Page 80 of Anatomy of a Killer
Oh, Jakob. . . May I call you Jakob? The reason is her: Ann. You’re friends with her. And I’m ill, as you may have been told.
Yes.
Well, I’m ill and she’s stubborn. She made it very clear to me that she won’t visit until I break my silence. But now she has to. You are going to play her these recordings, aren’t you?
If she wants to hear them.
She will. And if not, then persuade her to, please.
But everything you’ve said to me you could have told her to her face.
Yes, but this way we’ll have more time to discuss things that only concern us. And she’ll be prepared; I won’t take her by surprise or shock her. It’s important she has a clear head when she visits me. (clears throat) Ann, if you’re listening to this, come with a clear head and with the memory of everything you’ve overcome in your life so far. And as for you, Jakob, have a good think about whether you really do want to write a book about experiences you’ve never had yourself. You won’t end up with anything better than probabilities, and ‘everything that is merely probable. . .’
‘. . . is probably false.’ René Descartes, I believe.
Well, well. Not bad, my boy.
Ann
Berlin, 19 May 2021
Life finds a way through. It uses the tiniest cracks to burst forth, even in the most adverse conditions, like a seedling through asphalt. A laugh that pinches at first, because it’s been so long since you used those muscles; a laugh that sounds soft, subdued and perhaps faintly artificial. And then one day you laugh properly again, a loud, booming laugh of such intensity that it makes your tummy hurt. Then happiness forces itself on you; it doesn’t ask about guilt, or right and wrong– happiness is blind and deaf, and that’s a good thing.
Almost three and a half years have passed.
I’m twenty-eight now.
Zoe and I made up because, well, people are people, because they make mistakes; they’re overwhelmed or anxious, or just sometimes plain stupid. Maybe because Zoe was lonely in Cornwall too, and the thing about loneliness is it makes you romanticise things, it softens you, it stirs regret and longing, and in the end there’s a message written on impulse that determines your future:I wish you were here.Six months later we married on the beach in St Ives and, half a year after that, thanks to a sperm donor, Zoe was pregnant with our son Noah. We never spoke about why it was her rather than me who carried the baby. There are unwritten rules when you live with the daughter of a killer, and one of these is avoiding the subject of genetics. I know myself that I’m being silly about this, but a leopard can’t change its spots.
Cornwall was lovely, even though we didn’t get that cottage with colourful shutters and a wild garden. We did, however, have a nice apartment on the Penryn River. Despite this, we decided to move back to Berlin, given that we would soon have a baby and could do with the support of Zoe’s parents. And there was a house too: the one I grew up in. Zoe had her reservations at first, but I was able to convince her that, in the end, a house is just a house– just a few walls and a roof, a man-made construct. It’s also got a beautiful garden and is big enough for each of us to have our own retreat. Mine is the study. Sometimes I stand there by the window, gazing out at Noah, who’s now one and a half, playing on the trampoline under Zoe’s supervision. It’s a new trampoline; mine was completely rusty so we got rid of it. Zoe works half-days as a translator in the cultural department of the Berlin senate; I stay at home with Noah. I haven’t finished my German studies, but what’s ironic is that all my father’s academic publications will probably enable me to enjoy a comfortable life for many years.
Life is beautiful.
But it’s no fairy tale.
There are good moments, full of blind, deaf happiness. And there are the others. Those that are as dazzling as strobe lights and as loud as piercing screams.
Zoe and I are arguing more often. She calls me difficult and I call her unsympathetic. This happens when two people in love collide like two stars. Either they fuse together or break apart and dissipate in clouds of gas. I don’t know how our relationship is going to pan out, only that it’s lost a little of its lustre. Zoe’s never experienced anything that’s rattled the depths of her soul and destroyed her entire world. Her worst memory is her grandmother’s funeral a few years ago. The grandmother who was eighty-five and died in her sleep, in peace and after a life of fulfilment. Zoe says she still can’t believe that her nana isn’t here anymore. I know I can’t hold this against her, but I do it unconsciously. I permanently make her feel that she’s naïve and doesn’t have a clue about real life. She hates me for this; I hate myself for it too.
The truth is, it’s never over. No matter what people say– Ludwig, Jakob, any therapist. It gets better but it’s never properly all right again. Sometimes I go into the garage, sit in the car and scream, just like that. And each time that ‘Perfect Day’ plays, I begin to cry. Because this song always brings back the summer when I was seven and sat on my father’s shoulders with my arms outstretched. As if, thanks to him, I could fly. And then, towards the end of the song, when Lou Reed sings, with that strange monotony in his voice, about reaping what you sow, my grief is replaced by fear, a paralysing, ice-cold fear. If my father’s a monster, then who am I? What am I capable of? Is evil passed down the generations or is it a choice? Coincidence? A devious game of chance in which a higher power deals the cards on a whim? Or more like a cold that some people catch, while others, those with a more robust immune system, are spared? I don’t know; I don’t even know why I choose to put the song on again and again when basically all it does is torment me.
It’s so fricking complicated.
Only in Noah’s presence does everything crumble away. For him I don’t have a past or any inner demons. For him I’m just his mummy. He’s not expecting any explanations, apologies; he’s just content with a few biscuits, my time and my love. Jakob is his godfather and one of the few people who doesn’t ask questions if I suddenly fall silent. He never finished his article about my father. But he has been working on a book for ages. I’ve got nothing against it, because there’s always someone writing a book about those sorts of crimes and people like my father. I’d rather have Jakob doing it than a stranger. Especially as he was always clear that the book he’s writing would also have to look at my father’s side of the story. He calls it ‘journalistic duty of care’, but both of us know it’s about money too. My father’s never talked about his crimes, not even to me. A testimony would be a sensation. That’s why Jakob isn’t the only one who’s kept requesting interviews over the years. My father turned them all down.
Until the beginning of this month. He’s allowed Jakob to talk to him over a number of sessions. I’ve listened to the recordings of these and tried to form a judgement. Do I hear a psychopath, with his endless provocative digressions, making fun of Jakob by circumventing questions and throwing them back in Jakob’s face? Or is this, by contrast, a man desperately stalling for time because he’s suffering from having nobody to talk to and play his intellectual games with? I haven’t reached a conclusion– the man on the recordings is a stranger to me; all I recognise is his voice. The police have heard the whole thing too and now they have to check if my father committed any other murders. For if what he says in Jakob’s interview is true, he didn’t start killing in 2003, but back in 2001, two years after my mother’s death. Two more dead children, two more destroyed families, more guilt and pain for everyone. For my part, I don’t know how much more I can take. Despite this– or maybe because of it– today I’m granting him his wish that I visit him. After more than three years, since my visit at Christmas 2017, before Schergel, before the truth. I would have come long ago if he’d ever made a confession.
On the other hand, he never before asked me for a visit or even answered the letters I wrote to him.
So today’s the day.
Ludwig organised the meeting and has come from Poland especially. We often visit him there. Zoe stopped going a while back, but Noah loves the woods and the wild nature. He’s over the moon when a deer appears in Ludwig’s garden, or he sees a wild boar burrowing. Ludwig says he’ll make a hunter out of him when he’s old enough.
We’re driving in his car, and haven’t said a word since we got in. The sun is bright, shining off the buildings that race past, and the sky is blue. Summer’s almost here.
We turn into the prison car park.
‘Ready?’ Ludwig asks.
