The Safety Net (40 page)

“I could, but I won’t. It won’t help you and it would only offend Hilde. When are you going to grasp the fact that she alone has to make the decision? And you alone. Later, when you’ve come to an agreement, yes—not now. Will you still come to see us? After the funeral, I mean?”

“How can you doubt that? Do you really doubt it?”

“Not anymore. No. And don’t try again to change our minds.”

“I was just about to.”

She kissed him goodbye, and they both accompanied him down the stairs to the courtyard, where he got into his car. He waved once more. She was amazed at how easily Tolm walked up the stairs, hardly using the banister at all.

“Now give your bishop a call,” she said, and when he looked at her inquiringly: “About the vicarage in Hubreichen. We can’t stay here.”

One hour after the news of Bev’s death, which they heard on the radio, the invasion had begun, the guards were reinforced and the reporters moved in. Now the guards were posted around the wall on all sides, three to a side, and he had immediately called the children into the house from the garden, where they had been picking up nuts and apples off the ground. They were after the boy, of course, believing that Veronica would show up, were waiting; waiting for what?

Shortly before that, Erna Breuer had arrived with her lover. He had recognized her at once from her resemblance to her brother and mother, a distraught woman who complained about the noise, the noise, the noise in town, then withdrew with Sabine and her boyfriend into the bedroom, where he could hear them whispering and complaining. He had advised her not to go out, to wait, if necessary in the vicarage: she would be photographed with her boyfriend the minute she appeared, her case would be recalled, and she would be linked up with a situation where she did not belong and from which she would never escape. After many attempts he had finally reached Roickler by telephone, and the priest had given him
permission “to let a few guests stay in the vicarage if necessary. I’d better go there, look after the guests myself—yes, of course I know Erna Hermes, she can stay at my place, with her boyfriend too. I’m coming. Don’t worry. They’d better all stay in the house. No, I’ll be leaving Anna here.”

Katharina had suggested phoning Hermes and asking him to have one of the boys bring over the milk. He said no, he would go himself, even if they were to photograph him to death; he would go if only to feel out the mood of the village, if only perhaps to stick out his tongue at them or raise a clenched fist and shout: “Socialism will win!”—his other hand carrying the four-liter pitcher.

At first Holger I had not grasped the news of Bev’s death, then he asked a strange question: “Did he … himself?” And when he nodded the boy had burst into tears, asked for his mother, and clung to him: “But Rolf, Rolf,
you’re
my father!”

“Yes, I’m your father—you’ll stay with me, and I’ll stay with you—Veronica is alive—you’ll talk to her soon.… Bev wanted it like that, the way it happened. Believe me, he wanted it that way. Now you can go into the shed with Mr. Schubler and split some wood, we’ll have to keep the stove going all night.”

Phoning. Phoning. With Father, Mother, Herbert, all of whom he reassured and asked not to come. “No, please don’t, Herbert. You’ll run into a barrage of flashbulbs.”

Don’t worry. That was easily said when, to top it all, Fischer phoned and Katharina happened to bear the brunt. He heard her low voice saying: “Yes. Erwin, she’s here, I’ll get her for you,” and he could tell from her face that Fischer must have made a nasty remark. “Very well, Mr. Fischer, if you don’t like using first names with Communists and resent even more their using yours,
Mister
Fischer, I’ll get her for you.…” But Sabine raised her hand in a gesture of refusal, shook her head, and Katharina said: “Mrs. Fischer does not wish to speak to you. Yes, I’ll give her the message—the custody!”

Finally he suggested they make some pancakes and put on some coffee, ordered them all not to leave the house, grabbed the
milk pitcher, neither stuck out his tongue nor raised his clenched fist, merely held up the red-enamel pitcher into the blazing fire of the flashbulbs, and set out for the Hermes farm. It was cold, dark, drizzling, he had forgotten to put on his parka and hurried along. He was later than usual, he had to go over to the Hermeses’ kitchen to ask for someone to come out, and he stopped in the doorway, gave an awkward laugh, and swung the pitcher. He felt embarrassed at interrupting their supper, they looked so cheerful sitting there in front of their bowls and plates, and he wasn’t sure whether what showed in their faces was suspicion, curiosity, or surprise. He was relieved when young Hermes got up, nodded at him, and went across with him into the dairy. “You should warm up a bit,” he said as they crossed the yard.

“I have to get back in a hurry, they are all frightened—waiting.”

“Tell my sister she’s welcome any time. There can’t be much room at your place.”

“I didn’t want her to be photographed under the circumstances. You never get rid of pictures like that. I’d like her to wait till the mob has left—tomorrow, or the day after. The priest is going to help us.”

“He’s coming back?”

“Yes, he wants to talk to you all—he’s coming for our sakes too.”

“Was that—was this—was he your friend?”

“Yes, until seven years ago. We were at school together, in the army, both of us in the artillery—at university—yes, I knew him well.”

“And his wife?”

“Was my wife, in those days. We separated.”

He was glad that Hermes asked him such forthright questions, didn’t protest when Hermes refused the money for the milk and said: “Not today—tell my sister it’s for her—and her friend. It’ll pass, one, maybe two days and they’ll be gone. You must know what they’re like.”

“Yes, I’ve been through it twice. I’m only afraid they’ll get
your sister, Mr. Schubler, and the boy. They’re standing there as if they wanted to storm the garden gate or tear down the walls—all because of the boy. I’d like to thank you, on behalf of your sister too. She is sick, from the noise, the noise, the noise—that’s how she put it.…”

“If things get bad, I’ll have one of the boys bring you the milk.…”

He didn’t raise the pitcher when he ran into the flashes again. Dazzled, he stopped for a few seconds, saw only shadows and hands and flashes before unlocking the garden gate.

Schubler and Holger I were stacking wood beside the stove, Erna Breuer was making pancakes—was she really as happy as she looked, or merely flushed from the heat? Sabine and Katharina were knitting, Kit and Holger II were playing with the building blocks and animals, there was coffee on the table; he sat down between the two women, lit a cigarette, and thought about money. It didn’t seem to have occurred to anyone that this was likely to become a rather expensive household, first five instead of three, then six people, now eight, and so far he had always refused to accept money from Käthe or Father. He was sure Sabine didn’t have any money, she was one of those who live without cash, and he was certain she would get nothing from Fischer, probably no more than the minimum support for the child if he wasn’t successful in his custody claim. Probably Sabine was a bit too naïve, too gullible. There were thousands of tricks and dodges to bring her to her knees, in public and in court, and there was no getting around the fact that Holger I was the child of a terrorist. He couldn’t make head or tail of the boy, they had thoroughly and ruthlessly silenced him, perhaps with threats, and he was sure Veronica had had to fight hard for his release. Not a sound, not a word, was to be got out of the boy, in a chilly way he was polite, said “thank you” and “please,” had proudly demonstrated that he could already write, in German; only once, when he took the boy unawares
with a question about Bev, he said: “He was good to me and—” and had clammed up. Now there was really no reason for him not to speak, the shoes having wrecked the whole affair.

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.”

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.