Read Online Crime by Ferdinand von Schirach - Free Book Online Page B

saliva had run onto the pillow, and his eyes were rolled up toward the ceiling. She screamed at him, but he still didn’t move. She fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and poured it on his face. The man didn’t stir. He was still wearing his socks, and he was dead.
    Irina had been living in Berlin for eighteen months. She would rather have stayed in her own country, where she’d gone first to kindergarten and then to school, where her family and friends lived, and where the language they spoke was her own. Irina had been a dressmaker there. She had had a pretty apartment, filled with all kinds of things: furniture, books, CDs, plants, photo albums, and a black-and-white cat that had adopted her. Her life had stretched out before her and the prospect gave her joy. She designed women’s fashions; she’d already made several dresses, and even sold two of them. Her sketches were light and transparent. She dreamed of opening a little shop on the main street.
    But her country was at war.
    One weekend, she drove to see her brother in the country. He had taken over their parents’ farm, which excused him from military service. She persuaded him to walk to the little lake that bordered the farm. They sat on the small dock in the afternoon sun while Irina told him about her plans and showed him the pad with her new designs. He was delighted and put an arm around her shoulders.
    When they came back, the soldiers were standing in the farmyard. They shot her brother and raped Irina, in that order. The soldiers were in fours. One spat in her face as he lay on top of her. He called her a whore, punched her in the eyes. After that, she ceased to defend herself. When they all left, she remained lying on the kitchen table. She wrapped herself in the red-and-white tablecloth and closed her eyes, hoping it would be forever.
    The next morning, she went to the lake again. She thought it would be easy to drown herself, but she couldn’t do it. When she rose back up to the surface, she jerked open her mouth and her lungs filled with oxygen. She stood in the water naked; there was nothing but the trees on the bank, the reeds, and the sky. She screamed. She screamed until her strength left her; she screamed against death and loneliness and pain. She knew she would survive, but she also knew that this was no longer her homeland.
    A week later, they buried her brother. It was a simple grave with a wooden cross. The priest said something about guilt and forgiveness, while the mayor stared at the ground and clenched his fists. She gave the key to the farm to her next-door neighbor, along with the few remaining livestock, plus all the contents of the house. Then she picked up her little suitcase and her purse and took the bus into the capital. She did not turn around. She left the sketchbook behind.
    She checked on the streets and in bars to find the names of smugglers who could get her into Germany. The agent was practiced, and he took all the money she had. He knew that what she wanted was security and that she would pay for it—there were lots like Irina, and they made for good business.
    Irina and the others were taken in a minibus toward the West. After two days, they stopped in a clearing, got out, and ran through the night. The man, who led them over streams and through a swamp, didn’t say much, and when they had reached the end of their strength, he told them they were in Germany. Another bus brought them to Berlin. It stopped somewhere on the edge of the city. The weather was cold and foggy. Irina was exhausted, but she believed she’d reached safety.
    Over the next months, she got to know other men and women from her homeland. They explained Berlin to her, its authorities and its laws. Irina needed money. She couldn’t work legally; she wasn’t even allowed to be in Germany. The women helped her in the first few weeks. She stood on the Kurfürstenstrasse, and she learned the price for oral and vaginal sex. Her body had become a