Self's Punishment Part 9

Quite against my principles I'd taken the file with me to dinner.

'Working and eating izza no good. The stomach is ruined.'

Giovanni pretended to seize the file. I clung to it tightly. 'We always work, we Germans. Not the dolce vita.'

I ordered calamari with rice. I abstained from spaghetti because I didn't want to get any sauce stains on Mischkey's file. Instead I spilled some Barbera on Mischkey's letter to the Mannheimer Morgen Mannheimer Morgen with which he'd enclosed an advertis.e.m.e.nt. with which he'd enclosed an advertis.e.m.e.nt.

Historian at the University of Hamburg looking for oral evidence from workers and employees of the RCW from the years before 1948 for a study of social and economic history. Discretion and reimburs.e.m.e.nt of expenses. Replies to box number 379628.

I found eleven responses, some in spidery handwriting, some laboriously typed, that answered the ad with not much more than name, address, and phone number. One response came from San Francisco.

Whether anything had come of the contacts wasn't revealed by the file. It contained no notes by Mischkey at all, no clue as to why he'd put this collection together, and what his intentions were. I found the contribution to the commemorative publication photocopied by Frau Buchendorff, and further on the small brochure of an anti-chemical-industry action group '100 Years RCW 100 Years Are Enough' with essays on work accidents, suppression of strikes, the entanglement of capital and politics, forced labour, union persecution, and party contributions. There was even an essay about the RCW and the church with a picture of the Reich Bishop Muller in front of a large Erlenmeyer retort. It struck me that during my Berlin student days I'd got to know a Fraulein Erlenmeyer. She was very rich and Korten said she came from the family of the aforementioned retort. I'd believed him, the similarity was undeniable. What had become of Reich Bishop Muller? I wondered.

The newspaper articles in the file dated back to 1947. They all bore reference to the RCW but otherwise appeared to be ordered randomly. The pictures, sometimes blurred in the copies, showed Korten first as a simple director, then as general director, showed his forerunner General Director Weismuller, who had retired shortly after 1945, and General Director Tyberg whom Korten had replaced in 1967. The photograph of the hundred-year anniversary had captured Korten receiving Chancellor Kohl's congratulations and next to him he seemed small, delicate, and distinguished. The articles were full of news about finance, careers, and production, and now and again about accidents and slip-ups.

Giovanni cleared my plate away and placed a sambuca in front of me without a word. I ordered a coffee to go with it. At the neighbouring table a woman of around forty was sitting, reading Brigitte Brigitte. From the cover I saw its lead article was 'STERILIZED AND NOW WHAT?' I gathered my courage.

'Yes, indeed, now what?'

'I'm sorry?' She looked at me in confusion and ordered an amaretto. I asked her if she came here often.

'Yes,' she said. 'After work I always come here to eat.'

'Are you sterilized?'

'Believe it or not, I am sterilized. And after my sterilization I had a child, the sweetest little boy.' She laid down Brigitte Brigitte.

'Incredible,' I said. 'And does Brigitte Brigitte approve of that?' approve of that?'

'The case doesn't crop up. It's more about unhappy women and men who realize they want children after they've been sterilized.' She nipped at her amaretto.

I crunched a coffee bean. 'Doesn't your son like Italian food? What does he do in the evenings?'

'Would you mind if I joined you rather than screeching the answer through the entire restaurant?'

I stood up, pulled back a chair invitingly, and said I'd be delighted if she well, the usual things you say. She brought a gla.s.s with her and lit a cigarette. I looked at her more closely, the somewhat tired eyes, the stubborn mouth, and the tiny wrinkles, the lackl.u.s.tre ash-blonde hair, the ring in one ear and the Band-Aid on the other. If I didn't watch out I'd be in bed with this woman within three hours. Did I want to watch out?

'To come back to your question my son is in Rio with his father.'

'What's he doing there?'

'Manuel is eight years old now and goes to school in Rio. His father studied in Mannheim. I almost married him, because of the residence permit. When the child arrived he had to return to Brazil and we agreed he'd take him with him.' I frowned at her. 'Now you consider me a raven mother. But I didn't get sterilized for the fun of it.'

A raven mother, indeed. Or at least an irritating one. According to German fairy tales, raven mothers and fathers push their fledglings from the nest. I never found out whether this does justice to real ravens, but it seemed to apply to her and I didn't have any particular desire to keep flirting. When I remained silent, she asked, 'Why the interest in the sterilization thing anyway?'

'First something clicked in my mind, because of the cover of Brigitte Brigitte. Then you interested me, how composed you were as you dealt with the question. Now it feels too composed, the way you talk about your son. Perhaps I'm too old-fas.h.i.+oned for this kind of composure.'

'Composure can't be imparted. A shame that prejudices are always confirmed.' She took her gla.s.s and wanted to leave.

'Could you just say first what RCW brings to mind?' She gave me a frosty look. 'I know, it's a stupid-sounding question. But the RCW has been in my mind all day and I can't see the forest for the trees.'

She responded earnestly. 'A whole lot comes to mind. And I'll tell you, because there's something about you that I like. RCW to me stands for the Rhine Chemical Works, contraception pills, poisoned air and poisoned water, power, Korten-'

'Why Korten?'

'I ma.s.saged him. I give ma.s.sages as it happens.'

'So you are a ma.s.seuse?'

'Ma.s.seuses are our impure sisters. Korten came for six months with back problems and he spoke a bit about himself and his work during the sessions. Sometimes we got into proper discussions. One time he said, "It's not reprehensible to use people, it's just tactless to let them notice." That stayed in my mind for a long time.'

'Korten was my friend.'

'Why "was"? He's still alive.'

Yes, why 'was'? Had our friends.h.i.+p been buried in the meantime? 'Self, you sweetheart' again and again the words had gone through my head in the Aegean and sent a shudder down my spine. Submerged memories had resurfaced, blended with fantasy, and forced their way into my sleep. With a cry, I'd awoken from the dream bathed in sweat: Korten and I hiking through the Black Forest I knew very well that it was the Black Forest in spite of the high cliffs and deep gullies. There were three of us, a cla.s.smate was with us, Kimski or Podel. The sky was deep blue, the air heavy and yet surreally clear. Suddenly stones crumbled and bounced away silently down the slope, and we were hanging from a rope that was fraying. Above us was Korten and he looked at me and I knew what he expected of me. Still more of the cliff tumbled silently into the valley; I tried to claw my way up, to secure the rope and pull up the third man. I couldn't do it and tears of helplessness and despair came to my eyes. I got out my penknife and started to cut through the rope beneath me. I have to do it, I have to, I thought, and cut. Kimski or Podel fell into the ravine. I could see it all at once, flailing arms, getting smaller and smaller in the distance, gentle mockery in Korten's eyes, as though it were all a game. Now he could pull me up and when he almost had me at the top, sobbing and bleeding, 'Self, you sweetheart' came once again, and the rope broke . . .

'What's wrong? What's your name, by the way? I'm Brigitte Lauterbach.'

'Gerhard Self. If you didn't come in your own car may I after this b.u.mpy evening offer you a lift home in my jolting Opel?'

'Yes, please. I'd have taken a taxi otherwise.'

Brigitte lived in Max-Joseph-Stra.s.se. The goodbye peck on the cheek turned into a long embrace.

'Would you like to come up, stupid? With a sterilized and raven mother?'

8

An everyday sort of blood

While she fetched wine from the fridge I stood there in her living room with all the awkwardness of the first time. You're still wary about what might not grate: a canary in a cage, a Peanuts poster on the wall, Yevtushenko in the bookshelves, Barry Manilow on the turntable. Brigitte was guilty of none of the above. Yet the wariness was there perhaps it's always in one's self?

'Can I make a phone call?' I called through to the kitchen.

'Go right ahead. The phone's in the top drawer of the bureau.'

I opened the drawer and dialled Philipp's number. It rang eight times before he picked up.

'h.e.l.lo?' His voice sounded oily.

'Philipp, Gerd here. I hope I'm disturbing you.'

'You bet, you crazy d.i.c.k. Yes, it was blood, blood type O, rhesus negative. An everyday sort of blood, so to speak, age of the sample between two and three weeks. Anything else? Sorry, but I'm tied up here. You saw her yesterday, remember, the little Indonesian in the elevator. She brought her friend along. It's all action.'

Brigitte had come into the room with a bottle and two gla.s.ses, poured it, and brought a gla.s.s over to me. I'd handed her the extension, and Brigitte looked at me in amus.e.m.e.nt at Philipp's last sentences.

'Do you know anyone at forensics in Heidelberg, Philipp?'

'No, she doesn't work at forensics. At McDonald's at the Planken, that's where she works. Why?'

'It's not Big Mac's blood type I'm after, but Peter Mischkey's he was examined by forensics at Heidelberg. And I'd like to know if you can find out. That's why.'

'But it doesn't have to be right now. Come round instead, let's talk about it over breakfast. Bring someone with you though. I'm not slogging my guts out so you can come along and lick the cream.'

'Does she have to be Asian?'

Brigitte laughed. I put my arm round her and she snuggled into me demurely.

'No, my home is like a Mombasa brothel, all races, all cla.s.ses, all colours, all lines of business. And if you're really coming, bring a bottle.'

He hung up. I put my other arm around Brigitte too. She leant back into my arms and looked at me. 'And now?'

'Now we take the bottle and the gla.s.ses and the cigarettes and the music over to the bedroom and lie down in bed.'

She gave me a little kiss and said in a bashful voice: 'You go ahead, I'll be right there.'

She went into the bathroom. Amongst her records I found one by George Winston, put it on, left the bedroom door open, switched on the bedside lamp, undressed, and got into her bed. I felt a little embarra.s.sed. The bed was wide and smelled fresh. If we didn't sleep well tonight, the fault would be all ours.

Brigitte came into the bedroom, naked, with only the earring in her right ear and the plaster on her left earlobe. She whistled along to the George Winston. She was heavy round the hips, had b.r.e.a.s.t.s which were large and couldn't help but sag a little, broad shoulders, and a protruding collarbone which gave her an air of vulnerability. She slipped beneath the covers and into the crook of my arm.

'What happened to your ear?' I asked.

'Oh,' she laughed in embarra.s.sment, 'combing my hair, I kind of combed the ring out of my ear. It didn't hurt, I just bled like a pig. The day after tomorrow I have an appointment with a surgeon. He'll make a clean wound of the tear and patch it together again.'

'Would you mind me removing your other earring? Otherwise I'll be afraid of tearing it out, too.'

'You're such a pa.s.sionate guy?' She took it out herself. 'Come on, Gerhard, let me take off your watch.' It was nice to have her bending over me like that, fumbling with my arm. I pulled her down to me. Her skin was smooth and fragrant. 'I'm tired,' she said in a sleepy voice. 'Will you tell me a bedtime story?'

I felt relaxed. 'Once upon a time there was a little raven. Like all ravens he had a mother.' She pinched my side. 'The mother was black and beautiful. She was so black that all the other ravens appeared grey next to her, and she was so beautiful that all the other ravens appeared ugly next to her. She herself didn't realize it. Her son, the little raven, could see and knew it very well. He knew much more besides: that black and beautiful is better than grey and ugly, that raven fathers are as good and as bad as raven mothers, that you can be wrong in the right place and right in the wrong place. One day after school the little raven flew away and got lost. He told himself that nothing could happen to him: in one direction he'd be sure to encounter his father, and in the other his mother. Nonetheless he was afraid. Beneath him he could see a land stretching far and wide with small villages and large, gleaming lakes. It was pretty to look at, but frighteningly unfamiliar to him. He flew and flew and flew . . .' Brigitte's breathing had grown regular. She snuggled comfortably into my arms again and started to snore softly, her mouth slightly open. I carefully withdrew my arm from under her head and put out the light. She turned onto her side. So did I and we lay there like spoons in the cutlery case.

When I woke up it was just after seven and she was still asleep. I crept out of the bedroom, shut the door behind me, looked for and found the coffee machine, got it going, pulled on my s.h.i.+rt and trousers, took Brigitte's set of keys from the bureau, and bought croissants in Lange Rotterstra.s.se. I was back at her bedside with the tray and coffee and croissants before she woke up.

It was a lovely breakfast. And lovely afterwards together again beneath the covers. Then she had to leave to take care of her Sat.u.r.day morning patients. I wanted to drop her off at her ma.s.sage practice in the Collini Centre, but she preferred to walk. We didn't arrange another meeting. But when we embraced at her front door we could hardly pull ourselves apart.

9

Clueless for hours

It was a long time since I'd spent a night with a woman. Afterwards, returning home is like coming back to your own town after a holiday. A short period of limbo before normality kicks in again.

I prepared a special rheumatism tea, purely prophylactic, and lost myself in Mischkey's file once again. On the top was the photocopied newspaper article that had been lying on Mischkey's desk and that I'd shoved in the file. I read the connected commemorative piece ent.i.tled 'Twelve Dark Yards'. It touched only briefly on the forced labour of Jewish chemists. Yes, these had existed, but the RCW had also suffered with the Jewish chemists in this oppressive situation. In contrast with other big German businesses, RCW had generously compensated forced labourers immediately after the war. Using South Africa as an example, the author portrayed how alien any kind of mandatory employment situation was to the character of the modern industrial enterprise. Moreover, employment in the plant had lowered the rate of suffering in the concentration camps; the survival rate of the RCW forced labourers was proven to be higher than that of the average concentration camp population. The author dealt extensively with the RCW's partic.i.p.ation in the resistance, remembered the condemned communist workers, and depicted in detail the trial of the general director-to-be Tyberg, and his erstwhile colleague Dohmke.

Memories of the trial came back to me. I'd led the inquiry then, while my boss, Sodelknecht, the senior public prosecutor, had led the prosecution. The two RCW chemists were sentenced to death for sabotage and for some violation of the Race Laws, which I didn't recall. Tyberg managed to escape; Dohmke was hanged. The whole affair must have been at the end of 1943, beginning of 1944. At the start of the fifties Tyberg returned from the USA after succeeding very quickly there with a chemical company of his own, came back to RCW, and soon thereafter was made general director.

A large part of the newspaper article was devoted to the fire of March 1978. The press had estimated the damages at 40 million marks, no deaths or injuries were reported, and statements from the RCW were printed, according to which the poison released from the burnt pesticides posed absolutely no danger to the human body. I'm fascinated by such findings of the chemical industry: the same poison that annihilates the c.o.c.kroach, which is supposed to be able to survive a nuclear holocaust, is no more harmful to humans than a barbecue on a charcoal grill. In the Stadstreicher Stadstreicher magazine I found doc.u.mentation by the group The Chlorine Greens that the Seveso poisons TCDD, hexachloroethane, and trichloroethylene had been released by the fire. Numerous injured employees were swept off in hush-hush fas.h.i.+on to the company's own treatment clinic in the South of France. Then there was a collection of copies and cuttings about the capital stakes of the RCW and about an inquiry by the Federal Ant.i.trust Office, which dealt with the role of the plant within the pharmaceutical market and which went nowhere. magazine I found doc.u.mentation by the group The Chlorine Greens that the Seveso poisons TCDD, hexachloroethane, and trichloroethylene had been released by the fire. Numerous injured employees were swept off in hush-hush fas.h.i.+on to the company's own treatment clinic in the South of France. Then there was a collection of copies and cuttings about the capital stakes of the RCW and about an inquiry by the Federal Ant.i.trust Office, which dealt with the role of the plant within the pharmaceutical market and which went nowhere.

I sat for hours in front of the computer printouts, clueless. I found data, names, figures, curves, and incomprehensible acronyms such as BAS, BOE, and HST. Were these printouts of the files Mischkey had managed privately at RCC? I needed to talk to Grimm.

At eleven I started to call the numbers on the responses to Mischkey's ad. I was Professor Selk of Hamburg University, wanting to pick up the contacts initiated by his colleague for the social and economic history research project. The people on the other end were dumbfounded; my colleague had told them that their oral testimony wasn't of any use to the research project. I was puzzled; one phone call after the other with the same empty result. From some of them I gathered at least that Mischkey hadn't attached any value to their statements because they'd only started work at the RCW after 1945. They were annoyed because if my colleague had put out an ad that referred to the end of the war they could have saved themselves the trouble of responding. 'Reimburs.e.m.e.nts of expenses, it said, are we going to get our money from you now?'

I'd just put down the receiver when the phone rang.

'It's impossible to get through to you. What woman have you been talking to all this time?' Babs wanted to make sure I hadn't forgotten we were going to a concert that evening. 'I'm bringing Roschen and Georg. They enjoyed Diva Diva so much they don't want to miss Wilhemenia Fernandez.' so much they don't want to miss Wilhemenia Fernandez.'

Of course I had forgotten. And while I'd been perusing the file, some little coil in my brain had disconnected so that it could play with the possibility of an evening arrangement incorporating Brigitte. Were there any tickets left?

'Quarter to eight at the Kleiner Rosengarten? I might be bringing someone with me.'

'So it was a lady on the phone. Is she pretty?'

'I like her.'

It was only to be thorough that I wrote to Vera Muller in San Francisco. There was nothing specific I could ask her. Perhaps Mischkey had asked her specific questions, my letter attempted to find out just that. I picked it up and walked to the main post office on Parade-Platz. On the way home I bought five dozen snails for after the concert. I also got fresh liver for Turbo; I felt guilty about leaving him alone the night before.

Back home I was about to make a sandwich with sardines, onions, and olives. Frau Buchendorff prevented me. She'd had to type something for Firner that morning at the plant, was on her way home through Zollhofstra.s.se pa.s.sing the Traber-Pilsstuben, and was quite certain she recognized one of the men from the War Cemetery.

'I'm in a phone-box. He hasn't emerged, I don't think. Could you come over straight away? If he drives off, I'll follow him. Head back home if I'm not here and I'll call you later, when I can.' Her voice cracked.

'My G.o.d, girl, don't do anything stupid. It's enough to jot down his license plate number. I'm on my way.'

10

It's Fred's birthday