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old-fashioned sense of honor. Sibel wasn’t allowed to have boyfriends or talk with Germans, Yugoslavians, or Russians. She wasn’t allowed to leave the house after dark. One of her brothers accompanied her to school. When he decided that Sibel had looked at her teacher a little too long he branded her back with a flatiron. Sibel’s father was appalled, he walked in circles on the living room carpet and then beat Sibel’s brother. Then he drank some tea and slapped Sibel’s mother in the face, because the tea had cooled too quickly and because she allowed her daughter to dress like a German. Sibel was pulled outof school and her father started researching in an Internet cafe for a husband. Sibel’s father was determined to get a good deal. Even if Sibel wouldn’t get a big dowry, she was a German citizen and therefore attractive to many. Marriage was the only legal way to get into Europe and Europe was the big hope.
    Sibel refused the first potential husband and the second as well, and for that she got a beating from her oldest brother. The youngest, a year older than she, held her, slipped his hand in her panties and whispered into her ear: “You are a disgrace to our family. We will kill you.” Her mother said: “He is a good man. He will work for you, protect you. Do you think anybody will fall in love with you, just because you are young and pretty? That he’ll stay with you forever? That he’ll love you? Don’t be so naive. Please don’t be so naive.” Sibel stood facing a mirror and cried because she was naive. Wanted to be.
    Sibel ran away and at first stayed with a German friend. But her friend’s parents were afraid of Muslim men, without even needing to be told about Sibel’s own experience with Muslim men. Or about Islam. After three days Sibel was back out on the street. Bitter and alone.
    She only wore dresses, skirts, silk blouses, and shoes with shiny buckles. She walked on tiny, clattering heels and looked like candy. Innocent, irresistible, andabsolute. Twice she fucked my lovers. I had hated her for it, in a Germanly thorough fashion. But I couldn’t stop desiring her. The apartment and landline were in my name. I did money transfers for her and when she had to go to the doctor she borrowed my insurance card.
    She slept without a cover. Her underwear shimmered dusky pink. No, she only pretended to be asleep. For a long time I looked at her skinny body, the bent knees and the straight dark hair that spilled across her pillow. The curtains were drawn and the room was bathed in a soft light. We’d had a week of beautiful weather. Nothing in the sky moved. The closest thing to a cloud was the occasional vapor trail from a plane. Sibel breathed calmly and regularly, didn’t hear the buzz of the house-flies. I pulled my dress over my head. In the window across the street the curtain moved. I unhooked my bra, took off my panties, and sat down on the bed. I leaned over her and kissed her shoulder. She smiled without opening her eyes. I traced her areolas with my fingers.
    “You dirty little thing,” she whispered into my ear and laughed. “Did you know that Kurdish girls always kiss each other on the mouth, as a substitute for real sex? They can’t afford riding lessons.”
    “Are you a Kurd, Sibel?”
    She looked at me, grinned, but didn’t answer. Then she turned over onto her stomach. Her entire body was covered with scars.
    The calls had started when we made love almost every night, first in the middle of the night, then on late mornings, then during the day. The caller didn’t say anything. We heard nothing but his heavy breathing. Sibel started leaving the lights on in the hallway at night and didn’t leave the house by herself anymore. She took taxis, even if her trip would only take her five minutes on foot.
    One evening the entire apartment went dark. At the same moment, Sibel’s cellphone rang. The number was blocked. On the other end, somebody breathed heavily and remained