16mm of Innocence
One
6 April 1985
“Mum’s in trouble.”
Dieter fumbled with the receiver and struggled onto one
elbow. The phone call had interrupted that awful recurring
dream that he had experienced over so many years and it had
once again left him feeling disorientated, unsettled and even
worse, guilty. It was always the same.
“Who is this?” Dieter asked sleepily, his eyes gritty as he
rubbed them blindly in the dark.
“It’s Otto…” Pause. “Your brother.” Dieter exhaled. He
couldn’t remember when last they had spoken. “Jesus, Otto, do
you know what time it is in Hong Kong?”
“I’m sorry, I know it’s early, but this is really serious.”
Through the Venetian blinds Dieter could see a filleted
image of dawn shimmering across the water of Repulse Bay,
where he had lived since the late 1960s. He loved Hong
Kong: city of enterprise, and for him personally, city of
escape.
“What’s wrong with Mum?” Dieter asked.
Otto sighed heavily. “Nothing wrong with Mum, per se.”
“What then?” Dieter said irritably.
Otto paused, as though mustering courage. “They found a
body in the garden of our old house, Dieter.”
Dieter’s skin felt clammy as a vision burst forth
instantaneously from the vagueness of his dream, churning his
stomach.
“A body?”
The sleeping figure under the duvet beside Dieter stirred,
and in a low voice asked who it was. Dieter hastily covered the
mouthpiece.
“Who’s that?” Otto asked.
Dieter glared at his bed companion and pressed a finger
against his lips.
“When did this happen?” Dieter asked.
“Mum’s just phoned me.”
“You’re talking about a… a human body are you?”
“Yes, but I don’t know the details. Mum’s pretty shaken by
it all… she didn’t say much.”
“But I don’t understand… where was it found?” Dieter said.
“The big tree, remember it?”
“Uh–huh, the camelthorn.”
“Mum said a storm blew it down, and the roots must have
exposed… I don’t know… bones.”
Silence for a moment, just the sound of Dieter’s breathing
and a distant foghorn in the bay.
“Well, who is to say it has anything to do with Mum?”
Dieter said emphatically. “I mean, it could have been there long
before we arrived.”
Otto rubbed his temples. He was sitting at his desk in Durham
watching his children, Max and Karl, replenish the birdfeeders
under the vigilant gaze of their mother, Sabine, as darkness
enveloped the grounds of his riverside garden. The boys looked
up and, seeing him through the window, waved animatedly.
Little Karl dropped the birdseed in his enthusiasm, spilling it
all over the frosty grass.
“Mum and Dad built that house, Dieter, and planted the
tree,” Otto said.
“What are you saying? It’s probably just a local Herero,
been there for years before we even arrived.”
“God, I don’t know. It’s all such a shock.” Otto paused. “I’m
really worried about Mum.”
“Do they know who it is – the body, I mean?” Dieter asked.
“I don’t think so, but Lüderitz isn’t a big town, so…”
“Yeah, maybe. What happens next?”
“Well, the police are investigating. Mum thinks they may
want to interview us as well.”
“Us?”
“You, me and Ingrid.”
“Why?”
“I think we should fly out to support Mum,” Otto said.
“What, to Lüderitz? Christ, I haven’t been there for years.”
“Not since Dad’s funeral, actually.”
“That’s a cheap shot, Otto. I am very busy here, you know
that – with the business I’ve built up and everything. I’m in the
middle of a massive merger. I don’t have much idle time on my
hands.”
“You mean, unlike me?” Otto finished, bristling. Silence
amplified the static waves of interference on the phone line.
“You could at least call her, Dieter.”
Dieter sighed. “Yes, of course I will. What time is it in Lüderitz
now?”
“Early evening. How are things?” Otto asked, to avoid
another pause.
“Fine, fine. What about Sabine and the kids?”
Otto never went into detail. There was little point in telling
him that Max was excelling on the piano and Karl had just started
at school, because from one rare contact to another Dieter could
never remember which child was Karl and which one was Max.
Birthdays came and went unnoticed and Otto sometimes had to
make a point of reminding them who Uncle Dieter was.
“They’re all well thank you. And… er… how about you?”
“Still single.”
“Not found the right girl yet?” Otto said.
Dieter snorted. “Not likely to, either.”
“I’ll phone Ingrid and tell her, if you prefer,” Otto said.
“Do what you like, Otto, but I won’t be calling her.”
“Have you two still not made peace?” Otto said, exasperated.
“Last time we spoke, years ago, she called me a parasite or
something, living off the success of others.” Dieter made a
guttural sound of disapproval. “The nerve – how many sugar
daddy alimony settlements has she pocketed up to now?”
Otto was not in the mood for idle conversation and neither,
it appeared, was Dieter. With the phone call terminated Otto
sat in silent contemplation. He had always felt that his older
brother dismissed his work as a general practitioner. It seemed
to him that Dieter believed that his fortune had been forged
out of determined hard work, whereas Otto was merely a
public servant living off the state.
Otto heard his family entering the house, taking refuge
from the biting cold outside, stamping their feet and removing
coats, hats and scarves – familiar sounds of family life that cast
his mind back to his childhood home in Lüderitz, and
fragmented images from so many years ago.
How on earth could a body have lain buried beneath their
feet all that time? To think that he and Dieter used to climb
that very tree, the desert–loving camelthorn, dig holes all
around it, playing with their lead soldiers and building
makeshift dams in the sandy soil. He shivered. How close
might they unwittingly have been to a truly macabre discovery?
Then an uncomfortable thought entered his mind. Had
Mother known as she watched them playing outside? What if
it was not pride and contentment that they had seen on her
face as she watched through the kitchen window while they
dug holes and played? What if it had been anxiety,
apprehension? Could they have known the difference at their
young age? And what about Father? Well, he was hardly at
home often enough to have even seen them.
There surely must be a rational explanation for all of this.
Dieter was probably right: Lüderitz had existed for at least sixty
years before their arrival and the body could have been there
all along. It was in all probability a local Herero.
“Daddy!” came the shrill call of an enthusiastic youngster
bounding up the stairs.
Otto glanced at his watch. It was nearly 8pm, still early
afternoon in New York: plenty of time yet to call Ingrid. For
now he would play with Karl and try to banish the worries
from his mind.
A beaming young blonde boy sprinted into the room with
a flash of his red and yellow striped socks, flinging himself into
Otto’s arms.
“Did you feed the birds?” Otto asked.
“Yes. Mummy said they must be really hungry.”
Otto smiled and kissed Karl’s fair head. The warmth and love
of his children constantly surprised him. It was not something he
had been accustomed to in a family. He never understood why.
Two
29 July 1945
Resembling a mythical sea serpent amidst the clinging fog, the
rusting grey conning tower of U-977 broke through the
mercurial waters off Lüderitz, followed soon after by the
rounded bow. When the hatch opened it was as though a seal
had been broken, allowing the salty sea air to rush into the
malodorous metal tube, submerged for nearly sixty days since
hastily leaving the North Sea.
Several bearded submariners wearing soiled blue denim
Kriegsmarine jackets emerged onto the small deck of the
conning tower and peered through the swirling fog. One of
them began to send a coded message with a shuttered signal
lamp. No–one spoke. Submariners were accustomed to
maintaining prolonged silences, as if they had forsaken the art
of idle conversation. The solitary sound of the bracing South
Atlantic waters lapping against the grey hull, streaked with rust,
remained unchallenged.
“There it is!” one of the men said, pointing to a flashing
light dimly visible off the starboard bow.
“I see it. Did they use the password?”
“They did, Oberleutnant.”
“Signal for them to approach immediately and call the
doctor from his bunk.”
“Yes, Oberleutnant.”
The commander peered over the waters surrounding his
vessel with narrowed eyes, fidgety body language betraying his
discomfort as his dirty fingers twiddled his unkempt beard.
The flashing signal light drew closer until a small rowing boat
began to emerge from the shadowy protection of the fog. Now
the sound of water lapping against the submarine hull was
joined by the rhythmical splash of oars.
A man wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a brown
canvas holdall appeared on the conning tower.
He took a deep breath as he contemplated the approaching
rowing boat. Then his searching eyes settled on the
commander’s unwashed face as the two men squared up to
each other. They shook hands firmly.
“Oberleutnant Schäffer, I am forever indebted to you.”
“Please, the war is over now. Call me Heinz,” Schäffer said.
The two men seemed oblivious to all around them.
“May God be with you in your new home, Doctor. Good
luck.”
“Thank you, Heinz.” The doctor forced a little smile. “My
friends call me Ernst.”
The two men stared into each other’s eyes as though
letting go might signal the end of everything they knew in
this world.
“I will admit Lüderitz looks a little foreboding at first
appearances,” Ernst said.
“They don’t call it the Skeleton Coast for nothing,” Schäffer
replied with a little chuckle.
“When do you expect to reach Argentina?”
“We should be there by mid–August, if the engines don’t
fail again.”
The two men nodded to each other, still gripping each
other’s hand, afraid to let go, to break with the familiarity of
the past and embrace the uncertainty of the unknown. By this
time the rowing boat had drawn up to U-977 and bumped
against its hull on the ocean swell. Three men in civilian
clothing were huddled together in the wooden vessel, one
holding aloft a shaded lamp that scattered halos in the swirling
fog. Ernst clambered down the steel rungs of the ladder, his
boots scraping on the metal. Schäffer tossed his canvas holdall
down to him and raised a hand to wave.
“Where are you headed?” one of the men in the rowing
boat shouted up to Schäffer.
“I cannot tell you,” Schäffer yelled back. Then, in a softer
voice, “Better that you don’t know. Look after Dr Adermann,
he is a good man.”
“I wish you all a safe journey. Goodbye Heinz,” Ernst
shouted as he settled into the rowing boat.
Schäffer rested his arms on the metal railing and watched
Ernst, sitting with the canvas bag in his lap, looking up
somewhat mournfully at the faces not only of his companions
of the past two months, but of a life he was leaving behind,
forever. The small rowing boat began to move away as the oars
sliced into the water.
“Goodbye Ernst.”
Ernst waved. He looked so insignificant in the rowing boat.
How things change, Schäffer thought to himself.
T h r e e
11 April 1985
Ingrid, holding several large Bloomingdale’s shopping bags,
stepped out of the yellow cab on the upper east side of
Manhattan where she was comfortably settled into a privileged
world of old money, even though she was a relative newcomer.
The doorman tipped his hat and held the polished glass
door open for her. “Afternoon Mrs Forsythe.”
Ingrid ignored him, flicking her bouncing ash blonde hair as
she strode past. She kicked the door to her third floor apartment
shut behind her and dropped the shopping bags onto the sofa. Her
apartment was in Yorkhill near the corner of Lexington and 77th,
not far from Central Park Zoo and her favourite department store.
The heavily framed mirrors, cream high–backed sofas and
brushed aluminium lamps revealed her taste for Bloomingdale’s
classic styles. She prised off her Ralph Lauren heels and flopped
into an armchair still wearing her fur–lined coat. The phone rang.
“Oh God!” she mumbled.
She watched the phone with a disdainful look until the
answer machine eventually clicked in.
“Hi Ingrid, it’s Otto. I’m not sure if you’ve been getting my
messages…”
“Shit!” Ingrid muttered as she heaved herself up and strode
towards the phone. “Hi Otto.”
“Ingrid?” Surprise in Otto’s voice.
Ingrid glanced at her gold wristwatch. “It must be very late
in England, little brother.”
“Yes, it is… quite. I really need to speak to you.”
Ingrid picked up the phone and dragged the lengthy cord
with her to the sofa where she resumed her original pose.
“Sorry, Otto, it’s been hell here.”
“Did you get my messages?”
Ingrid hesitated, examining her nails. “Yeah. Look, Otto, I
don’t know what I can do. I haven’t spoken to Mum since…”
Ingrid lifted both feet onto a cream pouffe and crossed her
ankles, wiggling her painted toes. “She never did approve of
my… lifestyle.”
Ingrid remembered the men she had brought to the house:
successful, rich, usually divorced and universally disapproved
of by both Mother and Father. In the end she married
Frederick, who had taken her to New York. Ever since she
considered that things had never been the same between her
and the rest of the family again.
“How is Maurice?” Otto asked.
Ingrid pulled a face. “I divorced him six months ago.”
“Oh, sorry. No–one tells me anything.”
“Don’t be sorry, Otto, I got his lovely apartment,” Ingrid said
with a smile as she glanced around the spacious living room.
“I thought you got Larry’s apartment?” Otto said.
“I got his money, and so I should have for putting up with
the bastard. No, it was Newman, my second husband’s
apartment that I got, but this one is better so I sold his. That
really pissed him off.” She snorted.
Otto sighed. “Can we get back to Mum and this business
back home?”
“That is not my home any longer, Otto; hasn’t been for a
very long time. But I did get your message about finding a body
or something. What the hell’s that all about?”
“We don’t know yet?”
“They identified the body?”
“No. It’s been sent to forensic labs in… er… Windhoek, I
imagine.”
Ingrid raised her waxed eyebrows. “I can’t help you with
this, Otto, and Mum certainly hasn’t called me about it,” she
said, sounding indifferent and cold. “As she pointed out to me
after I married Larry – or was it Frederick? – we all have our
crosses to bear.”
Otto sighed irritably. “Ingrid, Mum has suffered a massive
stroke.”
Ingrid’s feet dropped off the pouffe as she sat forward.
“Stroke?”
“Yes. Quite a bad one, I’m afraid.”
“Why? How?”
“The stress, I expect. The discovery of the body really
affected her.”
“Did she tell them anything?” Ingrid’s voice was suddenly
a semitone tauter.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Ingrid said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I’m flying out tomorrow to see Mum. I’m really worried
about her. I think Dieter is coming too.”
“Did Mum phone him?” There it was again: that insecure,
bitter edge to her voice. She seldom referred to Dieter by his
name, not since he had called her a gold–digger when she met
Newman and divorced Larry. That was years ago, even before
Father died.
“No, Ingrid, I did, the same day I left my first message for
you.”
“Is Mum really that bad?”
“Yes. She’s in hospital in Swakopmund and she’s not waking
up.”
Ingrid managed to cradle the phone against her ear and
bury her face in the open palms of both hands, her eyes staring
over her fingertips into her past.
“Will you come out and join us?” Otto asked.
Ingrid took several deep breaths, feeling her eyes twitching.
In the background a distant NYPD siren filled the silence.
“I don’t think I can go back there. Lüderitz is such a dump
and that house is filled with too many—”
“Come on Ingrid, we haven’t all been together for… I can’t
even remember when last it was,” Otto pleaded.
Ingrid snorted. “Together? What’s ‘together’ about our
family, Otto?” she said sharply.
“Let’s not get into this now. Mum needs us.”
“I have nothing to say to Dieter, you know that.”
Otto tactfully ignored the Dieter issue. “Let’s not have a
repeat of Dad’s funeral. Come out this time, before it’s too late.”
Ingrid’s chest rose and fell with bottled–up emotions. “You
really think there might be a funeral?” she said eventually.
“It’s a distinct possibility I’m afraid.”
Ingrid rubbed her temples. “I don’t know. What’s the point?
The past is in the past.”
“Mum – your mother – may well die, Ingrid, that’s the point.
Perhaps you could see her one last time, even speak to her.
Eventually you will be free from the past that you seem to so
despise, and then you can get on with your New York lifestyle
unhindered.” Otto’s voice rose, a sudden loss of composure.
“Don’t lecture me, Otto, you of all people. You don’t know
the half of it,” she replied venomously.
“Well then, after all these years of sniping and bitterness,
come and explain it to me. I’ll be there from tomorrow night.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll be pleased afterwards if you make the effort,” Otto
said, sounding much softer again. “It’ll be good to see you.”
Ingrid emitted a derisive nasal sound. “I wish I shared your
optimism. Where the hell do you get it from, Otto?”
One
6 April 1985
“Mum’s in trouble.”
Dieter fumbled with the receiver and struggled onto one
elbow. The phone call had interrupted that awful recurring
dream that he had experienced over so many years and it had
once again left him feeling disorientated, unsettled and even
worse, guilty. It was always the same.
“Who is this?” Dieter asked sleepily, his eyes gritty as he
rubbed them blindly in the dark.
“It’s Otto…” Pause. “Your brother.” Dieter exhaled. He
couldn’t remember when last they had spoken. “Jesus, Otto, do
you know what time it is in Hong Kong?”
“I’m sorry, I know it’s early, but this is really serious.”
Through the Venetian blinds Dieter could see a filleted
image of dawn shimmering across the water of Repulse Bay,
where he had lived since the late 1960s. He loved Hong
Kong: city of enterprise, and for him personally, city of
escape.
“What’s wrong with Mum?” Dieter asked.
Otto sighed heavily. “Nothing wrong with Mum, per se.”
“What then?” Dieter said irritably.
Otto paused, as though mustering courage. “They found a
body in the garden of our old house, Dieter.”
Dieter’s skin felt clammy as a vision burst forth
instantaneously from the vagueness of his dream, churning his
stomach.
“A body?”
The sleeping figure under the duvet beside Dieter stirred,
and in a low voice asked who it was. Dieter hastily covered the
mouthpiece.
“Who’s that?” Otto asked.
Dieter glared at his bed companion and pressed a finger
against his lips.
“When did this happen?” Dieter asked.
“Mum’s just phoned me.”
“You’re talking about a… a human body are you?”
“Yes, but I don’t know the details. Mum’s pretty shaken by
it all… she didn’t say much.”
“But I don’t understand… where was it found?” Dieter said.
“The big tree, remember it?”
“Uh–huh, the camelthorn.”
“Mum said a storm blew it down, and the roots must have
exposed… I don’t know… bones.”
Silence for a moment, just the sound of Dieter’s breathing
and a distant foghorn in the bay.
“Well, who is to say it has anything to do with Mum?”
Dieter said emphatically. “I mean, it could have been there long
before we arrived.”
Otto rubbed his temples. He was sitting at his desk in Durham
watching his children, Max and Karl, replenish the birdfeeders
under the vigilant gaze of their mother, Sabine, as darkness
enveloped the grounds of his riverside garden. The boys looked
up and, seeing him through the window, waved animatedly.
Little Karl dropped the birdseed in his enthusiasm, spilling it
all over the frosty grass.
“Mum and Dad built that house, Dieter, and planted the
tree,” Otto said.
“What are you saying? It’s probably just a local Herero,
been there for years before we even arrived.”
“God, I don’t know. It’s all such a shock.” Otto paused. “I’m
really worried about Mum.”
“Do they know who it is – the body, I mean?” Dieter asked.
“I don’t think so, but Lüderitz isn’t a big town, so…”
“Yeah, maybe. What happens next?”
“Well, the police are investigating. Mum thinks they may
want to interview us as well.”
“Us?”
“You, me and Ingrid.”
“Why?”
“I think we should fly out to support Mum,” Otto said.
“What, to Lüderitz? Christ, I haven’t been there for years.”
“Not since Dad’s funeral, actually.”
“That’s a cheap shot, Otto. I am very busy here, you know
that – with the business I’ve built up and everything. I’m in the
middle of a massive merger. I don’t have much idle time on my
hands.”
“You mean, unlike me?” Otto finished, bristling. Silence
amplified the static waves of interference on the phone line.
“You could at least call her, Dieter.”
Dieter sighed. “Yes, of course I will. What time is it in Lüderitz
now?”
“Early evening. How are things?” Otto asked, to avoid
another pause.
“Fine, fine. What about Sabine and the kids?”
Otto never went into detail. There was little point in telling
him that Max was excelling on the piano and Karl had just started
at school, because from one rare contact to another Dieter could
never remember which child was Karl and which one was Max.
Birthdays came and went unnoticed and Otto sometimes had to
make a point of reminding them who Uncle Dieter was.
“They’re all well thank you. And… er… how about you?”
“Still single.”
“Not found the right girl yet?” Otto said.
Dieter snorted. “Not likely to, either.”
“I’ll phone Ingrid and tell her, if you prefer,” Otto said.
“Do what you like, Otto, but I won’t be calling her.”
“Have you two still not made peace?” Otto said, exasperated.
“Last time we spoke, years ago, she called me a parasite or
something, living off the success of others.” Dieter made a
guttural sound of disapproval. “The nerve – how many sugar
daddy alimony settlements has she pocketed up to now?”
Otto was not in the mood for idle conversation and neither,
it appeared, was Dieter. With the phone call terminated Otto
sat in silent contemplation. He had always felt that his older
brother dismissed his work as a general practitioner. It seemed
to him that Dieter believed that his fortune had been forged
out of determined hard work, whereas Otto was merely a
public servant living off the state.
Otto heard his family entering the house, taking refuge
from the biting cold outside, stamping their feet and removing
coats, hats and scarves – familiar sounds of family life that cast
his mind back to his childhood home in Lüderitz, and
fragmented images from so many years ago.
How on earth could a body have lain buried beneath their
feet all that time? To think that he and Dieter used to climb
that very tree, the desert–loving camelthorn, dig holes all
around it, playing with their lead soldiers and building
makeshift dams in the sandy soil. He shivered. How close
might they unwittingly have been to a truly macabre discovery?
Then an uncomfortable thought entered his mind. Had
Mother known as she watched them playing outside? What if
it was not pride and contentment that they had seen on her
face as she watched through the kitchen window while they
dug holes and played? What if it had been anxiety,
apprehension? Could they have known the difference at their
young age? And what about Father? Well, he was hardly at
home often enough to have even seen them.
There surely must be a rational explanation for all of this.
Dieter was probably right: Lüderitz had existed for at least sixty
years before their arrival and the body could have been there
all along. It was in all probability a local Herero.
“Daddy!” came the shrill call of an enthusiastic youngster
bounding up the stairs.
Otto glanced at his watch. It was nearly 8pm, still early
afternoon in New York: plenty of time yet to call Ingrid. For
now he would play with Karl and try to banish the worries
from his mind.
A beaming young blonde boy sprinted into the room with
a flash of his red and yellow striped socks, flinging himself into
Otto’s arms.
“Did you feed the birds?” Otto asked.
“Yes. Mummy said they must be really hungry.”
Otto smiled and kissed Karl’s fair head. The warmth and love
of his children constantly surprised him. It was not something he
had been accustomed to in a family. He never understood why.
Two
29 July 1945
Resembling a mythical sea serpent amidst the clinging fog, the
rusting grey conning tower of U-977 broke through the
mercurial waters off Lüderitz, followed soon after by the
rounded bow. When the hatch opened it was as though a seal
had been broken, allowing the salty sea air to rush into the
malodorous metal tube, submerged for nearly sixty days since
hastily leaving the North Sea.
Several bearded submariners wearing soiled blue denim
Kriegsmarine jackets emerged onto the small deck of the
conning tower and peered through the swirling fog. One of
them began to send a coded message with a shuttered signal
lamp. No–one spoke. Submariners were accustomed to
maintaining prolonged silences, as if they had forsaken the art
of idle conversation. The solitary sound of the bracing South
Atlantic waters lapping against the grey hull, streaked with rust,
remained unchallenged.
“There it is!” one of the men said, pointing to a flashing
light dimly visible off the starboard bow.
“I see it. Did they use the password?”
“They did, Oberleutnant.”
“Signal for them to approach immediately and call the
doctor from his bunk.”
“Yes, Oberleutnant.”
The commander peered over the waters surrounding his
vessel with narrowed eyes, fidgety body language betraying his
discomfort as his dirty fingers twiddled his unkempt beard.
The flashing signal light drew closer until a small rowing boat
began to emerge from the shadowy protection of the fog. Now
the sound of water lapping against the submarine hull was
joined by the rhythmical splash of oars.
A man wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a brown
canvas holdall appeared on the conning tower.
He took a deep breath as he contemplated the approaching
rowing boat. Then his searching eyes settled on the
commander’s unwashed face as the two men squared up to
each other. They shook hands firmly.
“Oberleutnant Schäffer, I am forever indebted to you.”
“Please, the war is over now. Call me Heinz,” Schäffer said.
The two men seemed oblivious to all around them.
“May God be with you in your new home, Doctor. Good
luck.”
“Thank you, Heinz.” The doctor forced a little smile. “My
friends call me Ernst.”
The two men stared into each other’s eyes as though
letting go might signal the end of everything they knew in
this world.
“I will admit Lüderitz looks a little foreboding at first
appearances,” Ernst said.
“They don’t call it the Skeleton Coast for nothing,” Schäffer
replied with a little chuckle.
“When do you expect to reach Argentina?”
“We should be there by mid–August, if the engines don’t
fail again.”
The two men nodded to each other, still gripping each
other’s hand, afraid to let go, to break with the familiarity of
the past and embrace the uncertainty of the unknown. By this
time the rowing boat had drawn up to U-977 and bumped
against its hull on the ocean swell. Three men in civilian
clothing were huddled together in the wooden vessel, one
holding aloft a shaded lamp that scattered halos in the swirling
fog. Ernst clambered down the steel rungs of the ladder, his
boots scraping on the metal. Schäffer tossed his canvas holdall
down to him and raised a hand to wave.
“Where are you headed?” one of the men in the rowing
boat shouted up to Schäffer.
“I cannot tell you,” Schäffer yelled back. Then, in a softer
voice, “Better that you don’t know. Look after Dr Adermann,
he is a good man.”
“I wish you all a safe journey. Goodbye Heinz,” Ernst
shouted as he settled into the rowing boat.
Schäffer rested his arms on the metal railing and watched
Ernst, sitting with the canvas bag in his lap, looking up
somewhat mournfully at the faces not only of his companions
of the past two months, but of a life he was leaving behind,
forever. The small rowing boat began to move away as the oars
sliced into the water.
“Goodbye Ernst.”
Ernst waved. He looked so insignificant in the rowing boat.
How things change, Schäffer thought to himself.
T h r e e
11 April 1985
Ingrid, holding several large Bloomingdale’s shopping bags,
stepped out of the yellow cab on the upper east side of
Manhattan where she was comfortably settled into a privileged
world of old money, even though she was a relative newcomer.
The doorman tipped his hat and held the polished glass
door open for her. “Afternoon Mrs Forsythe.”
Ingrid ignored him, flicking her bouncing ash blonde hair as
she strode past. She kicked the door to her third floor apartment
shut behind her and dropped the shopping bags onto the sofa. Her
apartment was in Yorkhill near the corner of Lexington and 77th,
not far from Central Park Zoo and her favourite department store.
The heavily framed mirrors, cream high–backed sofas and
brushed aluminium lamps revealed her taste for Bloomingdale’s
classic styles. She prised off her Ralph Lauren heels and flopped
into an armchair still wearing her fur–lined coat. The phone rang.
“Oh God!” she mumbled.
She watched the phone with a disdainful look until the
answer machine eventually clicked in.
“Hi Ingrid, it’s Otto. I’m not sure if you’ve been getting my
messages…”
“Shit!” Ingrid muttered as she heaved herself up and strode
towards the phone. “Hi Otto.”
“Ingrid?” Surprise in Otto’s voice.
Ingrid glanced at her gold wristwatch. “It must be very late
in England, little brother.”
“Yes, it is… quite. I really need to speak to you.”
Ingrid picked up the phone and dragged the lengthy cord
with her to the sofa where she resumed her original pose.
“Sorry, Otto, it’s been hell here.”
“Did you get my messages?”
Ingrid hesitated, examining her nails. “Yeah. Look, Otto, I
don’t know what I can do. I haven’t spoken to Mum since…”
Ingrid lifted both feet onto a cream pouffe and crossed her
ankles, wiggling her painted toes. “She never did approve of
my… lifestyle.”
Ingrid remembered the men she had brought to the house:
successful, rich, usually divorced and universally disapproved
of by both Mother and Father. In the end she married
Frederick, who had taken her to New York. Ever since she
considered that things had never been the same between her
and the rest of the family again.
“How is Maurice?” Otto asked.
Ingrid pulled a face. “I divorced him six months ago.”
“Oh, sorry. No–one tells me anything.”
“Don’t be sorry, Otto, I got his lovely apartment,” Ingrid said
with a smile as she glanced around the spacious living room.
“I thought you got Larry’s apartment?” Otto said.
“I got his money, and so I should have for putting up with
the bastard. No, it was Newman, my second husband’s
apartment that I got, but this one is better so I sold his. That
really pissed him off.” She snorted.
Otto sighed. “Can we get back to Mum and this business
back home?”
“That is not my home any longer, Otto; hasn’t been for a
very long time. But I did get your message about finding a body
or something. What the hell’s that all about?”
“We don’t know yet?”
“They identified the body?”
“No. It’s been sent to forensic labs in… er… Windhoek, I
imagine.”
Ingrid raised her waxed eyebrows. “I can’t help you with
this, Otto, and Mum certainly hasn’t called me about it,” she
said, sounding indifferent and cold. “As she pointed out to me
after I married Larry – or was it Frederick? – we all have our
crosses to bear.”
Otto sighed irritably. “Ingrid, Mum has suffered a massive
stroke.”
Ingrid’s feet dropped off the pouffe as she sat forward.
“Stroke?”
“Yes. Quite a bad one, I’m afraid.”
“Why? How?”
“The stress, I expect. The discovery of the body really
affected her.”
“Did she tell them anything?” Ingrid’s voice was suddenly
a semitone tauter.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Ingrid said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I’m flying out tomorrow to see Mum. I’m really worried
about her. I think Dieter is coming too.”
“Did Mum phone him?” There it was again: that insecure,
bitter edge to her voice. She seldom referred to Dieter by his
name, not since he had called her a gold–digger when she met
Newman and divorced Larry. That was years ago, even before
Father died.
“No, Ingrid, I did, the same day I left my first message for
you.”
“Is Mum really that bad?”
“Yes. She’s in hospital in Swakopmund and she’s not waking
up.”
Ingrid managed to cradle the phone against her ear and
bury her face in the open palms of both hands, her eyes staring
over her fingertips into her past.
“Will you come out and join us?” Otto asked.
Ingrid took several deep breaths, feeling her eyes twitching.
In the background a distant NYPD siren filled the silence.
“I don’t think I can go back there. Lüderitz is such a dump
and that house is filled with too many—”
“Come on Ingrid, we haven’t all been together for… I can’t
even remember when last it was,” Otto pleaded.
Ingrid snorted. “Together? What’s ‘together’ about our
family, Otto?” she said sharply.
“Let’s not get into this now. Mum needs us.”
“I have nothing to say to Dieter, you know that.”
Otto tactfully ignored the Dieter issue. “Let’s not have a
repeat of Dad’s funeral. Come out this time, before it’s too late.”
Ingrid’s chest rose and fell with bottled–up emotions. “You
really think there might be a funeral?” she said eventually.
“It’s a distinct possibility I’m afraid.”
Ingrid rubbed her temples. “I don’t know. What’s the point?
The past is in the past.”
“Mum – your mother – may well die, Ingrid, that’s the point.
Perhaps you could see her one last time, even speak to her.
Eventually you will be free from the past that you seem to so
despise, and then you can get on with your New York lifestyle
unhindered.” Otto’s voice rose, a sudden loss of composure.
“Don’t lecture me, Otto, you of all people. You don’t know
the half of it,” she replied venomously.
“Well then, after all these years of sniping and bitterness,
come and explain it to me. I’ll be there from tomorrow night.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll be pleased afterwards if you make the effort,” Otto
said, sounding much softer again. “It’ll be good to see you.”
Ingrid emitted a derisive nasal sound. “I wish I shared your
optimism. Where the hell do you get it from, Otto?”
