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Authors: Gabi Kreslehner
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her condolences and said all the things one says in a situation like this. “Frau Gleichenbach,” she began, “I’m so sorry, but . . .”
She didn’t get any further. The woman suddenly turned to the detectives and said, “I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything.”
Her eyes flashed, and she drummed her fingers nervously on the arm of her chair. Felix ignored her irritation, cleared his throat, and asked the first question. “You didn’t report Marie missing. Why not?”
“I wasn’t missing her.”
Franza and Felix were surprised but didn’t let it show.
“You weren’t? Didn’t it seem strange to you when she didn’t come home two nights ago, or the night after, or last night? Didn’t you wonder why? Weren’t you concerned? She wasn’t found far from here. She must’ve been on her way to you. On her way home. Or wasn’t she?”
The woman sat slumped in her chair, her face a white, vacant mask. When she tried to speak, her voice broke into a woeful moan. The detectives remained silent, waiting. She pulled herself together again.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think she was on her way here. I can’t imagine it. She’s been gone for a long time; she left us a long time ago. We never knew where she was. One day here, the next day somewhere else. She never stayed anywhere for long. Especially not here. Especially not with us.”
She fell silent. After a while she continued. “I don’t know what it was with her, why she was like that. Why it had to end this way.”
Silence again. Suddenly she got up. “Come,” she said. “Come with me.”
They followed her back into the house and up a flight of stairs. She opened a door. A girl’s room, very neat and tidy, with posters on the walls and books on the shelves. Curtains billowed in the open windows.
The woman walked up to them, wrapping herself into the fragrant fabric.
“I’ve just washed them,” she whispered, “and hung them back up right away. This morning, after I saw the newspaper. And I opened the windows so it would be nice and fresh for her. Airy.”
Her voice broke again. “Come!” she whispered finally and motioned to Franza to come closer. “Please come, smell them. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Franza walked over and touched the woman’s arm gently. “Yes,” she said, “it is. You’re right, Frau Gleichenbach. It really is wonderful.” She took her hands and held them tightly. “Would you like to tell me your story, Frau Gleichenbach? Yours and Marie’s? I’d like to hear it.”
The woman nodded, and Franza sensed her relaxing a little. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. That story. Mine and Marie’s. I thought it was over.”
22
Marie. Seven. Curly hair. Bundle of energy. Loved pasta and toast with Nutella. Went to school, liked her teacher, enjoyed learning, math, books. A bundle of energy.
At seven. But not since then—not for a long time.
23
“We didn’t report him to the police,” the woman said. “He was her grandfather, after all. He loved her, just differently.”
She didn’t know what he had done to Marie. Marie never said anything, and neither had the grandfather. But one day she came home from her grandparents and everything had changed. She had changed.
When Marie turned seven her mother began working in an office full-time and so she sent Marie to her grandparents’ after school. She could do her homework there, and her grandparents fed her, played with her, and took her on short trips. It was a huge relief for everyone.
But then Marie began to change, became timid and fearful, cried at night, didn’t laugh anymore.
At the time, her mother had thought maybe that’s just how children got as they grew older. She thought maybe she was just imagining it. And then she blocked it out. Work was good; there was plenty to do. She didn’t have much time, and in the evenings she was tired.
Then her sister-in-law came to visit, and when she heard that Marie was at her grandfather’s
She didn’t get any further. The woman suddenly turned to the detectives and said, “I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything.”
Her eyes flashed, and she drummed her fingers nervously on the arm of her chair. Felix ignored her irritation, cleared his throat, and asked the first question. “You didn’t report Marie missing. Why not?”
“I wasn’t missing her.”
Franza and Felix were surprised but didn’t let it show.
“You weren’t? Didn’t it seem strange to you when she didn’t come home two nights ago, or the night after, or last night? Didn’t you wonder why? Weren’t you concerned? She wasn’t found far from here. She must’ve been on her way to you. On her way home. Or wasn’t she?”
The woman sat slumped in her chair, her face a white, vacant mask. When she tried to speak, her voice broke into a woeful moan. The detectives remained silent, waiting. She pulled herself together again.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think she was on her way here. I can’t imagine it. She’s been gone for a long time; she left us a long time ago. We never knew where she was. One day here, the next day somewhere else. She never stayed anywhere for long. Especially not here. Especially not with us.”
She fell silent. After a while she continued. “I don’t know what it was with her, why she was like that. Why it had to end this way.”
Silence again. Suddenly she got up. “Come,” she said. “Come with me.”
They followed her back into the house and up a flight of stairs. She opened a door. A girl’s room, very neat and tidy, with posters on the walls and books on the shelves. Curtains billowed in the open windows.
The woman walked up to them, wrapping herself into the fragrant fabric.
“I’ve just washed them,” she whispered, “and hung them back up right away. This morning, after I saw the newspaper. And I opened the windows so it would be nice and fresh for her. Airy.”
Her voice broke again. “Come!” she whispered finally and motioned to Franza to come closer. “Please come, smell them. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Franza walked over and touched the woman’s arm gently. “Yes,” she said, “it is. You’re right, Frau Gleichenbach. It really is wonderful.” She took her hands and held them tightly. “Would you like to tell me your story, Frau Gleichenbach? Yours and Marie’s? I’d like to hear it.”
The woman nodded, and Franza sensed her relaxing a little. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. That story. Mine and Marie’s. I thought it was over.”
22
Marie. Seven. Curly hair. Bundle of energy. Loved pasta and toast with Nutella. Went to school, liked her teacher, enjoyed learning, math, books. A bundle of energy.
At seven. But not since then—not for a long time.
23
“We didn’t report him to the police,” the woman said. “He was her grandfather, after all. He loved her, just differently.”
She didn’t know what he had done to Marie. Marie never said anything, and neither had the grandfather. But one day she came home from her grandparents and everything had changed. She had changed.
When Marie turned seven her mother began working in an office full-time and so she sent Marie to her grandparents’ after school. She could do her homework there, and her grandparents fed her, played with her, and took her on short trips. It was a huge relief for everyone.
But then Marie began to change, became timid and fearful, cried at night, didn’t laugh anymore.
At the time, her mother had thought maybe that’s just how children got as they grew older. She thought maybe she was just imagining it. And then she blocked it out. Work was good; there was plenty to do. She didn’t have much time, and in the evenings she was tired.
Then her sister-in-law came to visit, and when she heard that Marie was at her grandfather’s
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