rowohlt verlag jan seghers · about his life. he still didn’t know what consequences this day was...

Rowohlt Verlag Jan Seghers

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Jan Seghers

The Musical Score for Death Wunderlich / rororo fiction 480 pages, January 2008

For sixty years, Georg Hofmann has tried to forget: his

childhood, his parents and his country. But then, a mysterious

old envelope is found in a small castle near Paris. On it a name

and as a sender, one word: Auschwitz. A few days later, a terrible

crime is committed in Frankfurt. Five corpses are found in a boat

on the river Main. Next, a young journalist disappears in the

Taunus forest. A man suddenly re-appears whom everyone

thought dead. While Inspector Marthaler frantically investigates,

his girlfriend Tereza has some momentous news for him…

Jan Seghers alias Matthias Altenburg was born in 1958. A writer, critic and essayist, he lives in Frankfurt. Meanwhile six succesful crime novels with Inspector Marthaler were published. He has been awarded the Offenbach Literature Prize as well as the Burgdorf Prize for Crime Fiction.

"Seghers writes dramatically excellently developed stories, relentlessly thrilling, atmospheric, brought to the point and with a wonderful Detective-Inspector figure."(Hamburger Abendblatt)

"Jan Seghers is rightly regarded as the German Mankell."(SonntagsZeitung)

"Jan Seghers stories are perfectly composed, exciting and surprising! Anyone who hasn’t read any of his Frankfurt-Crimes, should quickly begin!"(NDR2)

200,000 copies sold!

Rights sold to:

The Netherlands - De Geus, Poland – Czarne, Czech Republic – Host,

Korea - The Korea Economic Daily & Business

Made into a TV-film.

Broadcasted in France by ARTE in May 2016.

mailto:[email protected]

Jan Seghers PARTITUR DES TODES. Copyright © 2008 by Rowohlt Verlag GmbH, Reinbek bei Hamburg.

English sample translation by Anne Stokes

Jan Seghers

The Musical Score for Death


Part 1

What occurred in the Liebigstrasse in the West End of Frankfurt at dawn on the 19th

of

October 1941 was nothing unusual. That autumn the same thing happened in many German

cities and villages. But it was an event that fundamentally changed the life of 12-year-old

Georg in a matter of minutes.

The previous evening, his mother had surprised him with the news that he was to

spend the night with friends of theirs, the married couple that lived in the building opposite,

since she and his father would be leaving early the next morning to visit relatives. Georg had

packed his toilet bag and pyjamas and had then gone off to his room to read. Shortly before

midnight, there was a knock on his door. As he was saying goodbye to his parents, he noticed

that both his father and his mother seemed anxious and embraced him for longer than usual.

Since he knew they wouldn’t tell him the truth, the boy didn’t ask any questions. His father

opened the door onto the street, cast a quick glance over the surrounding buildings, then

signalled to his son. Georg crossed the road and didn’t look back.

He was awoken by a sudden noise from the street. For a moment, he didn’t know

where he was. He felt around as usual for the switch on the bedside lamp, but there was

nothing there. Georg ran his fingers over the bed spread and noticed that it wasn’t his own.

Then he opened his eyes and tried to get them used to the dark. When he recognised the

contours of the grandfather clock, it all started to come back. He got out of bed, went over to

the window, drew the curtains apart a little, and looked down at the street that was still in

darkness. Two cars – a limousine and a small delivery van with their headlights on and their

doors wide open – were parked in front of the building in which Georg and his parents lived.



All of the windows in their flat were lit up, and to the right and left of the entrance, he could

make out two men in uniform. They were both holding rifles.

His mother was the first to leave the house. She had put on a headscarf and was

carrying two heavy bags. A man was walking close beside her. He grabbed her upper arm

eventually, and shoved her into the back of the van.

Then his father emerged, followed by a small man wearing a coat and hat. Both stood

in the bright rectangle of the entrance. Georg saw his father turn around and point back into

the building. The small man shook his head. He took the rifle from one of the uniformed

men, grabbing it by the barrel, and lunged forward, striking Georg’s father in the back with

the butt. Georg opened his mouth but didn’t cry out. He watched as his father began to

stumble then tumble forward into the street. He saw the small man return the gun to the man

in uniform and nod at him. Then the boy noticed that his bare feet were standing in a puddle.

He had done everything right. He had known that he mustn’t cry out. But he hadn’t been able

to hold in his pee. For the next sixty-four years of his life, Georg would try hard to forget

that night, as well as his parents.



One

When Monsieur Hoffman tried that morning to cut off a piece of prosciutto to take

along to Mademoiselle Blanche, the blade slipped and sliced straight into his hand. He

watched motionlessly as the blood gathered in his palm and dropped onto the table top. He

reached for a clean dishtowel and wrapped it around the wound. Then he went into the

bathroom, sat down on the rim of the bath and waited for a moment. Eventually he took a

large plaster from the mirror cabinet and stuck it between the thumb and index finger of his

left hand. A minor mishap, nothing more. By the time the traces of the accident had been

removed, he’d almost forgotten all about it.

There was hardly a time of year that Monsieur Hofmann liked more than the closing

of May and the start of June. You could be confident that the cold days were over and the

winter wouldn’t make an unexpected volte-face. The sky above Paris was as blue as only it

could be, the green of the trees was still fresh, and the cool breezes that wafted over from the

canal made it easy to breathe. In other words: It was the kind of moderate weather that did a

man of his age good.

Today was Sunday the 29th

of May 2005. Monsieur Hofmann was excited and in good

spirits. This evening he would sit in a television studio for the first time and answer questions

about his life. He still didn’t know what consequences this day was to have for him.

Nevertheless a slight unrest had taken hold of him, which he liked but also tried to suppress.

He’d got up half an hour earlier than usual, opened the green shutters and cast a first

glance over the roofs of the city and over Père Lachaise Cemetery, where the bright

tombstones were shining in the sun. He’d gone into the kitchen, filled the kettle with water

and placed it on the cooker. After he’d finished shaving and brushing his teeth, he’d lifted his

head and listened carefully. For a moment he’d feared that he’d forgotten to turn on the

cooker for the first time, but then the whistling of the kettle had signalled to him that he was

still in control of his faculties and that the water was hot in the usual time.

He’d drunk the first cup of coffee standing up, then he’d gone back into the bathroom

to take a shower. He was proud of the fact that people had always spoke of him as smart, and

he tried to live up to live up to this reputation in his old age, too. His trousers were always

freshly laundered, his shirts ironed and his shoes polished. He was all the more annoyed then



to discover that a small amount blood had dripped onto this trousers and he now had to

change them.

Finally he put on his straw hat, pulled the door of the flat shut behind him, walked

down the four storeys and a minute later entered the Place Nadaud, the square on which he’d

lived for over thirty years.

Like pretty much every morning, he began his stroll through the neighbourhood with

a visit to Journal, a bar opposite the metro station. When he saw that Sandrine had the

morning shift, he smiled and gave her a nod. As always, he took the latest edition of Le

Monde from the rack, ordered bread with jam and butter and a café au lait and was engrossed

in the paper even before Sandrine had brought him his order. On the TV, which was fixed

below the ceiling, the rerun of a football game from the previous evening was on, but none of

the few customers in Journal were watching it. When he’d finished his breakfast, Monsieur

Hofmann placed the money he owed along with a tip, which he’d already counted out, onto

the little plastic plate, nodded once more, and set off.

He walked down the shady Avenue Gambette and at the bottom he turned into the

wide Boulevard de Ménilmontant. A young woman with dark skin was walking in front of

him. She was wearing a blue suit with white dots and was holding the hand of a little black

girl, who occasionally turned around to look at him. He smiled at the girl, but her face

showed nothing but idle curiosity. The old man glanced quickly at her mother’s legs, then he

thought of death.

He thought about his own funeral and the friends and acquaintances who would stand

at his graveside. He hoped that it wouldn’t be raining that day and that no one would have to

hurry home. The sun should be shining, but there should also be a tree that people could

huddle up under in the shade. Afterwards, they should leave the graveyard at a measured pace

and go somewhere for a drink, to share a couple of memories about the deceased. He wanted

people to think back fondly to the day of his funeral.

A few people would grieve for him, but it wouldn’t be obvious in the neighbourhood

that someone who had lived here for decades had just died. The next morning, the merchants

would set up their market stands again, the pizza delivery men would whiz through the streets

on their red mopeds, the African street cleaners would sweep the pavements with their



brushes and the restaurant owners would put their chairs out on the street. Everything would

carry on as before.

Did this bother him? Yes and no. Monsieur Hofmann was convinced that only those

who were conscious of their mortality knew how to appreciate life. When you were young,

you occasionally had to think about death to prevent you taking stupid risks. When you were

old, you had to think about it in order to enjoy your days and not become morose.

Nevertheless he sometimes regretted the fact that he didn’t believe in eternal life. Although

here in the neighbourhood there were probably more houses of worship, more churches,

synagogues, mosques and temples than anywhere else in the city, he didn’t belong to any

religious community and believed neither in the resurrection of the body nor the soul. He

believed that you only left a few traces behind and that these also soon faded away. Monsieur

Hofmann was seventy-five years old, enjoyed good health and hoped to live for a good while

longer. But there was a wish that was greater than this. Whatever happened, he wanted to die

before his friend Mademoiselle Blanche.

He rarely left his neighbourhood now, but once a year, always around Easter, he did a

tour of the city’s graveyards, to visit the graves of the women and men who’d been close to

him in decades past. Most of them had been waiters and dancing girls. Up until a few years

ago, Monsieur Hofmann had run a small revue theatre at the foot of Montmartre, and so it

was only natural that his circle of acquaintances consisted of people who worked in the same

line of business as himself.

Mademoiselle Blanche had been one of the first girls who started out at his back then.

They came to Paris from all ends of the country, some from Belgium, Germany, or the

colonies, too, and dreamt of trying their luck with one of the famous ballet troupes in Paris. In

the end, most of them had to accept that they weren’t gifted enough, and so they joined one of

the countless vaudevilles, where night after night they danced and undressed for a

predominantly male audience. Madeleine hadn’t even been with him for two weeks when

she’d crept into his bed for the first time. She had shining, dark eyes and her skin was the

colour of a bright sweet chestnut. Above all, though, she hadn’t been as thin as the other

dancers, and that’s what had appealed to him. ‘I sleep with you because I like you,’ she’d

said, ‘and if I no longer like you at any point, that’ll be it. You’ll have other women, and I

don’t want to know about them. But if you ever want to go, I’d like to be the first to know.’

She’d been right. He’d slept with other women and she’d slept with other men. They had



never split up, even though each of them kept their own flat until this day. At some point

they’d also started to love one another. But they’d missed the moment to say it to one

another. They’d dispensed with formalities from the day they met, but she’d insisted that he,

like everyone else, called her Mademoiselle Blanche. Thus it was that she soon bore this

name in his thoughts as well. She, on the other hand, called him Georges.

Shortly before he’d arrived at the ‘Belleville’ metro station intersection, Monsieur

Hofmann came to a halt beneath the shade of a chestnut tree. His girlfriend was already

sitting on one of the chairs in front of the La Veuilleuse café, where they’d been meeting

every morning for many years. On the round table in front of her was a cup of espresso and a

glass of water. He knew that Mademoiselle Blanche had seen him already, but, since it was

part of their daily ritual, she was acting as if she hadn’t seen him yet. Only when he got closer

did she shut her eyes and wait for him to kiss her on both cheeks. Then she smiled at him and

said: ‘You’re the loveliest thing I have, my little Georges. If I didn’t have you…’

And he had looked forwarded to these words from the moment he’d woken up.

‘What’s up with your hand?’

‘Nothing. An accident. I nicked myself.’

‘How are you feeling today?’ she asked.

‘Good,’ he said. Then, after a moment’s hesitation:

‘To be honest, I’m a bit nervous.’

‘Because of your little one?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you mean, what do you mean?’ she mimicked him. ‘You know very well

what I mean. I mean your journalist.’

He knew that Mademoiselle Blanche was only acting upset. But he liked that she was

pretending to be jealous.

‘Will you talk?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘maybe, but maybe not.’



‘You know what I think,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I know your thoughts.’

‘And what’s in your bag?’

‘A piece of ham. For you.’

‘Oh, my little Georges, you are so good to me. If I didn’t have you…’

‘Then what?’

‘Then I’d almost surely have someone else.’



Two

At about the same time a young woman in the east of Paris stood at the tilted bedroom

window of an enormous tenement flat and looked out onto Avenue Raphaël and the little park

where the nannies sat on the benches, chatting with one another and occasionally

admonishing their charges. Valerie was twenty seven years old, unmarried, childless and

worked for the TV channel arte. She watched the carousel with the horses and swans turn in

the morning sun, saw the puppeteer constructing his wooden stage, and observed two old

ladies trying to wave down a taxi.

Then she turned round and cast a quick glance into the room where Victor still lay

sleeping beneath his cover.

Valerie felt her skin crawl when the curtain brushed against her bare legs. She saw a

big limousine stop at the edge of the park. A uniformed chauffeur got out and opened the

door for two children. And all of a sudden she felt more out of place than she’d ever felt

before. It wasn’t her neighbourhood that she was looking at; she hadn’t woken up in her own

bed; and the man she’d spent the night with wasn’t her husband. She thought for moment and

then reached a decision.

‘I’m going,’ she said.

And since Victor didn’t react, she said it again, louder. ‘I’m going, did you hear me?’

Reluctantly, Victor, who was still sleeping, turned onto his other side and snuggled

even deeper under the covers.

‘Listen to me, fuckwit. I said I’m going.’

Without looking up, he stuck his arm out towards her: ‘Come,’ he mumbled. ‘Come

back to bed. We’ve still got time.’

She snatched up her belongings that she’d dropped at the side of the bed the previous

evening, went into the bathroom, got dressed, took her handbag from the hallstand and

slammed the door shut behind her. Then she ran barefoot down the three flights of wide

marble stairs. She didn’t put on her shoes until she reached the ground floor. The concierge

peered inquisitively from his lodge.

‘Bonjour, sir,’ said Valerie with a smile.



The man just nodded at her.

‘We don’t know each other,’ she continued. ‘When Monsieur Foret and I crept past

you yesterday evening, you’d probably just nodded off for a bit… No, no, no one’s

reproaching you. But please do something for me. When Madame comes back from her trip

this afternoon, give her my regards, even though we haven’t met. Tell her I slept quite

miserably in her bed, and… that it most certainly won’t happen again.’

The concierge looked at her steadfastly. She winked at him, wished him a nice day

and left the building. Spurred on by her own courage, she ran onto the road without looking.

A car horn blared, she heard the screeching of brakes, then she stared through the windscreen

at the cursing driver, whose car had come to a stop only a few centimetres away from her.

When she’d reached the other side of the street and was standing on the pavement, she was

shaking. She went into the park and sat down on an empty bench, rummaged around in her

bag for cigarettes, but realised that she’d left the pack on Sandrine Foret’s bedside table. She

let her hands sink onto her knees, stared at the ground for a few minutes, then started to cry.

Two years ago she’d just completed her studies and started to write for a couple of

small newspapers when she attended one of Victor’s concerts for the first time. With pencil in

hand and a notepad in her lap, she’d sat in the first row and stared fixedly at him. Although

he’d been in the business since he was a child, he was still regarded as a promising emerging

pianist. At the time there was hardly an article about him that didn’t mention his ‘boyish

charm’ and his ‘winning smile’, even though a number of new prodigies had since trodden

the stage. The fact that critics were still exceptionally well disposed towards him had a lot to

do, of course, with Sandrine, whose reputation as a musicologist shielded her husband from

harsh criticism.

That evening Valerie had driven home and couldn’t stop thinking about him. She’d

lain in bed half the night and whispered his name. Then she’d got up and written a review of

his concert that was so witty and so fitting, but simultaneously so biting and scathing, that the

next morning the editor congratulated her but at the same time insisted that the text would

have to be signed off by the paper’s legal advisor before it could be published.

The article appeared two days later: word for word, exactly as she’d written it. And as

she sat at breakfast in the late-morning, the telephone rang continuously. There was no one in

her circle of friends and acquaintances who didn’t want to congratulate her on her coup. The



statue had finally tumbled from its pedestal. Finally someone had not been bowled over by

Foret’s charm. Finally someone had not prostrated themselves before his wife’s reputation

and influence.

Towards midday, just after Valerie had come out of the shower, her doorbell rang.

She went into the hall, pressed the buzzer, then ran back to pull on a dressing gown. When

she went back out into the hallway, he was standing in front of her: Victor Foret – with a

large bunch of flowers in his hand. He looked at her for a while, then smiled: ‘Yes, that’s

what I thought. I thought you were the woman who’d written this article. You were sitting on

the left in the front row, weren’t you? You were as infatuated with me as a fourteen-year-old.

I didn’t know you were a journalist, but I thought we’d see each other again. Somehow or

another.’

Two minutes later her bathrobe was lying on the floor and she was lying in bed with

Victor. ‘How on earth did you find me?’ she asked as he was leaving hours later. ‘Anyone

who writes stuff like that,’ he said, ‘should either use a pseudonym or have an unlisted

number.’

Victor didn’t let up. He called twice a day. She hung up. He invited her to dinner

repeatedly, she declined. For eight weeks she tried to fend him off, then she gave in. She was

the lover of a married man. She loved Victor Foret as she’d never loved anyone else. They

met several times a week – always during the day, always in secret. Sometimes at her place,

sometimes in a hotel, sometimes in friends’ vacant flats. They played their game. A game that

pleased both of them. The secretiveness increased the excitement, and every separation made

them both all the more eager for their next encounter.

‘What’s your view on me getting a divorce?’ he asked at some time or another.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it will be over between us then.’

‘So, you don’t love me.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘But?’



‘No but. It’s nice just as it is.’

The more she played hard to get, the more he harped on about the subject. Finally she

fell into the trap. Finally she said yes. ‘Yes, get a divorce. Yes, I want to be your wife. I want

it more than anything else in the world.’

That was the beginning of the end. Now it was him who always found new reasons to

delay his divorce. Reasons which Valerie thought plausible at first, but which she soon sussed

were simply excuses. She grew fearful that he’d slip away from her. She pressed for them to

meet up more often, to finally spend a whole weekend or a night together at last. She talked

about them getting a flat together. And she said that she wanted to have his kids. She made,

in short, every possible mistake. She debased herself and even tried to fulfil wishes that he’d

never expressed. Then she withdrew again for weeks, took the telephone off the hook, and

didn’t answer the door. She pulled out all the stops. Eventually she even threatened to tell his

wife what was going on.

Then she broke up with him.

And lay a week later already in bed with him again. And so it went on. They went

round in circles. After every separation there was a reconciliation. In the beginning, her

girlfriends were sympathetic, consoled her, gave her advice. But soon they stopped her with a

wave of their hands, acted bored on hearing the same stories over and over. And in the end

they all railed against Victor Foret, Monsieur Arse, who treated Valerie like a fool, which she

herself had allowed to happen, and, when they thought about it, had allowed to happen from

the word go. Valerie cried. And she promised that it was for good this time. Finished, over,

perdu. Now her eyes had been opened. Now there was no more going back. Adieu, Monsieur

Arse!

But as soon as the wind had changed direction, her friend’s criticism seemed like

betrayal to her. A betrayal of her and her lover. She refused to put up with their meddling,

insisted on living her life as she saw fit and rejected any objections to the nature of their

relationship once and for all. Inevitably, therefore, in the past year the number of her

girlfriends had dwindled from month to month, and in the meantime there was no one

deserving of that name.

Valerie sat on the bench in the little park on Avenue Raphaël and didn’t pay any

attention to the children’s curious expressions. She was crying. But even as she was crying,



she began to forget the reason for her tears. She swallowed one last time, then she got up,

threw her hanky into a bin and started on her way.

In the early evening on the same day, Monsieur Hofmann stood in front of his house on the

Place Nadaud and tried to hail a taxi. Although he knew that it would cost a lot of money and

that he would most certainly reach his destination faster with the metro, he was thrilled at the

luxury of letting himself be chauffeured across Paris for once – from the North East all the

way to Issy in the South West, where arte had its main office.

Two weeks ago the young journalist had contacted him and asked if she could make a

little film about him and if he’d be prepared to come to the studio for a live interview. ‘Why

me?’ he’d asked. ‘There’s nothing special about me.’ That’s precisely the point, Valerie had

responded. The programme was called ‘Neighbours like you and me,’ and they were

featuring people in their neighbourhood, their totally normal lives, their daily routines, their

joys and sorrows. Beyond that she’d said that she had to disagree with him for she’d learned

from experience that there was something special to discover about everyone, if you were

only prepared to look closely enough. ‘Yes,’ he’d said hesitantly, ‘perhaps you’re right.’

There was also a fee, she added, not exactly lavish, but large enough – and she’d laughed at

this point – for him to be able to invite her to dinner.

The taxi driver eyed his fare suspiciously, as if he were trying to convince himself that

Monsieur Hofmann was really able to meet the cost of such a long journey. Since the ring

road was jammed with traffic, as it always was around this time, they took the route through

the city. They drove via the Place de la Bastille, crossed the Seine a little later, passed the

Gare d’Austerlitz on the left, came through Montparnasse and, after almost an hour, reached

the city limits. Twenty minutes later they had reached Marceau Road in Issy, their

destination. Monsieur Hofmann paid the fare, asked for a receipt and got out. Then he entered

the building and reported to the porter.

Shortly afterwards Valerie came storming towards him through the foyer. ‘Come on,

come on. We have to hurry. Our segment’s started already.’

She led him into the make-up room, where someone sat him in front of a large mirror,

tied a cape around him, plucked his eyebrows a little, powdered his face and quickly ran a

comb through his hair.



As they entered the studio, Monsieur Hofmann was amazed at the large number of

people. Almost as much German as French was being spoken, and apparently everyone could

switch effortlessly from the one to the other. Even though Valerie was pressing ahead,

Monsieur Hofmann went around and shook everyone’s hand indiscriminately, as he’d been

taught to do: the floor manager, the camera people, the lighting technicians, the sound

engineers and the cable carriers. He noticed that they were smiling about him behind his

back, but he didn’t care. A young man pulled a thin cable up through Monsieur Hofmann’s

jacket and clipped a tiny microphone onto his lapel. Then Valerie asked him to sit on one of

the two armchairs that had been placed in the centre of the studio. She sat on the other one

herself, crossed her legs and looked at the monitor positioned before them on the floor. The

final scenes of the film that she and her team had made about Monsieur Hofmann were

currently playing.

‘One minute to go,’ a man’s voice called out of the darkness of the studio. And

shortly afterwards came: ‘Quiet, please! Thirty seconds.’

Mademoiselle Blanche was sitting on the sofa of her little apartment in Belleville, watching

TV. She’d considered inviting a couple of girlfriends over for this evening, but had then

decided that she’d watch the programme on her own. She couldn’t help smiling when

Georges looked straight into the camera. And she almost raised her hand to wave at him. She

thought he looked good and was proud of him. Among all the men who had made advances

to her, she had chosen this thin, little man of all people to spend her life with. And she hadn’t

ever regretted it.

‘We just saw you on the streets of Belleville,’ said Valerie, ‘and now we’re

welcoming you as a guest in our studio. And along with you we’re welcoming our viewers in

France and Germany. How are you, Monsieur Hofmann?’

‘Fine, thanks. I’m a little nervous.’

‘A very personal question to start with: Are you a happy person?’

‘I’m content, certainly. They say that old age isn’t for sissies. But I’m still healthy.

And sometimes I’m also happy.’



‘You don’t have a typically French name. I assume you come from Alsace or

Lorraine?’

Mademoiselle Blanche held her breath. She could see that Georges was struggling.

‘No, neither nor.’

‘But?’ said Valerie.

He hesitated for a long time, and the talk-show host eventually followed up: ‘Would

you prefer to talk about something else?’

‘No. It’s just that I’ve never spoken about it with anyone before. I was a German.’

Mademoiselle Blanche caught her breath. The bomb had been dropped. Now there

was no going back.

‘You were a German?’

‘Yes.’

‘But now you’re a Frenchman?’

Georges nodded.

‘Why did you leave Germany?’

‘Until I was twelve, I lived in Frankfurt.’

‘Does that mean that you and your parents emigrated during the war?’

‘No, I came without my parents. Neighbours took me to the border at night. And

friends of my father met me there. I lived on a farm in Picardy. I didn’t come to Paris until

after the war.’

‘And your parents?’

George looked stunned for a moment.

He looked down at the floor with vacant eyes and shook his head.

‘I don’t know.’



‘You don’t know?’

‘No, I never heard from them again.’

Valerie was visibly thrown off balance. It was clear that the conversation was going in

an unexpected direction. Now it was her who hesitated for a bit, before she posed her next

question.

‘Monsieur Hofmann, are you a Jew?’

‘My parents were Jews.’

‘So, you are Jewish, too.’

‘Yes, yes, I am a Jew.’

‘And you’ve never been able to ascertain what became of your parents?’

‘I didn’t want to know. I tried to forget them. I’ve tried for over sixty years to forget

that I am a Jew and that I had parents.’

Valerie gaped in amazement at her studio guest. ‘But you have your suspicions. You

have some idea about what happened to you parents, right?’

Georges just nodded and said nothing.

‘And that was of no interest to you?’

Now he shook his head and smiled at her. ‘No, that’s not it,’ he said. ‘You don’t

understand. I don’t believe you can understand.’

‘Then try to explain it to us.’

‘My parents lied to me. They said they were going to visit relatives. They abandoned

me. That’s how I saw it. They sent me away.’

‘And probably saved your life in the process.’

‘Yes.’

‘But instead of being grateful to them, you tried to forget you parents.’



‘Yes. That’s how it was. I wanted to hear nothing about the Jews or the Nazis either. I

wanted to lead a normal life. I was a child and I wanted to live like all the French children

around me. You may think that’s wrong, but that’s how it was.’

‘Do you still speak German occasionally?’

‘In the past, when German tourists came to our revue theatre, I’d speak German with

them. Now I have little opportunity. But I still like to read Grimm’s fairytales. Sometimes

Eichendorff’s poems, too. And…’

‘And?’

‘And I listen to Schubert’s songs.’

‘Did you ever go back to Germany?

Georges reacted uncharacteristically vehemently: ‘No, never. I’d never set foot in that

country again.’

‘But you do know that Germany’s very different now?’

‘Yes. Of course. I’m not stupid. But regardless.’

‘And in all this time you haven’t discussed all this with anyone?’

‘No, never, apart from… apart from with my wife.’

Mademoiselle Blanche started. She stared at the screen. For a moment she didn’t

know who Georges meant. But then she realised that it was her that he had just referred to as

his wife for the first time.

Valerie also appeared surprised: ‘You never told me anything about that. I didn’t

know you were married.’

‘We aren’t married. We live in separate flats. But she’s my wife nonetheless. And my

lover.’

‘You put that very nicely. Nevertheless: Why did you decide to talk about your

background now?’

‘I think it’s got something to do with you.’



‘With me?’

‘No, not you personally, but with television. It’s as if you’re speaking to everyone and

no one at the same time.’

‘And why just now, after all these years?’

He thought for a bit. Then he answered with great certainty: ‘Because it isn’t possible

to forget.’


‘I mean you can try, but it’s impossible. You can’t forget. That’s what I meant.’

The red light of the camera had scarcely extinguished when the door of the studio was

opened. The managing editor stormed in, went up to Monsieur Hofmann and reached out to

him with both hands: ‘That was fantastic, sir. I admire your courage. Very authentic, very

honest. Congratulations!’

Then he placed his right hand on Valerie’s shoulder: ‘A pièce de résistance, my dear,

incredible interviewing. That’s the kind of journalism we need.’

Monsieur Hoffmann didn’t understand anything that the man said. He was exhausted.

At the same time he was wired. He wished he was sitting next to Mademoiselle Blanche in

the armchair, holding her hand and saying nothing. He’d have loved to be drinking a bottle of

red wine with her right now. He took his straw hat, put it on and asked if they could call him

a taxi.

‘I’ll accompany you to the exit,’ said Valerie.

As they walked along, she kept talking to him insistently.

‘But what’s with you?’ asked Monsieur Hofmann.


‘You’re different today. So…crazy.’

She stopped and looked at him: ‘Can you really tell from looking at me?’



‘I’m sorry, forget what I said, I didn’t want to be indiscreet.’

‘No, it’s alright. I really am a little crazy,’ she said. And after a short pause: ‘I’ve

separated.’

‘From your husband?’

She laughed: ‘No, just from Monsieur Arse. Everything’s fine. I’m actually really

good.’

The old man raised his eyebrows. He didn’t know what else to say.

They were already standing at the edge of the street, waiting for the taxi, when they

heard someone shouting.

‘Monsieur Hofmann… Are you Monsieur Hofmann?’

The porter had got out of his lodge and was waving at him. ‘There’s someone on the

phone for you. They say it’s urgent.’

Monsieur Hofmann followed the man, who handed him the phone. Then he greeted

the caller with his full name.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘speaking… Yes, that’s correct.’ Then he listened in silence.

After a while he removed the phone from his ear and asked the porter for something

to write with. His hand shook as he took the pen. He scribbled something on the paper, then

he placed the handset on the cradle.

‘Now I have to ask you the same question that you asked me,’ said Valerie. ‘What’s

with you? You’re white as a sheet all of a sudden.’

‘It was a woman.’

‘And? What did she want? Did you know the woman?’

‘No. She says she has a letter for me. No, not a letter but an envelope, an old, fat

envelope. She doesn’t want to send it to me. She says I’ve to pick it up?’

‘A madwoman?’



‘No,’ answered Monsieur Hofmann with certainty. ‘She sounded very sensible. She

says the envelope’s from my father.’

Valerie couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘From your father?’

‘Yes. She says that the envelope bears my name, the name of my father and the word

Ausschwitz.’



Three

The taxi stopped in front of the studio entrance; Valerie gave the drive ten euros and

sent him off again. Suddenly she thought it important to take Monsieur Hofmann home in her

own car. On the way she tried to find out more about the call from the strange woman. But

he’d already told her everything he knew.

‘Did she tell you how she came by the envelope?’

‘No.’

‘Did she know your father?’

‘She didn’t mention that.’

‘Did she give you her name?’

‘Of course. She’s called Christine Delaunay.’

‘Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘Why didn’t she contact you before now?’

‘I don’t know.’

When they’d reached the Place Nadaud, Valerie was still talking insistently to him.

Even though he was tired, he’d have considered it impolite to simply get out. Finally, he saw

no other option than to invite her up to his flat for a glass of wine.

He asked her to open the bottle while he went to get a large Michelin atlas from the

next room. They sat together at the table in the living room and searched for the place the

woman had mentioned. It was called Savigny and lay about sixty kilometres west of Paris in

the Forest of Rambouillet. ‘Drive all the way through the village,’ the woman had said, ‘then

turn left into a little street. The street ends at a lake. Turn right onto the forest track and

follow it all the way to the end. My house is there.’

‘When’s your appointment with her?’

‘She said I could come tomorrow during the day, any time. She’s always home.’



‘Should I take you there? Should we go there together?’

‘You would do that?’

‘Yes, and I’d like to bring a camera team along to film the handover of the envelope.’

‘That’s the condition?’ he asked.

She smiled: ‘That’s the condition.’

He thought about it for a moment and then agreed. All other means of reaching the

place would be either too cumbersome or expensive.

Valerie made no move to end the evening. While Monsieur Hofmann was still sipping

his first glass of wine, she’d already drunk the rest of the bottle.

‘You should leave your car here,’ the old man said. ‘Perhaps it’s best if you spend the

night. I’ll get you a blanket and pyjamas, and you can sleep on the sofa.’

She didn’t object to his offer. When Monsieur Hofmann came out of the bathroom ten

minutes later, she was already fast asleep.

At noon the next day they left the National Road No.10 and drove into the Forest of

Rambouillet. With each kilometre the streets and places got smaller. They almost missed the

sign for Savigny. Five minutes later they reached the village, which consisted of only a few

houses, none of whose owners were out and about. At the end of the street they saw a

Peugeot estate car bearing the name of the TV channel.

‘The team’s waiting for us already,’ said Valerie.

She flashed the headlights to signal that her two colleagues should follow them. Then

she drove slowly past the car.

‘That’s the lake that Madame Delaunay mentioned,’ said Monsieur Hofmann.

They turned right onto a narrow, gravelled forest track. Valerie motioned with her

head: ‘There… that must be it.’



They stopped in front of a high wall made of natural stone with a large iron gate.

Behind the wall the crowns of a few old broad-leaved trees were visible. Valerie got out to

open the gate.

‘My goodness, that’s not a house, it’s a château!’

They drove down a long paved road that led directly to the building. Now Monsieur

Hofmann could see it, too. At the end of the road was a small hunting lodge, the façade of

which was almost completely overrun with Boston ivy. A double staircase led up to the

entrance.

‘It will be best if you warn the lady.’

‘Warn her?’ asked Monsieur Hofmann.

Valerie walked around the car and opened the passenger door. ‘That you’ve brought a

TV team,’ she said.

The old man got out and took a few steps towards the house. Then he looked round

again. Valerie nodded at him. He climbed the steps and pressed the doorbell. The door was

opened almost instantly. In front of him stood a young woman in an apron.

‘Madame Delauney?’ he asked.

The woman laughed. ‘No, I’m just the help. Madame is expecting you.’

They crossed the foyer and entered a sparsely furnished drawing room. On the other

side of the room was an open door that led outside. Monsieur Hofmann followed the maid out

onto an enormous terrace that lay in the bright light of the afternoon sun. Then he saw

Christine Delaunay. She was sitting beneath a sunshade. He estimated her to be in her late-

sixties or early seventies, around the same age as himself, perhaps a couple of years younger.

Her hair had just been done, she was wearing an aubergine dress and had a bright stole over

her shoulders. On a small table next to her were two fresh cups of coffee and a plate of

biscuits. Madame Delaunay was seated in an electric wheelchair.

She smiled at Monsieur Hofmann and pointed at an empty chair. ‘Come, take a seat.

I’ve been looking forward to your visit.’

‘I’ve brought someone along with me,’ he said.



She looked at him enquiringly.

‘A TV team. They wanted to be present. I hope you don’t mind.’

Madame Delaunay appeared to consider this for a moment. Then she turned to the

maid: ‘Claudine, please show the gentlemen in.’

While the TV people were setting up their equipment, Christine Delaunay began to

interrogate her visitor.

‘You really ran a revue theatre?’

‘Yes, I did. For almost forty years.’

‘And dancers and singers performed there?’

‘Every evening.’

‘Even some well-known ones?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Charles Trenet… did you know him?’

‘Yes. But it was just a small cabaret, you know. When people got famous, we

couldn’t afford them any longer.’

But the old lady didn’t stop at that. Her eyes were shining. Her interest was aroused.

She named names and wanted to know the details.

‘So, you knew Trenet?’

‘Yes. If he was appearing at the Olympia or the Bobino, he sometimes dropped by our

place with a couple of friends.

‘Did you know that he died only recently? They buried his urn in Narbonne, in his

mother’s grave.’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘And Brassens? Did he come as well?’



‘Yes, occasionally. One time he performed with Léo Ferré. They didn’t want any

payment. They passed around a hat afterwards to collect money for the striking workers at

Renault.’

‘Ferré had a monkey, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, a chimpanzee. What was she called again? I can’t remember.’

‘Her name was Péppé.’

‘Yes. Péppé!’ said Monsieur Hofmann.

He was amazed. It seemed there was nothing about the chansonniers of the past

seventy years that Christine Delaunay didn’t know. She knew that Jacques Brel had left his

wife and three daughters when he was twenty-five, to go to Paris. She knew that Barbara’s

mother was a Jewess from Odessa and that Brassens had worked as a forced labourer in a

German aircraft factory during the war. But one question seemed to interest her more than

any other.

‘And Piaf?’ she enquired with obvious curiosity. ‘Did you also meet Piaf?’

Monsieur Hofmann shook his head. ‘No. A mutual friend was going to introduce us.

But it was too late. She died before that happened. So there was nothing else for it but to go

to her funeral.’

‘You were there when Edith Piaf was buried?’

‘Yes. Why does that surprise you?’

‘But we ought to have met. I was there too.’

Monsieur Hoffmann looked at his hostess in disbelief. ‘But there were four thousand

people at Père Lachaise that day. How could we have met each other there?’

He noticed that she was smiling.

‘I was joking,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to see if you were telling the truth.’

Monsieur Hofmann liked the old lady. She had good manners, she could chat with a

stranger without there being any embarrassing pauses and she could joke without offending



the person she was talking to. Like himself she still seemed to belong entirely to the last

century.

Madame Delaunay had apparently decided to ignore the TV team entirely. She had

welcomed neither Valerie nor the two men, hadn’t offered them a drink, indeed hadn’t even

deigned to look at them up till now.

Consequently, Valerie was trying to call attention to herself. She’d raised her hand

and was looking at Christine Delaunay.

‘We’re ready,’ she said. ‘We can start shooting. If you could now kindly tell us what

the envelope for Monsieur Hofmann’s all about.’

The old woman nodded. ‘Alright. The TV people are ready. But the TV team will

have to wait a moment. Before I give you the envelope, I’m going to tell a story. It won’t take

long. Everything you’re about to hear, I learned from my father. He told me the story when I

was still a child.’

Christine Delaunay reached for her coffee cup, raised it up to her mouth and put it

down again without drinking. The she began to tell her story.

When my father was arrested by the Germans, he was a strong man in his mid-thirties.

My father came from a wealthy family. We were all well off – this was his parents’ home.

After his arrest he was brought to the Drancy prison camp because he’d collected money for

the resistance. He’d been betrayed by someone whom he’d considered his friend. Only two

weeks later, he was taken to Auschwitz in a railway carriage. It was one of the last convoys to

leave the camp heading east,’ she explained, before closing her eyes.

‘Because my father spoke French and Polish, as well as German and some Hungarian,

they didn’t gas him straightaway, as they did most of the others, but deployed him as an

interpreter. He was better off than most of the other prisoners and he survived at least. But

when he came back he was a living corpse. They had destroyed him. Not so much by what

they did to him as by what he had had to witness.

Then the Red Army advanced westward; the conditions in the camp grew more

chaotic. The SS was now in a hurry. They wanted to erase all evidence. They dismantled the

crematoriums and took them to other camps. In January 1945 they cleared Auschwitz. The



prisoners were driven west. Only those who were too sick or weak were left behind. And

those who were looking after them.’

Only now did Christine Delaunay open her eyes again. Her face had changed. She

was pale and seemed even smaller than before. She turned again to Georges Hofmann.

‘It was in these final days that our fathers met. Your father worked as a prisoner in the

infirmary. He’d picked up an infection from one of the patients. He was suffering from fever

and severe diarrhoea and was getting weaker by the hour. He knew that he wasn’t going to

make it. By the time the Red Army soldiers had reached Auschwitz, he was dead.’

Christine Delaunay lent forward and reached under the table. She pulled out a fat

brown envelope and handed it to Georges Hofmann.

‘He gave this to my father. He asked him to deliver it to you if he ever managed to

track you down. That’s all I know. I’ve no idea what’s in the envelope.’

George Hofmann took the envelope instinctively, but he was now holding it in his

hands like a foreign object, like something that didn’t concern him.

‘And my mother?’ he asked in a voice that was so low that it was hard to make out.

‘Your parents were in the Lodz ghetto at first. Later they were transferred to

Auschwitz. As soon as they arrived, they were separated; your father never saw your mother

again.’

Georges Hofmann nodded. Nothing he was hearing surprised him really. He had

refused to think about his parents’ fate for decades. But now it seemed that he had always

known the truth.

‘And what became of your father?’ he asked.

For two years my father didn’t say a single word. He was as silent as the grave. Then

he talked, and talked, and talked. After that he fell silent again.’

‘He’s no longer alive?’

‘No. My parents were killed in a car accident in 1960. We were on our way to

Brittany when a carload of holidaymakers didn’t give way. Since then,’ she said, tapping both

hands on the armrests of her wheelchair, ‘I’ve needed this thing.’



Monsieur Hofmann stared at the brown parcel. He noticed that his hands were

shaking. He read his name, which was written on the front in brown ink. Then he turned the

envelope over. There in the same handwriting was: Arthur Hofmann, Auschwitz.

Valerie rummaged around in her handbag, then she held out a small pocket knife

towards him. He looked at her, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You do it please!’

Valerie waited until the camera was repositioned, then she took the envelope, placed

it on the table and slit it open with a rapid movement. Shortly afterwards she held in her hand

a thick wad wrapped in waxed paper, which she handed to Monsieur Hofmann.

The old man was nervous. Cautiously, as though the as yet unknown contents of the

package might pose a threat, he unfolded the wrapping. A pile of yellowed papers lay before

him. The first pages were empty. Then there were some that were covered right up to the

edges with small handwriting. He tried to decipher it. But although he could read the letters

and the numbers, he couldn’t make head nor tail of it. It was a senseless succession of

characters. He looked at Valerie, but she, too, was shaking her head. She appeared

disappointed.

Monsieur Hofmann lifted up the stack of paper and turned it over. Four words were

written there, this time in large, flowing handwriting, four words that he understood

immediately, since it was the language of his childhood.

‘The Secret of a Summer Night,’ he said in German. Then he looked around him,

smiling.

The others looked back, baffled.

He was now leafing quickly through the loose sheets. They were covered with

musical notes.

‘It’s a score,’ he said. ‘The score of a little operetta. And that’s the title: The Secret of

a Summer Night.’

He was still smiling.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Valerie. ‘I’ve never heard of an operetta of that name.’



‘No,’ responded Monsieur Hofmann, ‘You won’t have. No one’s heard of it up till

now.’

‘Do you mean your father composed it?’

The old man shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, ‘It’s an operetta by Jacques Offenbach.’

Valerie looked at him in disbelief. She waited for Georges Hofmann to carry on

talking, but he just sat there cherishing his joy – his pleasure at what he was holding in his

hands.

‘Sorry, sir, but there is no work by Jacques Offenbach with that title.’

‘As you can see, there is. My father loved Offenbach’s music above all else.

Wherever he went, he rooted around in archives, libraries and second-hand book shops,

looking for anything to do with the composer, the first edition of a score or simply an old

playbill. One evening, during the war already, he came home. He’d been on one of his forays.

I’d rarely seen him so happy. He’d found this manuscript at a junk dealer’s; and he saw at

once that it was Jacques Offenbach’s handwriting. ‘There will come a time when this music

will be played again,’ he said to my mother and me, ‘and we’ll sit in the front row at the

premiere.’

Valerie still wasn’t completely convinced. However, she still seemed to be weighing

up the evidence.

‘But that would mean that he took the manuscript to the camps and was able to keep it

hidden the entire time. I doubt that was possible.’

Now Christine Delauney weighed in. She addressed Valerie directly for the first time:

‘You have no idea, my dear. Fortunately, reality doesn’t conform to what people on the TV

consider possible or impossible. But if you had concerned yourself even in the slightest with

the history of the camps, then you’d know that all sorts of things went on there. There were

brothels; children were born; and sometimes someone survived who had lain beneath a

mountain of corpses. Believe me: there were all kinds of goings on.’



Valerie looked at the ground. It was clear that the sharpness of Madame Delaunay’s

tone had startled her. Her next objection was noticeably less emphatic. ‘But what if the

manuscript is a forgery?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Monsieur Hofmann, ‘my father was too much of an expert for that. He

would never have been taken in by a fake.’

‘But do you realise what that would mean? If the score really is genuine, it would

cause a sensation. You’d be holding a great treasure in your hands. You’d be rich overnight.’

The old man looked at her as though he didn’t understand what she was saying.

‘A newly discovered operetta by Jacques Offenbach would probably be worth

millions. The music publishers would rip each other apart for the rights. Such a work, if it

were worth its salt, would be played all over the world.’

Monsieur Hofmann had no financial concerns, and he had never considered what he

would do if he were suddenly really rich. It was, on the contrary, a thought that unsettled him.

‘I’m pleased that my father was able to save this manuscript,’ he said. ‘That he was

able to have it with him where he was.’

‘Would you entrust the manuscript to me for a day?’ asked Valerie. ‘I’d like to show

it to a friend who knows a lot about music.’

‘What kind of friend?’

‘He’s a pianist. I told you about him.’

Monsieur Hofmann raised his eyebrows: ‘You mean… Monsieur Arse?’

Valerie laughed: ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s who I mean.’

The news landed like a bomb. On the next day already, all press agencies carried a report of a

rediscovered operetta by the world-renowned composer. The same evening, arte broadcast

the little film that Valerie’s team had made in Savigny as a special feature. The phones in the

editorial office rang off the hook. Journalists and theatre people got in touch. Five music

publishers expressed their interest in representing the rights of The Secret of a Summer Night.



Valerie was taken off all other assignments so she could continue to research the story

of the lost score. Once again she asked Monsieur Hofmann for a meeting, which he consented

to, reluctantly but politely as always.

She was already sitting in the café Journal at the Place Nadaud, waiting for the old

gentleman. When he came through the door, she stood up to greet him. She stretched both

hands out towards him.

‘Isn’t it fantastic… It is, as you said; the manuscript’s genuine. And you’ll be famous

shortly.’

In her exuberance she didn’t seem to notice that Monsieur Hofmann didn’t share her

enthusiasm in the least. But he had also received many calls after the programme went out.

And the next morning already, a photographer had waylaid him at his front door and asked

him to drive with her to the Montmartre cemetery, to pose in front of Jacques Offenbach’s

grave.

He sat down on the bench next to Valerie but didn’t remove his straw hat, as though

to indicate that he wasn’t interested in extending this meeting for any longer than necessary.

‘You’ve also come around to believing that it isn’t a fake?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I called Victor as soon as we got back from Savigny. You know who I mean,

my Monsieur…’

‘I know.’

‘His wife is a musicologist. I made an appointment with her and went to see her in her

institute yesterday morning.’

‘You did what? You visited the wife of the man who was your lover until two days

ago? And did the woman know who she was talking to?’

‘No, of course not,’ Valerie responded.

Monsieur Hofmann nodded and didn’t say anything more.

‘We drove immediately to the music archive at the Bibliothèque Nationale and

compared the manuscript to the ones they have there. There’s absolutely no doubt about its

authenticity. It’s an early operetta by Jacques Offenbach.’



‘I made a mistake,’ Monsieur Hofmann said suddenly.

Valerie looked at him in amazement.

‘I should never have got involved with you.’

‘But whyever not? Everything’s going splendidly. Come on, let’s have a toast; I’ll

invite you to a glass of champagne.’

‘I’m being called by people I never gave my number to. I’m not listed in the

telephone directory; yet I’m still being harassed. Colleagues of yours are camped out in front

of my flat. Even here in the bar someone’s already asked about me.’

‘But aren’t you happy in the slightest? One way or another, your life is going to

change. You can’t act as though nothing’s happened.’

‘But that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’


‘We’ve received a lot of enquiries. People want to negotiate with you. I’d like to

make a suggestion. I want to invite you on a trip.’

‘What kind of trip?’

‘I’d like both of us to go to Frankfurt to make some enquiries. We could use the

opportunity to meet a few German music publishers who’ve contacted me. Perhaps tomorrow

morning already…’

‘No!’

Valerie looked with horror at Monsieur Hofmann. She’d never heard such severity in

his voice before. Nevertheless she still wanted to try to bring him round.

‘But wouldn’t you enjoy seeing the places of your childhood again…’

‘I said: No! It’s absolutely out of the question and I beg you not to raise this subject

again!’



Valerie pretended to be disappointed. She was quiet for a moment, then she tried

another tack.

‘And what if I travelled on my own?’

‘By all means. Even though I don’t understand your wish to do so. But I don’t

suppose I can stop you.’

‘But then you’d have to leave the manuscript with me a while longer.’

‘Why don’t you simply make a copy?’

‘It would be better if I took the manuscript itself. One of the people who’s interested

has already stressed that he wants to see the original, so he can check its authenticity.’

Monsieur Hofmann reflected. ‘Fine,’ he conceded eventually. ‘Take it with you; but

take good care of it. It’s the only keepsake I have of my father.’

Valerie had stood up. She now leaned over his head, removed his straw hat and kissed

him on the forehead.

‘You’re a sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I’ll take the first train tomorrow. I’ll call you

regularly while I’m away and keep you up to speed.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I fear you will.’



Part Two

One

The man was still there. An hour ago already he’d been sitting down there on the

bench, and it seemed as if he hadn’t stirred a millimetre from the spot since then.

Eva Helberger had pushed the curtain aside and looked out of the window of her attic

flat on Schaumainkai Road in Frankfurt. She saw what she always saw. The pollarded plane

trees, whose leaves moved silently, the little restaurant boat that was anchored right next to

the bridge, dog walkers, skateboarders and cyclists along the waterfront. And the many

joggers in brightly coloured clothes who trained here in all seasons. Only in autumn, when it

was colder out and the days grew shorter, did their numbers decline. But just before

Christmas already, and in the first weeks of the new year, they all returned; they had made

resolutions and ran indefatigably again up and down the long asphalt path.

On the other side of the river the façades of the tower blocks were gleaming in the

afternoon sun, a plane crossed the sky, and an enormous barge pulled past slowly on the river

Main. The traffic was accumulating on the Lower Main Bridge, while an ambulance with its

blue lights flashing and its siren wailing was trying to find a gap in the dense throng of cars.

Eva Helberger winked briefly at the half-naked Dolf Lundgren, who’d been smiling

down at her for years from the poster on her wall. Then she yawned. She’d eaten a dry piece

of streuselkuchen with her coffee, then she’d gone into the living room, lowered herself into

the armchair, turned on the TV and fallen asleep almost immediately, watching one of the

talk shows. When she’d woken up, she’d looked at the clock. It had been 15.49. And that man

was still there now.

She stood at the window, leaned her forehead against the cold pane of glass and tried

to think. Maybe the man was waiting for someone. Perhaps his date was running late. Or he

was a tourist who’d been trekking through the streets the entire day and had now sat down on

this bench on the bank of the river to have a rest and enjoy the view of the city, and the last

rays of sunshine. But tourists are curious, she thought. They look around. They’ve got

cameras. They make calls. They carry bags or rucksacks around with them. And they travel

mostly in packs. But this man’s doing nothing. He’s just sitting there, looking constantly in

the same direction.



Never mind, she thought, it’s no concern of mine who he is.

Then she turned around, went back into the room, sat down at the table, opened the

little wooden box, pulled out one of the cigarette papers, put a little tobacco and the last of

her marijuana onto it and rolled herself a cigarette.

She cast a glance at the ashtray and counted the cigarette butts that had accumulated

there in the course of the day. There were seven. She’d already had seven since late-morning.

She placed the lighter, which she already had in her hand, aside again, stood up and went into

the bathroom. She turned on the warm water, got undressed, glanced in the mirror and smiled

at herself.

She thought about when she had last slept with a man. It had been seven, maybe even

eight months ago. She had eaten in a café near the cathedral, where she sometimes went at

the beginning of the month to have a cappuccino. The man had come right up to her and

asked if he could join her. He was a pharmaceutical rep from Koblenz. The fact he wasn’t

wearing a wedding ring didn’t mean anything. Men always removed their rings when they

wanted to get to know someone. She’d agreed to everything he suggested: when he’d invited

her to dinner, had wanted to go to a bar to dance afterwards and when he’d asked her to come

back to his hotel room after that. When they got dressed again two hours later, he wanted to

know if he should give her some money. It was the first time anyone had asked her this, but

she’d nodded. Then he’d written his number down for her. Eva Helberger had moved the

piece of paper around for some time while tidying. In the end she’d thrown it out. But he

could still remember his parting words; ‘You smell good,’ he’d said, kissing her on the throat.

‘You mean my perfume?’ she’d asked.

‘No, I mean your skin.’

Now she went into the living room, switched on the CD-player and turned up the

volume. When the voice of J. J. Cale boomed out moments later, she started to sing along.

For the past twenty years she’d listened to almost nothing else. Only occasionally, when she

was in a very good mood, did she put on a live recording of Bob Marley and push the table

aside a little so she had room to dance. Then she thought back to the nightly parties she’d

gone to in Göttingen, when she’d moved into the old eye clinic with the squatters for a couple

of weeks. It was her fondest memory.



She lit up the joint, took the ashtray into the bathroom with her, placed it on the edge

of the bathtub and climbed into the water. Then she closed her eyes. She considered which

day it was. Thursday? Or was it just Wednesday? No, it was Thursday already. Thursday the

second of June. It was their wedding anniversary. Or to be more precise: It would have been

their anniversary if they hadn’t been divorced for ages. He’d probably call again in the

evening. Wolfgang, the grammar school teacher, the nice guy, the bore, her biggest mistake.

He’d want to know how she was getting on and if she was getting by reasonably well

financially; then he’d chat with her a little more, so as to inevitably get to the question of

whether or not there was a man in her life at the moment, or, if she said no, to ask if they

shouldn’t try again.

In any case she was glad she’d thought of it in time. She would simply let the

telephone ring out and hope that he wouldn’t try to reach her again tomorrow.

She took a last puff, inhaled deeply, enjoyed the small sensation of dizziness and

dipped the joint briefly into the bath water, where the glow expired with a hiss. Then she

threw the eighth butt into the ashtray.

When she was dressed and was standing in front of the mirror to put on her eyeliner,

she stopped for a moment and listened to her favourite words of her favourite song. ‘Please,

please, please, if you’re down on your knees, carry on, carry on,’ sang J. J. Cale, and Eva

Helberger sang along quietly. She waited until the song was over. Then she turned off the

CD-player, pocketed her purse and keys and listened for a minute at the door, which was still

locked, so as to ensure that she wouldn’t bump into anyone on the landing. She’d been living

for twenty years in this building, which lay directly on one corner of the intersection where

Shaumainkai Road and Schweizer Street met. The landlord, a lawyer, whose office was on

the second floor, would have liked to have got her out long ago, so he could refurbish the

attic, then rent it out for twice as much. He’d offered her a replacement flat in a new

development, had also offered her money and eventually even threatened to evict her, but she

had no intention of quitting the field voluntarily. The flat was cheap and was so well

positioned that she could reach all supermarkets, doctors and the underground in less than ten

minutes. And the man who sold her the best marijuana in the city lived right around the

corner.

She descended the four flights of stairs, left the building and walked along the

Museum Riverbank. A couple of hundred metres further on, she turned right into Schul



Street. She stopped in front of the third house on the left and pressed the doorbell of the

ground floor flat. Three times briefly, then once for a long time. Shortly afterwards she saw a

curtain twitch behind one of the windows.

When she entered the hallway, the door to the flat was already open. A slim man just

under fifty with long hair stuck his head out.

‘I need something,’ she said.

‘I need something, I need something,’ he snapped at her. ‘Should I get you a

megaphone? Will you kindly come it?’

She pressed past him into the hallway of the flat and waited until he’d closed the door

behind him. ‘I need something,’ she said again.

‘Of course you need something or you wouldn’t be here, would you? So… how

much?’

‘Twenty grammes.’

The man left her standing and disappeared into one of the rooms. Thirty seconds later

he came back and held a small plastic bag out towards her. ‘That’s a hundred and sixty,’ he

said.

‘How come a hundred and sixty?’

‘Twenty times eight makes one hundred and sixty.’

‘Last month it was still seven euros.’

‘But now it’s June and a gramme costs eight. What’s up now?’

‘Can we settle it differently?’ asked Eva Helberger.

The long-haired guy looked at her. Then he broke out in a grin.

‘You showered especially, didn’t you? I smelled it right away. Nah, I’m not interested

in you at the moment. I’m serviced, if you get what I mean. My little one’s lying down next

door, taking a kip. Do you want to see her? Well then, make up your mind: either you pay or

you scamper.’



Eva Helberger nodded. She took out her purse, counted out the money and gave it to

him. Two seconds later already she heard the door behind her snap shut.

When she was back on Schaumainkai Road, she crossed the street and climbed down

the steps to the bank of the Main. She opened the small plastic bag and inhaled the aroma of

the dried hemp. She smiled. At least the stuff seemed to be worth its salt. She considered if

she should sit down on the grass here already and smoke another joint, but decided to wait

until she got home.

She went to the boat docked on the riverbank, where a young Anatolian ran a small

restaurant. Sultan’s Snacks was written on the sign that was mounted on the outside wall.

Below deck she sat down at one of the five tables that were all still free at this time of day.

‘We’re actually still closed,’ said Erkan Ӧnal, sticking his head out of the galley.

Then he winked at her. ‘But the microwave’s working. What d’you fancy?’

She ordered a Turkish pizza and a Cola Light. As she ate, she flicked idly through a

magazine that was lying on the table. She skimmed through an article on whether or not the

melting of the polar ice caps was having an effect on blood pressure. Then she looked at the

photos from a fashion show in Madrid, where only models who were overweight and wearing

tattered clothes were allowed onto the catwalk.

After she’d shoved the last bite in her mouth, she looked outside. For a moment she

forgot to chew.

He was still sitting there.

She had almost forgotten the man. But he was still sitting on his bench. There was no

doubt about it. It was the same man she’d already seen twice from the window of her flat.

Now he appeared to be looking directly at her. She quickly turned her head away.

‘He’s been sitting there for ages,’ said the young restaurant owner, ‘a strange guy.’

Eva Helberger nodded.

Then she was in a hurry to pay. When she’d left the boat and had just stepped onto the

asphalt path, the man suddenly stood up. He looked straight at her again.



He was dressed in dark clothes and wasn’t very tall. Although he was slim, he looked

powerful. She noted this out of the corner of her eye but pretended that she hadn’t seen him.

She had come to a decision. She would go home as quickly as possible and call from

there.



Two

Detective Kai Döring was sitting at a desk in the homicide division’s office. He took a

lukewarm hotdog with a large pile of extra fried onions out of a carton and was just about to

take the first bite when his phone rang.

‘Just listen to that,’ he said to his colleague Sven Liebmann, who was sitting opposite

him working at his computer. ‘Every time I’m about to eat, this bloody thing rings.’

‘That’s not because the phone rings a lot but because you’re constantly eating.’

‘Well you answer it… please!’ said Döring. Then he bit into his hot dog and gestured

regretfully to show that he really couldn’t pick up the phone now that his mouth was full.

Liebmann rolled his eyes and reached for the phone.

‘What… who? Yes, this is Mr. Döring’s phone. I’ll have to see if I can find him… I

didn’t get that; would you please repeat your name… You want to speak to Kai Döring

personally. Okay, one moment please. I’ll check.’

Liebmann placed his hand over the mouthpiece and grinned at his colleague: ‘A lady.

For you. She only wants to speak with Kai.’

‘What’s her name?’ Döring asked quietly, wiping his mouth with the back of his

hand.

‘Helberger. Eva Helberger.’

‘Oh, God, no! No way. I’m not here, d’you hear me? Tell her I’m seriously ill. No,

better still, tell her I’m dead. Say something. Get rid of her.’

Liebmann returned to the caller: ‘Listen… sorry? Was I speaking with someone? Yes,

with our secretary… No, that wasn’t a man’s voice you heard. Kai Döring isn’t here. I’ve just

found out that he’s ill… No, I don’t know what’s wrong with him… I can put a note on his

desk, and he’ll call you when he’s back in the office.’

Liebmann was holding a pen and began to draw little stickmen on his desk pad.



‘It’s urgent? Well if it is, then you’ll just have to make do with me. Now, please tell

me what has happened… What? A man? You saw a man. Okay. And what was the problem

with the man? He’s sitting on a bench. I understand. For hours.’

Döring looked at his colleague and stuffed the last bite of hot dog into his mouth.

Then he took the napkin and wiped his hands, which were covered with ketchup.

‘What is this man doing then…? Yes. Yes, I got that. He was sitting there before you

went to sleep. He was still sitting there when you woke up again. Then you went out, got

something to eat, and saw the man again… Yes? Okay, the man got up when he saw you.

And now he’s sitting there again.’

Döring shook his head, then he tapped his forehead.

‘But what are we supposed to do?’ asked Liebmann. ‘Should we arrest the man for

sitting on a bench on the bank of the Main? What do you think we can do?’

Although he was renowned for his patience, it was now clear from his voice that the

woman on the other end of the phone was getting to him.

‘The man seems threatening? But if I understood you correctly, he hasn’t done

anything… What does he have? A piercing look? No, that’s no reason for us to check him

out… Of course I’m willing to write down your address. Okay. Yes. Yes, I’ve got that… Of

course the police are here for citizens, who else are we here for…Yes, we’re always grateful

for the public’s assistance. But we can’t intervene if someone’s just sitting on a bench. No,

I’m not being impudent… What? Listen, I won’t stand …’

Suddenly Liebmann broke off. He’d taken the phone away from his ear, but was still

holding it.

‘She hung up,’ he said. ‘But before that she called me an ignorant pig.’

Döring was staring at the floor. ‘Sven, I’m sorry about that.’

‘Who is this woman?’

‘I’m really sorry, Sven. If I’d thought…’

‘I asked who she is. Where do you know this Eva Helberger from?’



‘She’s crazy,’ Döring said, but he still didn’t dare look at his colleague.

‘I noticed that myself. Well…?’

‘She keeps calling me. She’s always seeing suspicious goings-on. Ask our colleagues

in Sachsenhausen. They know her there, too. She reports non-incidents.’

‘And… what else?’

‘She’s a pothead. She suffers from paranoia. She’s not all there.’

‘I’d like to know where you know her from.’

‘Eva Helberger worked for us.’

‘She did… What? She was a policewoman?’

‘No, but she was on our list. She lived in Göttingen in a squat for a while. Our guys

there pumped her for information. She named names and told them when protests were taking

place. They paid her for it.’

‘But that was in Göttingen. What has all that got to do with you?’

‘Nothing. At some point she blew her cover. She was under threat among the

squatters and had to get out of the city. The guys there helped her find a new flat in

Frankfurt.’

‘That still doesn’t explain why she calls you Kai.’

‘I got to know her by chance. In a pub. I had dealings with her. Okay?’

‘What?’ Liebmann wanted more.

‘What, what?’

‘What dealings you had with her.’

Döring hemmed and hawed. He was now standing up, looking out the window in

silence.

‘You slept with her, didn’t you? You had a relationship with her.’



Döring said yes without turning round. ‘God damn it, yes!’ he said finally. ‘Yes, I was

involved with her. Are you happy now? The little one is crazy about cops, get it?’

‘No,’ said Liebmann, ‘I don’t get it.’

‘She has a thing for uniforms. She hangs around places where there are lots of

policemen. Demonstrations, major events. She frequents our pubs and comes to the

headquarters on open day. She even applied for a job with us in the end.’

Döring waited for his colleague to launch another attack, but nothing came.

Eventually he said hesitantly: ‘Sven!’

‘What?’

‘Just tell me what I did wrong. I don’t get it. I slept with a woman, that was many

years ago. I regretted it afterwards; things like that happen. What do you find so awful?’

Liebmann appeared to reflect. Then he looked at Döring: ‘You’re right. Actually it’s

nothing. I think I’m just insulted that I didn’t know anything about all this.’

‘That’s it?

‘Yes… I mean…’

‘What?’

‘What I found really outrageous was you stuffing a hot dog merrily down your throat

while I had to talk to that nutter on the phone.’



Three

Robert Marthaler was lying on the sofa in his flat on Grosser Hasenpfad Road. He’d

fallen asleep and had just started dreaming when someone rang the doorbell.

In his dream, he and Tereza had taken a trip to the mountains. She was climbing down

a steep slope, while he stood on the road and called to her over and over that she ought to be

careful. But she’d just laughed and waved up at him. She was moving her lips but he couldn’t

hear what she was saying. Then she’d started to slip. She tried to grab hold of the dry bushes

but she carried on sliding.

And now someone was ringing the doorbell. Marthaler had a hard time coming to, but

he was glad to be out of the dream. He went out into the hallway and peeped through the

spyhole but couldn’t see anyone. Then he heard someone knock.

‘Open up.’ It was the voice of a child.

Marthaler opened the door and recognised the little boy who had moved into the first

floor with his mother a couple of weeks before.

‘I’m to come to your place,’ the boy said.

‘You’re to come here? Who told you that?’

Instead of answering, the boy pushed past Marthaler into the flat.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘My mother said I should come to your place.’

‘And why should you come here?’

‘She had to go out. I can’t stay on my own.’

Marthaler was so surprised that he didn’t know what to say.

‘I’m hungry,’ said the boy.

‘That’s all I need… I can make you a sandwich. With cheese or sausage. Or with jam.

Or would you prefer an apple? And there’s also some soup left over from yesterday.’

‘Spaghetti.’



‘Spaghetti? I’ll have to check if I have any… And when’s your mother back?’

‘In an hour.’

Marthaler looked at the clock. It was just before half five.’ They were meeting at

seven in the White House in Günthersburg Avenue. Charlotte von Wangenheim, the new

head of homicide, had announced her first official visit and called a meeting after hours.

Consequently, he would have to go out again on his day off.

‘Your mother had better be punctual then. Do you have a key to your flat?’

‘Nope. I’m too young for that. I’d lose it,’ the boy said.

‘And what’s your name?’

‘Benni. I want spaghetti.’

Marthalter had gone into the kitchen and was looking through the cupboard.

‘So, you’re called Benjamin. There’s no spaghetti left, so you’re going to have to eat

something else after all. Do you have any brothers or sisters, Benni?’

‘Yes, three. But they don’t live with us.’

‘Should I maybe make you a sandwich?’

‘I want spaghetti.’

‘Okay. Listen, you sit here and wait for me. I’ll go down to the basement and see if

there’s any there.’

Marthaler took his keys and left the flat. He returned five minutes later, but the boy

had disappeared.

‘Benni, where are you?’ he shouted. ‘I found a packet.’ Then he heard a noise coming

from the bedroom.

Benni was standing in front of Marthaler’s bedside table and had opened the drawer.

‘Hey, what you doin’? You can’t just snoop around the flat.’ Marthaler checked

immediately to see if his service weapon was still there. It was lying safely in its holster.



‘Can you tell me what you’re up to?’

The boy looked at Marthaler without responding. Then he walked past him into the

living room and sat down in the armchair.

‘Why isn’t your TV on?’ he asked.

‘Because I wasn’t watching it when you came to the door. Do you want to watch TV

for a bit?’

The boy smiled.

Marthaler turned it on and handed Benni the remote control. He was glad that the boy

was distracted while he was in the kitchen making the pasta.

He put on the water, then he took a tube of tomato purée and prepared a sauce. A

short time later he heard the noise of shots and squealing tyres from the living room. The boy

was looking at the screen with his mouth wide open. A man was holding a knife at a

woman’s throat. Marthaler took the remote and searched for another programme. The boy

protested immediately.

‘Hey, what you doin’? I want to watch that.’

Marthaler noticed that he was getting angry. But before he could say anything more,

Benni reached for the remote, which he was holding up in the air in his raised right hand. The

next moment a sharp pain went through him. Marthaler screamed.

The boy had bitten into his left hand with great force.

‘Damn it, you little bugger!’

He gave the boy a clout, then he ran into the bathroom to run cold water over the

wound. Just as he was wrapping a damp cloth around his hand, he heard the kitchen timer go

off.

He could see from the door already what had happened. The tomato sauce was still

standing on the stove and was bubbling furiously. There were red splodges everywhere: on

the wall, the floor, the worktop.



Marthaler cursed. He took the pot off the stove, then he drained the pasta and

prepared the boy’s food for him. Without a word he placed the plate on the table in the living

room, where Benni was gaping at the screen again.

Marthaler set about cleaning up the kitchen. When he was finished, he noticed that

there were traces of tomato sauce on the carpet in the hallway. He’d obviously carried it

through the flat on the soles of his shoes. He slid around on his knees and tried to clean the

carpet with a damp sponge. The dark red marks turned bright red. Finally he gave up. He

looked at the clock. It was gradually getting tight. He still had to shower and get ready.

When he re-emerged from the bathroom, it was already shortly after seven. If he was

going to make it on time, he’d have to get a move on.

‘Where’s your mother got to? Does she have a phone? What’s her number?’

Benni didn’t stir. The plate of spaghetti was still sitting on the table next to him,

almost untouched.

‘And why aren’t you eating anything? The pasta’s going to get cold,’ said Marthlaer.

‘It’s not good,’ the boy said, without taking his eyes off the screen.

‘Know what, I’m taking you with me to the police station right now. Someone there

will have to look after you. I’ll leave a note on the door for your mother, so she knows where

to come and get you. Turn off the TV and come on!’

To Marthaler’s amazement, the boy obeyed immediately. He smiled. He was

obviously looking forward to this unexpected adventure.

Just as they were about to leave the building, the door was opened from the outside. It

was Benni’s mother. She was pale and seemed distraught. She glanced at Marthaler, then she

lowered her eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘I’m going with the man,’ said Benni. ‘We’re going to the police.’

‘No,’ said Marthaler, ‘you’re mother’s back now. You go with her. I need to hurry.’



The boy began to cry loudly. He threw himself onto the floor and screamed. Any

minute now the old concierge would poke her head out of the door. Marthaler didn’t want to

run into her and hastened to leave the building. Before the door snapped shut behind him, he

heard Benni’s mother shout ‘Thanks’ after him. Then he set off for the underground.



Four

Shortly after the opening of the new police headquarters, so many defects had been

found in the offices of the first homicide division that Marthaler had insisted on moving his

team out. The large, whitewashed building in the north of the city that was known as the

White House had actually only been intended as temporary quarters. In the meantime,

though, the staff felt so comfortable here that they weren’t minded to exchange the beautiful

town house for the soulless block of the headquarters again.

Marthaler entered the conference room of the police station and couldn’t believe his

eyes. All the tables had been moved to the side; the chairs were piled up on top of one

another in one corner. There were pictures on the walls that hadn’t hung there before,

portraits of all the presidents of the Federal Republic. There were also photos of famous

detectives from films. Marthaler recognised Humphrey Bogart, Peter Falk as Inspector

Columbo, Jean Gabin as Inspector Maigret and Special Agent Dale Cooper from the series

‘Twin Peaks’.

In the middle of the room stood Charlotte von Wangenheim, who would be heading

up both homicide departments from the following day. She looked expectantly at Marthaler,

then smiled.

‘The detective chief inspector looks as amazed as a child beneath a Christmas tree,’

she said. ‘I thought we’d liven up the sacred halls. The presidents are supposed to provide

tutoring in Civics. And we all want to emulate the famous detectives. What do you think?’

‘Yes,’ said Marthaler in a flat voice. ‘Very nice.’ Then he pointed at the tables and

chairs. ‘And what all this about? Does it mean we have to work standing up from now on?’

The new chief laughed. She wore her brunette hair at chin-length and was wearing a

dark blue trouser suit.

‘No,’ she said. ‘This is an ice breaker. This is what we did in the Free German Youth

when someone new joined our group.’

‘In the FGY?’

‘Yes. Once a zone-kid always a zone-kid. Or didn’t you know I was from the East?’

Marthaler shook his head. ‘No, I’d no idea.’



‘We used to lay a blanket on the floor, then we’d all sit on it and introduce ourselves.

An excellent idea, don’t you think?’

‘Yes,’ said Marthaler, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Charlotte von Wangenheim brushed past him into the hallway. Then she clapped her

hands loudly: ‘Come, constables!,’ she shouted. ‘Come!’

One after another his colleagues emerged from their offices. Sven Liebmann and Kai

Döring were the first to enter the room. Each of them had a woollen blanket under his arm.

They both grinned at Marthaler when they saw his baffled expression.

Then Kerstin Henschel came in. ‘Has anyone seen Manfed?’ she asked. ‘He hasn’t

appeared the entire day. And he’s not answering his phone either.’

Marthaler looked at his colleague: ‘If anyone should know what’s up with him it’s

you. You’re chums after all.’

Kerstin Henschel shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ll try again later,’ she said.

She and Manfred Petersen, who’d been a couple for a while, had fallen out at some

point, but meanwhile they got on so well that they shared an office and occasionally cooked

together after work or at the weekend.

Elvira, Marthaler’s secretary, was the last to appear. She brought along two young

men whom Marthaler had never seen before. Both seemed a little intimidated. Smiling

sheepishly, they remained standing at the door.

Marthaler wanted to ask why the two strangers were here, but Charlotte von

Wangenheim beat him to it: ‘Is everyone here? Good, good, then I can ask my assistants for

the blankets.’

Döring and Leibmann spread the two blankets out, then they sat down on the floor.

Hesitantly, the others joined them, forming a large circle.

‘Excellent,’ said Charlotte von Wangenheim. ‘And now everyone will introduce

themselves. Detective Chief Inspector Marthaler, you start! First your name, then your age

and rank. Then I’ll say the alphabet silently until you say stop! I’ll tell where I’ve got to.



Then you have to make a sentence in which that letter appears three times at the start of a

word. Got it?’

Marthaler looked around for help. He was hoping that the others found this game just

as stupid as he did, but no one seemed to have the courage to protest.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘My name is Robert Marthaler. Forty-four years old. Chief Inspector.’

‘Very good. I’m beginning to say the alphabet. Here we go!: A.’

Marthaler waited for a bit, then he said stop.

‘R. I got to the letter R. Say your sentence, Robert Marthaler!’

He thought for a minute. Then a song that Hildegard Knef had once sung came into

his head.

‘Red roses should rain for me,’ he said.

‘Wonderful,’ said Charlotte von Wangenheim. ‘And very poetic. If you hadn’t come

up with something, I’d have come to your aid: Robert rides his racer around Frankfurt.

Because I’ve heard you like to cycle.’

Marthaler nodded. He was glad his turn was over. At the same time, though, he was

astonished that the new head had already enquired about him.

Sven Liebmann was next. He had to come up with three words beginning with S.

‘Seventy soldiers have been sinning for seven hours.’

Charlotte von Wangenheim was thrilled. ‘Delightful. That’s four words starting with

S. Exemplary, that was more than required. And quite revealing too, if I may say so.’

Most of them seemed to be getting into the game. The team took turns introducing

themselves. There was lots of whispering and quiet laughter. It wasn’t until it was Elvira’s

turn, and Kai Döring landed the letter Q on her, that an objection was raised.

‘Q is unfair,’ she said. ‘Q won’t work.’

But Charlotte von Wangenheim had her own rules: ‘Q is difficult, but it’s allowed.

Only X and Y are left out. So, your sentence please!’



Elvira thought about it for a while. ‘I quarter quails in Quala Lumpur,’ she said

finally.

‘Very interesting. However, Kuala Lumpur isn’t written with a Q but with a K. But I

think we should permit it. What’s the opinion of the jury?’

The others agreed. And Marthaler noticed that he’d also become so involved by now

that he nodded in approval.

‘Now a word about our newcomers,’ said Charlotte von Wangenheim, smiling

encouragingly at the two young men. ‘They both come from Wolfhagen, near the

Habichtswald Nature Park, and are here to take in the Metropolitan air for a while. And since

the Chief Inspector also hails from the beautiful North, I thought you could all take the two of

them under your wings.’

Marthaler hated anyone meddling in his department’s affairs. But he didn’t protest.

Recently he had in fact often had a longing for his part of the country. And although he knew

how difficult it was to balance personal likes and dislikes in a team like theirs, his curiosity

about the two young colleagues instantly won out.

‘Fine,’ said Charlotte von Wangenheim, ‘then our two newcomers should now

introduce themselves: Detective Superintendent Delius!’

‘My name’s Kurt Delius. I’m twenty-eight. Detective Superintendent. Maybe I should

also say what my hobby is?’

‘Please do!’

‘I like to play tennis.’

‘Detective Superintendent Delius is doing himself down. From what I’ve heard he’s

an outstanding player. He could rightly be called a tennis whizz. Tell us your nickname.’

‘They call me Centre-Kurt.’

‘Centre-Kurt. Many thanks. Elvira, you say the alphabet now.’

No sooner had Delius heard that he had to use the letter K than he produced a

sentence: ‘Kurt can’t only play tennis, Kurt can do cool karate kicks.’



Everyone laughed.

‘Please!’ Charlotte von Wangenheim clapped her hands again. ‘Quiet please! We

need to wind up soon. So now: Detective Superintendent Becker…’

‘My name is Horst Becker. Like Kurt, I’m twenty-eight. Detective Superintendent.

But we’re not twins. I’m married. I build model planes in my free time. That’s why they call

me Airman-Horst.’

Hardly had Delius started to sound out the alphabet than his friend said stop.

‘I only got to B. You have to say a sentence with three Bs in it.’

‘Okay… Bakers bake bread. Also, I’m Becker not Baker.’

‘Yes, good point. Right, my turn now. So we can get home finally! My name is

Charlotte von Wangenheim. I couldn’t care less about the ‘von’. You can call me Charlotte or

simply Lotte. I’m a Detective Chief Superintendent, born in ‘73, unmarried. Now it’s our

Knight of Rose’s turn to say the alphabet.’

They all snickered. It was only because everyone was looking at him that Marthaler

realised that she meant him. He only got as far as C.

‘Just a moment,’ said Charlotte. ‘Okay: C. So I’ll say: Come on, coppers, get out, go

catch some criminals!’

Marthaler sat down in the passenger seat and closed the car door. Liebmann, who’d recently

moved to Neu-Isenburg, where he’d bought a small flat, had offered to take him home.

‘What was that just there?’ asked Liebmann, as soon as he’d turned the key in the

ignition.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Marthaler.

‘The performance we were subjected to. A strange act, don’t you think?’

Marthaler had only met Charlotte von Wangenheim on two occasions before this

evening. Once during a meeting in the State Office of Criminal Investigations, the other time

a few weeks back, when the Chief Constable had called him into his office and introduced



her as the next head of homicide. He knew she was considered a high flyer. It was rumoured

that she had finished first in her year. Even though she was still young, she had quickly risen

through the ranks. Everyone was full of praise for her. That alone gave Marthaler

reservations. A person without any enemies hadn’t earned their friends, he’d thought. He was

glad now that he’d kept his doubts to himself.

‘She’s certainly different than I imagined,’ he said.

Liebmann agreed with him. ‘Yes, isn’t she just. My thoughts exactly. She’s less

impersonal than I thought she’d be. Less bureaucratic than the others that they’ve inflicted on

us up till now.’

Their last regular boss had been Hans-Jürgen Hermann. He’d been suspended from

service after he’d been suspected of withholding evidence and hampering investigations in

the case of a murdered woman. The investigation against him had dragged on. In the end he’d

been released from service, a while back now. Everyone was happy with the outcome, no

other result could have been justified. But Hermann’s post had just been filled on an interim

basis since his suspension.

‘And what do you think of… Charlotte?’ asked Marthaler.

Liebmann glanced at him, then smiled. ‘You mean… as a women?’

‘No … yes, I don’t know. I just want to know your opinion of her.’

Liebmann shrugged his shoulders and exhaled. Obviously he was also finding it hard

to form a judgement. ‘To be honest, I find her quite amusing. For a police woman at any rate.

And…’

‘And what?’

‘And rather charming.’

Liebmann looked over at Marthaler again as if wanting to assess the effect his words

were having on his colleague.

‘Yes,’ said Marthaler, ‘charming’s the right word.’

Then he asked Liebmann to let him out on Mördelder Road. He wanted to walk the

last few metres.



Just after he opened the front door, Marthaler paused. He’d heard a noise emerge from the

darkness behind him. He turned round but couldn’t see anyone. Perhaps he’d been mistaken.

A car approached from down the hill, drove past the building and disappeared behind the

curve at the top of the street. Everything was quiet again.

Then he heard the noise again. A rustling. Perhaps an animal that was rummaging

under the bushes in the front garden.

But there was something else as well. A sort of wheezing sound as though someone

were breathing heavily.

Marthaler jammed the doormat between the door and the frame, then he went out onto

the lawn to take a look. Someone was lying on the ground among the bushes. A man, who’d

evidently been sleeping here and was now in the process of waking up. His head was lying on

a plastic bag full of stuff.

‘Is everything okay?’ asked Marthaler. ‘Can I help you?’

Slowly the man turned his head in Marthaler’s direction. His face was obscured in the

darkness. He had a thick beard and long hair that was hanging over his eyes.

Marthaler bent down towards him, but started back instantly. There was an

overwhelming stench coming from the man. He smelled of urine, alcohol, sweat and vomit. A

homeless person, thought Marthaler, a drunken tramp who’d set up camp here for the night.

‘Should I get help?’ he asked again.

The man struggled to his feet. He turned his back on Marthaler, picked up his plastic

bag and muttered something incomprehensible. Then he tottered off. Marthaler gazed after

him until the darkness had swallowed him up.

He climbed the stairs, then he entered the flat quietly. Everything was in darkness. He

assumed that Tereza was already asleep. She’d had a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon,

but wanted to go back to the Städel art museum again after that to do some more work on the

preparations for her next exhibition. She’d probably got back late and gone straight to bed.



Marthaler went into the living room, took a glass from the cupboard and opened a

bottle of red wine. He sat down in his armchair.

He picked up the Rundschau newpaper and skimmed through it . In a small town in

Brandenburg a baby had been left at a bus stop. In Bielefeld three youths had attacked a

disabled man and tossed him and his wheelchair into a pond. In the Palatinate a seventy-six-

year-old pensioner had been discovered unconscious in his car at the side of the road; he had

a blood alcohol level of over five parts per thousand. And in the vicinity of Paris the

manuscript of an operetta by the composer Jacques Offenbach that was believed to be lost

had been rediscovered.

Marthaler folded the paper. He emptied his glass, then went into the bathroom. When

he went into the bedroom, he saw that Tereza wasn’t there. He looked at the clock; it was

almost eleven thirty.

It had taken some time to persuade Tereza to move in with him. And it had taken as

long again for her to stop moving around the flat like a guest. And he, too, had found it

difficult at first to get used to the fact that he was no longer sole lord of his manor. In the

meantime, though, he was so used to her presence that he felt uneasy if she didn’t come back

at her usual time.

He went off to bed but soon realised that he wasn’t able to sleep. He got up again,

went into the hallway and checked the answering machine. There were no new messages. He

dialled Tereza’s number, but there was no answer.

Eventually he took two sleeping tablets and went back to bed.



Five

When the doorbell rang, Marthaler woke up straightaway. It was still dark in the

room. He stretched out his right hand and took a deep breath. Tereza was lying beside him.

At some point during the night she’d come home without him noticing. Below the cover he

could feel her warm shoulder. She’d turned her back to him and was sleeping. He heard her

breathing gently.

He went to the living-room window and pushed the curtain aside. Sven Liebmann was

standing on the pavement in the dawn light and waved up at him. No more was required.

Marthaler knew that something had happened and that he had to hurry. He raised his right

hand and spread out his fingers to signal that he would need five minutes.

Then he went back into the bedroom to get dressed. Tereza turned to him dozily. Then

she opened her eyes. ‘Robert, let’s talk, okay.’

‘Sleep some more,’ he said quietly, ‘it’s still early. I’ve been called out.’

He reached into the drawer to pull out his service weapon. He started. Then he began

to curse.

‘Damn it, that little bugger.’

Tereza sat up.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

‘That little bastard was here, Benni, the boy on the first floor. He wanted me to make

him spaghetti. He nicked my coin, the old ten-mark piece my dad gave me. I can’t stand

unruly kids like that…’

Malthaler went into the bathroom. He squeezed a line of toothpaste onto his index

finger, sucked it off and rinsed out his mouth. As he was about to leave the flat, Tereza came

up behind him.

‘When will you be back?’ she asked without looking at him.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, stroking her hair.



He noticed at this point that she was crying.

‘What’s the matter…?’

Tereza just looked at the floor and shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. We’ll talk when I get home, okay? Go back to bed.’

‘What’s up?’ asked Marthaler, getting into Liebmann’s car.

‘I don’t know. Somebody’s reported finding a corpse. I’m on call. There’s talk of a

number of dead bodies. I thought it’d be better if you came along straightaway.’

‘Where to?’

‘The Main. It’ll only take five minutes. They said something about a boat back at

headquarters. At boat at the Lower Main Bridge.’

The city was still empty. They drove round the roundabout at Schweizer Platz and

down towards the river.

‘Have the detectives in white coats been informed already?’

‘No. I thought I’d leave that to you.’

‘Good,’ said Marthaler. ‘We’ll do that after we know what’s up.’

Liebmann knew that Marthaler liked to be the first at the crime scene, that he liked to

visualise before the scene of crime was blocked for hours by the forensics.

Then they saw the flashing lights of the ambulances. The uniforms had already closed

the road.

They just stopped at the edge of the street and got out. When one of the uniforms

approached them, remonstrating, Liebmann flashed his ID and gave him his car key.

‘Where do we go?’

‘Down there.’ The constable pointed at the stone steps leading down to the bank of

the Main.



‘Damn,’ cursed Marthaler, ‘it’s like the fairground here.’

Three emergency ambulances were parked right next to each other on the asphalt

path. Paramedics were running about everywhere. Traffic was backing up on the bridge, and

a large crowd of onlookers had already gathered at the railings.

‘Please, Sven,’ said Marthaler, ‘see to it that the bridge is cleared. I want the people

up there to disappear. And keep the press away. No cameras or video cameras. In an hour at

most, when the rush-hour traffic kicks in, it’ll be sheer pandemonium here.’

Liebmann shook his head. ‘Robert, that won’t work. If we block the bridge there’ll be

gridlock in this part of town. It will cause utter chaos.’

‘Alright… sort it however you can. But tarpaulins will have to go up then. We need to

be able to work in peace. Without the gawkers.’

Marthaler pushed his way through to the little boat that was moored directly on the

riverside. When he was just about to go on board, a man with a black bag approached him. It

was one of the emergency doctors. His face was almost as white as his coat.

‘And?’ Marthaler asked.

The man looked at him with vacant eyes. ‘All dead,’ he said.

‘How many?’

‘Five.’

‘What happened?’

‘Gunshot wounds.’

‘Is there anything else you lot can do here?’

The man shook his head.

Marthaler instantly roared: ‘Then clear out, for crying out loud. Everyone out! What

are you all still here for? The people are dead.’



He waited. In quick succession three men and a woman left the boat. They were

wearing paramedics’ hi-vis vests. The woman was about to protest, but Marthaler silenced

her with a look.

He stopped at the entrance to the lower deck, closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he

took his first look at crime scene.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small Dictaphone. For some time

now he’d been accustomed to tape-recording his observations. That way he didn’t have to

rely on his memory later on. And he’d noticed that it helped him deal with what he saw at the

scene of a crime. If he had to describe it, it was easier. He had something to do.

He turned on the recorder and started to speak.

‘It’s Friday the third of June 2005. It’s 5.07 am. It’s crisp out but not cold. I’m on a

small boat lying right next to the Lower Main Bridge; it’s called Sultan’s Snacks, apparently

some kind of floating restaurant. The dining area’s about two and a half metres wide and four

metres long. To the right and left of the narrow isle there are three tables. I can see half-full

glasses and used plates. I can see five people… According to the information provided by the

emergency doctor, all five are dead.’

Marthaler paused for a moment. He stopped the recorder, rummaged in his pockets

and realised that he’d forgotten to put in a packet of disposable gloves again. He sighed and

set about inspecting the first victim. Then he turned the Dictaphone back on.

‘Next to me, on the right, a man is sitting. His upper body is hunched over the table,

his head is lying on the table top. The man has dark hair, no, his hair is already grey in large

part. Age… hard to say. Somewhere between his early- and late-fifties. The man is slim and

well dressed. His arms are under his upper body. At the top of the back of his head there’s a

clearly recognisable bullet wound. A contact shot.’

Marthaler’s mobile rang. He took it out, switched it off and slipped it back into his

jacket pocket.

‘Opposite the man a woman is sitting. She is noticeably younger, perhaps in her late-

thirties, early forties. She has medium-length hair, medium blond. She’s also wearing



expensive clothing. She’s sitting upright with the backrest of the bench behind her. Her head

is tilted backwards, her mouth is open. Both arms are hanging at her sides. She’s been shot in

the middle of the top half of her forehead. A piece of her skullcap is missing. She’s wearing a

gold chain with trinkets. Next to her, on the window side of the bench, there’s a handbag. On

the table, there’s a glass with dregs of red wine.’

Marthaler bent down briefly to examine the floor.

‘Under the table there’s another wine glass. It’s in pieces, the wine’s leaked out. The

table opposite, on the other side, is empty.’

He took two steps farther into the room. He carefully placed one foot in front of the

other, so as not to destroy any trace evidence. He paused again before continuing with his

dictation.

‘The second table on the left. The next victim. A woman, her hair’s recently been

dyed. Probably late-sixties, maybe a bit younger. Dressed simply but neatly. I’m seeing her

from behind. Her upper body has slipped forward partway from the bench, her head is tilted

downwards to one side. Her right arm is hanging into the passageway, her left hand is resting

in her lap. An entry wound in the right temple. An enormous exit wound on the left side. It

looks as though her brain… oh God!’

Marthaler squinched his eyes shut. He took several deep breaths. Only then did he

continue talking.

‘Her glasses have slipped out of place. Opposite her at the same table is a man. I can’t

see his face. Grey hair. About the same age as the woman, possibly somewhat older. Beige

coloured blouson, dark brown cloth trousers. Dressed like a pensioner. The man is cowering

on the bench, turned away from the room, with his arms folded over his face and the front of

his head. It looks as though he wanted to curl up, as if he wanted to protect himself. There are

two mobiles on the table and a black gent’s handbag with a wrist loop. There are two small

plates on the table with… I don’t know what… with leftovers. And two glass teacups.

Addendum: on the bench next to the woman there is also a handbag, large, beige. The bag is

lying on top of a piece of clothing, perhaps some sort of rain jacket.’

Marthaler worked quickly and focused. As always when he was focused on a new

case, he forgot everything that was happening around him. All his senses were directed at



taking in every last detail of the crime scene. Nothing of any significance was to be

overlooked.

That’s why he didn’t hear someone come on board. He turned around, startled, when

he heard a voice behind him.

‘Damn it, Robert, what are you doing here?’ It was Walter Schilling, the head of

forensics. ‘What’s the big idea? Can’t you wait until we’ve done our bit?’

For a moment, Marthaler felt like a child who had been caught eating a stolen treat.

‘Damn it, Walter. Do you want to give me a heart attack?’

‘I want you to get out of here, and fast,’ answered Schilling.

‘Five minutes. I’m nearly done. Just give me five minutes more, please!’

Walter Schilling knew that there was little point in trying to oppose him. ‘Five

minutes,’ he said, ‘not a second longer! And please, don’t touch anything, don’t stomp

around her! And one other thing, Robert…’

‘What?’

‘Next time I’d like you lot to inform me immediately, and not find out by chance from

headquarters that a big case is waiting for me someplace. Is that clear? And if you mess up

again, I’ll lodge a disciplinary complaint against you, do you understand?’

Marthaler gazed after his colleague. A moment later he’d already forgotten him. He

turned again to the dining area and resumed talking into his Dictophone.

‘The last victim. A man. It seems he was sitting at the last table on the right, on the

side nearest the riverbank. On the table there are two plates and two sets of cutlery. The man

is now lying in the passageway with his head and upper body in a pool of blood, and his head

turned to the right. The man is lying on his back. He’s between 5’9” and 5’11”, sturdy, with

longish hair, brunette with streaks of grey, and a high forehead. Must be about fifty, possibly

younger. Bright blue shirt, dark grey casual suit. Seems a little scruffy – as far as you can tell

in this state. Everything in this area is soaked in blood, the floor, the table, the bench, there

are blood splatters all over the walls as well as on the door that leads to the front section of

the boat. The glass panel of this door is shattered. There are pieces of broken glass on the



floor. There are bloody footprints, but these could also be from the paramedics. It looks…

horrendous.’

He crouched down and looked into the dead man’s face. Suddenly he pulled back.

The man seemed familiar. He reminded him of someone. Marthaler closed his eyes briefly to

think. He tried in vain to imagine the dead face alive. He carefully raised the victim’s head

slightly, but in the same moment he let it sink back to the floor. He stood up and breathed

deeply. It took him a moment to get his nerves under control, then he continued to dictate.

‘The man’s throat is lacerated on the right side, from a shot by the look of things.

Probably the carotid artery was struck. He apparently bled to death… No, I want to make an

amendment: There’s a second entry wound, the jacket and shirt are scorched beneath the left

breast, a shot aimed in the region of the heart.’

Marthaler was now briefly tempted to open the door to the front section of the boat

and to continue his inspection there. But he didn’t want to try the patience of Walter Schilling

and his colleagues any further.

‘That’s all for the time being,’ he said into the microphone. ‘Five dead, each victim

shot deliberately. All nameless up till now. It’s unclear whether they’re connected in any

way. The perpetrator’s unknown. The weapon used is unknown at this time. Motive

unknown. Murder related to robbery unlikely. The whole thing is…’

He broke off in the middle of his sentence. He switched off the Dictaphone. It was too

early to conclude anything from what he’d seen so far.

‘The whole thing is a huge pile of shit,’ he said.

Schilling was standing at the quay wall, looking at him. ‘Have you ever eaten here before?’

he asked.

Marthaler shook his head.

‘The best doner kebab between Hanau and the Rocky Mountains. With a yoghurt-chili

sauce that you’ll never forget. What’s up with Erkan?



Marthaler gave his colleague a questioning look. Schilling pointed at the sign:

‘Sultan’s Snacks. Owner: Erkan Ӧnal’ was on it.

‘He’s… I mean… is he one of the victims?’

‘If you tell me what he looks like…’

‘Late-twenties. Dark, curly hair. Small, slim. A delicate bloke.’

‘No,’ said Marthaler. ‘He wasn’t among them. In any event, not among the ones I

saw.’

‘Do you mean there are more?

‘I don’t mean anything at all,’ answered Marthaler. ‘I’m just wondering where your

Erkan is if he’s not on his boat.’

Schilling shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ll be careful not to take your work away from

you,’ he said. ‘It’s enough that you’re encroaching on others’ territory.’

‘Walter, please! I just wanted to visualise as soon as possible.’

‘And?’

‘I’ve got a picture but no explanation. Do you remember the six people murdered in

Kettenhofweg Road?’

‘That was that high-end brothel,’ said Schilling, ‘right?’ It happened at the start of the

nineties, but I wasn’t around. I was on leave. Four prostitutes dead and the married couple

that ran the club.’

‘Yes. There were six victims back then. Strangled with a cable. It was one of the

biggest murder cases after the war.’

‘The perpetrator was Eugen Berwald,’ said Sven Liebmann, who had now joined his

two colleagues, ‘an ethinic German from Russia. He made it onto the Mass Murderers Hit

List. Although he only made it to the middle of the table.’

‘There is such a thing?’ asked Schilling. ‘A hit parade for the most successful

murderers?’



‘Yes, in the U.S.,’ answered Marthaler. ‘And our perpetrator here could also make it

onto that list. But Berwald was arrested shortly after the crime. If we’re to have the same

success with this case, you should get to work.’

Marthaler noticed the head of forensics gasp with exasperation. Walter Schilling was

about to give his outrage free rein, but Marthaler beat him to the punch. ‘I’m kiddin, Walter.

Nothing more. I know it was me that held you up. But we’ve got to establish as quickly as

possible who the deceased are. Do me a favour and check first of all if they’ve got

identification papers. And let me know immediately if you find anything.’

Schilling rolled his eyes, then turned away. Marthaler called after him: ‘Hey Walter,

what you said about the complaint…’

‘… was no joke,’ said Schilling without turning back around to his colleague. ‘I

definitely wasn’t kiddin’.’

Marthaler took a few steps to the side to make way for the forensics. Then he tilted

back his head and looked up at the bridge. His worst fears had been realised. Not even a half

hour had passed since he arrived at the crime scene, but there was already a crowd as large as

during the Riverside Festival. The rubberneckers were now standing shoulder to shoulder

along the railing. Cameras and mobiles were flashing non-stop. He heard the noise of the

engines and the angry tooting of the drivers who were stuck in traffic and didn’t know why.

That would also change shortly. Soon the news would reach all editorial offices and would be

broadcast on all car radios.

Two river-police boats had pulled in right next to the stern of Sultan’s Snacks. Four

officers were constructing a frame and were attempting to attach a tarpaulin to it so that the

view from the bridge onto the crime scene would be blocked at least.

rowohlt verlag jan seghers · about his life. he still didn’t know what consequences this day was...

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