund bade us farewell and added, "You promise not to leave Martin?"

"How could I?"

"You could leave the city, Herr Frank."

"Yes, I could do that."

"But you won't?"

"I won't."

"I believe you, and I do thank you." He shook my hand. Then he went up to Martin who had walked ahead a little. He was still lugging his suitcase. Dr. Freund bent over him. "Sleep well, Martin. And tomorrow you come to my school."

"Yes, Herr Doktor/' Martin smiled briefly. "Good night." For the first time I noticed that he was carrying a brown cardboard box under his arm, pressed against his body.

Dr. Freund watched us walk into the house. Small, stout, bent forward a little, he stood in the rain and waved.

The lights were on in the apartment, but the fire had gone out Martin crept around the place, suspicious and cautious.

"We're going to have to sleep in the same room," I said. He said nothing. "Come on, let's unpack your things." Again no response. I opened his suitcase and was

astonished to see that a little underwear and a few school-books were the only things in it. "Is that all you have?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Don't you have any toys?"

"I don't need any toys."

I laid the few things on the table. They looked skimpy and unreal—unreal shorts, unreal socks, unreal shoes. ... I would leave him money. A lot of money. When we didn't turn up at the school, Dr. Freund would come to see us again and would find Martin.

"Do you want me to show you the bathroom?"

"What for?"

"So that you can wash."

"I don't wash."

"Everybody ..." I began, and stopped. "Very well," I said indifferently, "so don't wash." Of what concern was the boy to me? In an hour I would be gone.

I had emptied his suitcase, and, without thinking too much about it, I reached for the brown cardboard box he was still carrying. He fell upon me, screaming like an animal. "No!"

I was startled. He was standing in front of me, the box in both hands, a murderous light in his eyes. "What's the matter, Martin? What's wrong?"

"The box is mine! Mine! Mine!"

"I'm not going to take it away from you.**

"Yes you are!"

"I am not going to take it away from you, Martin. Whatever makes you think I am? What's in it anyway?"

"It's my toy," he whispered.

"I thought you didn't have any toys."

"I don't. Not the kind others have."

"So what kind do you have?"

"I'm not telling."

"Please tell me."

"No."

I turned my back on him. "All right. Then don't tell me."

I could feel his eyes on me, but T didn't look at him aeain. Then it happened. "Do vou want me to show it to you?"

He came to stand in front of me. His eyes were still flashing, his lips were quivering, the boy was without doubt in a state of great excitement.

"If you want to."

"But you must promise not to take it away from me."

^'Very well. I promise."

He could hardly wait to open the box. His fingers were trembling. Now I noticed that there were a few holes in it. He lifted the cover. "There," he said hoarsely.

I looked inside and my stomach went sick with revulsion. In the box lay a little white mouse. The animal was fastened to the bottom of the box with scotch tape so that it couldn't move. Even its long thin tail was taped

**And that is your toy?"

"Yes." His expression was radiant. At that moment he looked absolutely insane.

"That's no toy!" I cried.

"For me it is," he said, stroking the back of the mouse with his finger. The httle animal twitched once. It seemed barely alive. "I bought it with my pocket money."

I stared at the boy. A hectic flush suffused his pale cheeks. "I bought it and got it into the home without anybody noticing. Then I pinned it down."

"But why? For God's sake, why?"

"Because it was fun. I've been wanting to do it for a

long time with a cat. But cats are too big. They scratch and get away. With the mouse it was easy."

"And how . . . how long has it been Uke that?" I asked.

"Three days," he said happily. "I'm curious to see how long she can take it. I don't give her anything to eat. I don't think she's going to live much longer. A while ago, when I stuck her with a pin, she wriggled more. Look," and he took a pin out of the back of his lapel.

"No!" I shouted and snatched the box out of his hand.

He screamed insanely. He leapt at me, clawed me, bit me and scratched like a wild animal. "My box! My box! It belongs to me. Give it back. You promised!"

I shook him off. He fell to the ground and I ran for the door. But before I reached it, he had caught up with me. He was unbelievably strong. As we grappled I began to fear he would force me to the ground with him. Suddenly I was deathly afraid of him. The box fell out of my hands. I grabbed him by the collar, lifted him up with all the strength at my command, carried him into the bedroom and threw him on the bed. He shrieked, he choked, he wringed for breath and screamed on. His eyes were rolling in his head, I could see only the whites, and a little foam collected in the corners of his mouth.