The Vanishing of Katharina Linden (3 page)

T
he
Grundschule
opened again in the first week of January. I usually walked to school with Marla Frisch. However, as I was packing my
Ranzen
, the capacious satchel that allows the German schoolchild to carry backbreaking amounts of schoolbooks, I was surprised to see Marla pass by our front windows without stopping, her light-brown pigtails bouncing. By the time I had shrugged on my winter coat and opened the front door, she had disappeared around the corner. I looked after her, puzzled. Well. Perhaps she thought I wasn’t coming back to school yet.

I hoisted my
Ranzen
onto my back, called goodbye to my mother, and stepped out into the cobbled street, closing the door behind me. It was still not quite light, and the sky was leaden. Tiny flakes of snow whirled through the air and my breath came out in little puffs. The few people who passed me pulled their coats tight about themselves, wincing against the cold.

As I reached the school gate I looked at my watch. It was twelve minutes past eight; the bell would ring in three minutes exactly. I hurried inside, took the stairs to the first floor two at a time, and shrugged the
Ranzen
off my shoulders. As I hung my coat on a peg, I looked up and saw the sharp-boned face of Daniella Brandt peering around the
doorframe of the classroom, a second before it whisked back inside like a rat vanishing into its hole.

I stood there by my peg for a moment, wondering whether it was just my imagination, or could I hear a sudden outbreak of excited whispers from the classroom?

“Frau Koch says her grandmother really did explode!”

“Went off like a bomb—”

“Burnt to a cinder—”

“They could only tell who it was by her teeth, my Tante Silvia says.”

Suddenly I didn’t want to go in. A chilling premonition broke over me. It would be no use screaming now; Frau Eichen would never stand for it and, furthermore, against a class of twenty-two ten-year-olds it would be worse than useless—it would only serve to make me an even more irresistible target of curiosity.

Nobody cared about Oma Kristel, about the way she had tried to keep herself attractive long after Youth had packed its bags and moved out of the aging tenement, about the way she always had some little gift for me, a sample bottle of unsuitable scent or a brooch made of sparkly paste. Her love of cherry liqueur.

None of it meant anything to them; no—what they wanted to know was whether she had
really
gone off like a Catherine wheel, throwing off sparks in all directions. Was it true that every hair on her head had been burned off? Did they really have to identify her by her rings? Was it true that Tante Britta had had an epileptic fit when she saw it happening? Was it true that—?

The whispers stopped the moment I rounded the doorframe and entered the classroom. Twenty-two pairs of eyes, wide with curiosity, were fixed on me as I made my unwilling progress into the room and pulled the chair out from under the table where I usually sat. Frau Eichen had not yet arrived; she had to drive down from Bonn and quite frequently turned up only just before the bell rang.

As I slid into my seat, the silence about me was palpable, the other children standing and staring at me like cattle, keeping a safe distance. When I pulled a library book out of my bag and banged it down on the tabletop, you could feel them flinch away. I noticed then that nobody else had put their things down on my table. Someone had left a
Ranzen
patterned with pink flowers on the chair opposite me; with a sudden dash, Marla Frisch retrieved it and retreated again.

Before I could think how to react, the bell was ringing and Frau Eichen came into the classroom, looking slightly harassed, her chestnut hair escaping from its silver barrette, and her cardigan sliding off one shoulder.

“Sit down, class,” she barked at us, trying to cover up her own lateness with a touch of acerbity. There was a sudden flurry of movement. I looked down at my hands, not wanting to catch my classmates’ eyes, but all the same I was aware that no one was taking their seat at my table. Space seemed to yawn endlessly on all sides of me.

There was a slight altercation at another table as Thilo Koch and another boy both tried to sit on one chair at the same time. Frau Eichen, who until then had been preoccupied with unloading her armful of files and books onto her desk, suddenly looked up and found that the entire class except for me was trying to fit at four of the five tables, and that I—Pia Kolvenbach—was sitting in solitary state at the remaining table, with my head down and the back of my neck crimson with embarrassment. As she took this in, there was a loud
thump
as Thilo Koch finally managed to shove the other boy off the chair and onto the floor. Then there was a moment’s silence.

“What,” asked Frau Eichen in a voice that positively crackled with frost, “is the meaning of this?”

Absolute silence reigned as Frau Eichen looked in exasperation from one face to another.

“Who normally sits at Pia’s table?” she demanded. This was met with some nudging and whispering, but it seemed no one was prepared to own up. Frau Eichen picked out a face from the gaggle squashed up together at the table by the window.

“Maximilian Klein.”

But Maximilian showed no signs of moving; he seemed to shrink back into his place crushed between two other children, looking anywhere but at Frau Eichen or myself.

“Marla Frisch.”

At that I raised my head; Marla and I were supposed to be friends. I caught her eye and shot her a pleading glance. She looked away.

Frau Eichen was becoming a little pink in the face; she was unused to such flagrant disobedience.

“Will someone kindly explain what is going on?” she demanded. “Why is Pia sitting on her own?”

Eventually it was Daniella Brandt who spoke, never one to resist an opportunity of getting into the limelight.

“Please, Frau Eichen, we don’t think we should have to sit with her.”

“What do you mean, you don’t think you should have to sit with her?” snapped Frau Eichen.

“In case it’s catching, Frau Eichen,” said Daniella with a smirk. One of the other girls let out a stifled giggle. Frau Eichen’s eyes flickered over me momentarily, as though trying to discern symptoms of some unpleasant affliction. Then she gave a heavy sigh.

“In case
what
is catching?” she asked in a weary tone.

“The exploding,” said Daniella, and let out a little shriek like a hyena laughing.

That was enough; the class erupted. Some of the girls were making a play of trying to move their chairs a little farther back, out of range of Pia Kolvenbach, the Potentially Explosive Schoolgirl, but mostly they all just clutched their sides and howled with laughter. Just as the first wave of mirth had broken, Thilo Koch made an exploding gesture with his arms, accompanied by a ripe farting sound, and they were all off again, red in the face and hanging on to each other as though they might literally be swept away on a tide of merriment.

I looked at Frau Eichen mutely for help. To my dismay, I could see from the congested expression on her face and the tight pursing of her lips that she, too, was fighting against a rising wave of laughter. Then she saw me looking at her and, with a force of will that can only be described as titanic, she composed herself and banged hard on the table with a book, with a sound that cut through the laughing like a gunshot.

“Be quiet!”
she bellowed. After several seconds of choking and coughing there was more or less order in the classroom.

“Resume your places!”

No one moved. There was a very long silence, punctuated only by the creaking of chairs and the uncomfortable shuffling of tightly packed bodies jockeying for position. After what seemed like an eternity, I heard the sound of a chair scraping back, and someone stood up.

Oh, no
. StinkStefan. He wasn’t even at my table to begin with. What
was he doing? Twenty-one other pairs of eyes were fixed on him as he made his way purposefully over, swinging his scruffy
Ranzen
by one hand and carrying his chair with the other. He set the chair down next to me, sat down, and folded his arms as though waiting for something. At that point, I really could have sunk through the floor.

StinkStefan, the most unpopular boy in the class. If I needed
him
for an ally, then it really was all over for me. I ducked my head again, determined not to catch his eye. He needn’t think I was going to be grateful for his support. Still, for all that his gesture was unwelcome, it did the trick; a moment later, two other children were on their feet, lugging chairs and bags back to the table. Finally, Marla Frisch came too, though she looked as if she were being marched to her own execution, and she sat as far away from me as she possibly could.

When the bell rang at the end of the morning, it was a blessed relief, and I took care to spend so long packing my bag that the others had all gone before I crept out of the classroom. All gone, that is, except StinkStefan. He was standing on the other side of the heavy fire door, by the head of the staircase, waiting for me.

I shouldered my
Ranzen
, pushed open the door, and marched resolutely past him without saying a word. As I went down the stairs I thought I heard him say something, and without intending to I half turned and glanced back at him. Our eyes met. For a moment we regarded each other, then with a toss of my head I was running down the staircase, down the corridor, out of the school doors, anywhere, away. But it was no use: StinkStefan and I were already a pair.

T
here was no snow the day StinkStefan met Herr Schiller, but the weather was diamond bright and bitingly cold. Huddled in the depths of a down jacket, I was stalking swiftly down the Kölner Strasse, the wide street that leads north out of the town, when I realized that Stefan was at my heels. I kept up my pace, ostensibly to keep warm; but there was also a certain satisfaction in trying to outpace Stefan.

In my haste I nearly barreled into someone on the corner by the bridge.

“Fräulein Pia.”

My eyes were level with a smart old-fashioned greatcoat with a red carnation, bright as a splash of paint, in the buttonhole. I looked up and saw a craggy face looking down at me, bushy eyebrows raised above startlingly blue eyes.

“Herr Schiller.”

My heart instantly sank. At any other time I would have been delighted to see Herr Schiller; now I saw his eyes move to the shadow behind me and I knew I’d have to introduce him to Stefan. I glanced about me as though seeking escape, but it was too late.

“Is this a friend of yours?” asked Herr Schiller, his voice faintly amused.

“Um …” While I dithered, Stefan had slipped his right glove off and was extending his hand.

“Hello, I’m Stefan Breuer.”

“Heinrich Schiller,” said Herr Schiller gravely, grasping the proffered hand. He turned to me. “And where are you going in this inclement weather, Fräulein Pia?” Herr Schiller always spoke like that; he never tried to talk down to me simply because I was a child.

“To the park in the Schleidtal.”

“I see,” said Herr Schiller. He pushed back the sleeve of his coat and looked at his watch, a great silver antique. “Well, should you wish to drop by later on when you are both thoroughly frozen to the bone, I should be delighted to offer you some hot coffee—or chocolate, should you prefer.”

I looked at Stefan. “Well, actually …” I hesitated. “I’m not really doing anything now.”

“Nor am I,” cut in Stefan, with a challenging glance at me.

“And it is quite cold,” I said, doing my best to ignore him.

Herr Schiller gave a dry, creaking laugh like a pair of old bellows. “Then please, come with me. We can stop at the Café am Fluss for cakes. You may choose the cakes, Fräulein, and Herr Breuer can carry the box.”

Obediently, we fell into step beside him. In spite of his age—he was in his eighties—Herr Schiller was surprisingly sprightly. He never used a cane, even when the ground was slick with frost; now he forged ahead. At the big gate, the Werther Tor, Herr Schiller disappeared into the tobacconist’s; Stefan and I waited outside.

“How do you know
him?”
said Stefan out of the corner of his mouth, glancing round to check that Herr Schiller was out of earshot.

I sighed. “I used to go and see him with my
Oma
.”

“The one that—?”

“Yes.” I fixed my eyes on the cobblestones and waited for the inevitable questions to follow, but Stefan said nothing. I shot him a sideways glance; he appeared to be engrossed reading a poster taped to the shopwindow, advertising an over-thirties party in the spa hotel. I relented.

“He’s old but he’s cool,” I said. “He tells me all this stuff—well, he used to, when I went round there with Oma Kristel. Things about the town in the olden days.”

Stefan looked at me dubiously. “History?”

“No,
interesting
stuff,” I said. “Like—well, Herr Schiller says there used to be this ghost of a white dog, and anyone who saw it—”

Herr Schiller emerged at the top of the steps outside the shop, and I stopped abruptly. But Herr Schiller was not looking at me, nor had he heard me saying his name. He was staring at someone on the other side of the street, and his face was set, although with anger or dislike I could not tell. I followed his gaze and saw a figure I recognized.