Broken Glass Park (7 page)

I am the older sister.

I ride the tram toward home in a fog. My sneakers dangle from my backpack, tied together by the laces. The rolled-up newspaper is stuck in the side pocket.

The heater is going underneath my seat. I can’t bring myself to switch seats.

But I’m roasting, so I manage to do something else: pull out the paper and open it. I always carry the entire paper around rather than just pulling out the local section. Just how I do it. The pages are frayed and falling apart.

I look at Vadim’s picture several times a day. It has an unbearable allure that I just can’t resist. And it’s the only thing that cuts through the fog. It reminds me of everything I have ahead of me, and it reminds me that dreaming about it isn’t enough.

Stupid, brainless, blind duck, I think. Haven’t you ever heard that every newspaper has a masthead? And do you not know what all’s on the masthead?

The address, among other things.

I get out of the tram at the next stop and hop on the other one—the one going in the opposite direction. I go as far as the main train station. I buy a ticket at one of the machines there and settle into a seat on the stinking commuter rail line to Frankfurt.

It’ll have to work without a map.

It works fine. At the main station in Frankfurt there’s a map on the wall. I find the right street. My name’s not Maria and I can read a map, no problem. It’s just three measly stops away on the subway.

I end up in front of a building that is not at all as imposing as I had imagined it would be.

It’s a gray box, taller than it is wide. Above the entrance is the name of the paper in blue lettering. I step through the glass door and come to a sort of counter. Behind it sits a pretty young woman who smiles at me. Next to her is another woman, a bit older; she’s on the phone but she smiles in my direction, too.

Something like shyness stirs inside me.

“Good afternoon,” says the woman not on the phone. “Can I help you?”

I clear my throat and forget for a second why I’m there. The woman smiles patiently. Her gaze keeps wandering to the rolled up copy of the paper I’m holding in my sweaty hand.

So this is what it looks like, I think. This is where it happens. I feel awestruck.

“Do you have a question?” The woman won’t let up. Her smile doesn’t fade one bit.

I force myself to come back and engage, rather than float away as I’ve been doing for the last few days.

“I’d like to speak to someone,” I say, and flinch because it sounds surprisingly loud.

“Someone in particular?”

“Yes. Susanne Mahler.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I say, and gulp.

“One moment, please.” The woman drops her eyes and reaches for the phone. She presses it to her left ear—which has a little pearl earring in it—and looks at me again. She asks something, but I’m distracted again.

“What?” I ask like Anton. And then correct myself the way I correct him: “I’m sorry?”

“Your name, please.”

“Sascha. Sascha Naimann. Tell her that it’s . . . Vadim E.’s stepdaughter.”

“Vadim E.? Sascha Naimann? OK.”

She dials a number and starts to talk. I watch her lips move and I rock my dangling sneakers back and forth like a pendulum.

The woman on the phone raises her voice and looks at me. “Vadim E., you said? Sascha Naimann?”

“Yes.”

She listens to the person on the other end for a moment and then hangs up.

I look around for security officers, expecting to be escorted out.

It’s probably stupid, but I feel as if I’m standing in a temple I’m planning to desecrate.

The woman speaks to me again, but I miss the first part.

“Ms. Mahler will be down to get you in a moment.”

“To get me?” I’m briefly startled. The receptionist can’t do anything about my associations.

“Yes. She said she was coming right down. Otherwise I would take you to the reception area—but there’s no need.”

“Reception area?” I ask like an idiot. But just then a door opens off to the side and I see them. There are two.

I know which one is Susanne Mahler right away since the other one is a man. I look at his face as he approaches. He’s a tall man—his face is well above mine. He’s not old, but his hair is completely gray. He’s in jeans and a white shirt and a dark blue sports coat.

I hate men, I think absentmindedly. Do I hate men?

He extends his hand. “Ms. Naimann?”

I nod and at some point it occurs to me that I might shake his hand. I wipe my moist right hand on my jeans and briefly grasp his hand. Whatever name he says as we shake hands I miss. Then I shake hands with Susanne Mahler. Her hand is cool and soft, as if she’s just put on hand lotion.

“This is Ms. Mahler,” the man says.

“I figured,” I say hoarsely.

Ms. Mahler is the same size as me. She’s in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. She has short black hair playfully curled, red lips, and slightly squinty eyes. She’s in a tight cream-colored top and dark pants. She has a very pretty face, but it looks less attractive the longer you look at it. Down to her waist she looks flawless; below that she’s a little broader than she should be.

I look her in the eyes and recognize fear. She squints even more and lifts her chin to try to hide it.

I wonder why she’s worried, I think silently. What could possibly happen to her in life? Then it hits me like a locomotive. She thinks I’ve come to register a complaint. I get it. I show up out of the blue, looking all aggressive.

And she is absolutely right.

Ms. Mahler and the man take me into an elevator. I remain silent, even though it’s probably impolite. Ms. Mahler tries to smile at me. I try to concentrate and don’t look at her. Better to look at the man, who is studying the numbers on the elevator buttons.

It seems as if he already knows what kind of mood I’m in, I think. If this silence keeps up, I’m not going to be able to concentrate. I’ve got to say something to him and Ms. Mahler. If I can’t manage this, how will I ever kill Vadim?

They lead me into a square room with a big window. In the middle of the room is a round table. On it are a carafe, three cups, bottles of mineral water, and glasses. And a plate of cookies.

The man grabs the back of a chair and pulls it back from the table.

He doesn’t sit down. Instead, he motions for me to sit down and then walks around the table to sit opposite me.

Ms. Mahler pulls her own chair out. Her face betrays such panic that I already feel sorry for her. I think that I might want to reformulate my speech.

“Please, Ms. Naimann,” the man says once we’re all seated. “What’s on your mind?”

I’ve never been addressed as Ms. Naimann in my entire life. Until today. And now several times. Every time I hear it I’m tempted to turn around to check whether there’s someone else—Ms. Naimann—standing behind me.

They look at me attentively. Ms. Mahler fidgets a little in her chair.

I pull my newspaper out of my backpack and open it. Vadim’s face lies in front of me and I put my fist on it.

“This is why I’m here,” I say. “I read this.”

“You are here about Ms. Mahler’s article,” the man perceptively summarizes.

I nod.

“What do you think of it?” he asks.

“It’s shit,” I say.

Ms. Mahler tries to smile but can’t. I turn to her.

“Please excuse me,” I say. “I don’t mean to attack you personally, but it’s hard not to when we’re talking about something you wrote. I’m sure you’re a good journalist. It’s just that this article is . . . it’s just not possible. You can’t talk about him like he’s a human being. You can’t just write it that way. He shot my mother and another good human being. Just like that. That was his way of dealing with the fact that these people just wanted to lead a life without him being involved. If you did research—if you read the transcripts of the trial—you would know exactly what happened. He is the meanest, dirtiest, most disgusting scum that you will probably ever encounter. And you write that his letter is emotionally powerful. Or his sketches. Did you ever stop to think what reading that would do to me?”

Ms. Mahler opens her lipstick-painted mouth and says something about a hundred thousand readers. She stops mid-sentence. I’m looking at her and can’t see what caused her to clam up. It’s possible a glance from the man that silenced her. The connection between those two pairs of eyes looks as tense as a piano wire. Or razor wire.

I’m glad I’m not directly between the two of them.

“I’m not sure how I should say this,” I say. “I probably can’t articulate all of this very well. But if Adolf Hitler were still alive, would you go visit him and praise his sketches?”

I know I’ve failed miserably and drop my head.

“I . . . ,” Ms. Mahler begins to say and then stops again.

«Ms. Naimann,» the man says quietly. I look up, surprised, and look him directly in the eyes. They are gray like the fog I’m hopelessly stumbling around in. «Ms. Naimann, I think I will be equally unable to articulate what is moving me at the moment. It’s said that words are nothing but smoke and mirrors. It’s a banal cliché, but unfortunately it’s also true for the most part. I just want you to know that I thoroughly understand your feelings.»

“If there’s one thing I will never believe,” I say just as quietly, “it’s that you have even the slightest hint of an idea about my feelings.”

Ms. Mahler lets out a horrified “Oh.” The rounded mouth suits her. I look quickly at her and away again. The man nods.

“There’s not much I can say in response to that. Any attempt to try to demonstrate my understanding is doomed to failure. Even if I were to use the word ‘tragedy,’ it seems to me it would probably sound like an arrogant attempt to encapsulate your fate in a conveniently empty phrase that could never possibly express the full extent of your situation.”

“You are absolutely right about that,” I say.

“But there is one thing I have to say,” he says, and he sounds helpless and forlorn. Ms. Mahler shifts her gaze from me to him.

He turns to her and nods. I watch, astonished, as she stands up, politely pushes her chair in, offers me a pained smile and “goodbye and best wishes,” and leaves the room.

“Actually,” I say amid the silence, “I wanted to talk to her.”

The man leans back and puts his hands on the table. “What would you have said to her?”

“That her article was shameless and stupid.”

“You already made that clear. And besides,” he says, pausing to push the plate of cookies toward me, “besides, she already knows that.”

“What? I’m sorry?”

“She knows because I already told her.”

I look at the cookies. There are square and round ones with chocolate icing, shortbread, star-shaped cookies with a dollop of jam in the middle, and some that look like spirals.

“Please help yourself,” says the man. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Mineral water? We have cola in the canteen—I can go get one for you.”

I shake my head.

“I want to tell you something, something I would otherwise never tell an outsider,” he says, taking a round cookie. “Then perhaps you will understand a little better why Ms. Mahler isn’t here for our conversation. Perhaps you will also not find the article so . . . outrageous. Ms. Mahler is an intern. She is working here as part of a work experience program. And—just between you and me—she’s not one of the best of our interns. Not even a decent one.”

I look at him. He has taken a bite of his cookie and is turning what’s left around in his fingers.

“I was out of the office when her piece was published,” he says. “Ms. Mahler wrote it up quickly after her thrilling visit to the prison, there was space open on the page, and so it appeared the next day. There it was in the paper. For your information, we have a policy whereby anything written by an intern must be read by an editor and, if necessary, rewritten. Within our strict standards for what we consider worthy of publication, there is some room for discretion. It can depend on the individual taste of the editor, on time pressures, or on any number of other factors. I must admit the person responsible for editing this piece did not exercise due diligence. To call what this piece needed ‘editing’ is itself a euphemism. Because the problems in Ms. Mahler’s piece are not limited to a few stylistic mistakes. If you are going to take on this subject, it can’t be done the way she did it. It should have been approached completely differently. And I’m afraid Ms. Mahler was not the right person for the assignment. Her reporting was completely unacceptable. For you, someone affected by the events, it was even less acceptable. There’s no way else to say it.”

I listen silently as if hypnotized by the rotating motion of the half-eaten cookie.

“I find myself having to take responsibility for something that cannot be justified. Whatever you criticize us about, you will be completely in the right.”

“Why do you have to?” I ask.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why do you have to take responsibility?”