The Vanishing of Katharina Linden

“I know,” said Herr Schiller drily. “It is rather unsatisfactory, is it not?”

“I wish I knew what the ghost had done,” said Stefan.

“Better not to know, that was the idea,” said Herr Schiller.

“It can’t have been that bad,” said Stefan. “Nothing’s that bad.”

“It’s good to believe that, when you’re ten,” said Herr Schiller gently to Stefan.

“I’m eleven-”

“But I’m afraid that when you get older, you will discover some things are that bad.” Herr Schiller sounded sad.

With a hot feeling akin to guilt I wondered whether he was thinking about his daughter, Gertrud, about what might have happened to her, and whether the person who did it would ever be punished.

“Some things are better left untold,” he added, as though he had read my mind.

I tried to catch Stefan’s eye, to somehow telegraph to him that he should shut up before we upset the old man and got ourselves thrown out again, but he was deep in thought and not prepared to notice my significant looks. That was one of the things that always irritated me about him, and continued to relegate him back to the position of StinkStefan: he never knew when to let something drop.

“If it was that bad,” he persisted, “then how come the ghost would be freed the minute anyone asked him who he was? Supposing the first person who ever saw him did it? Then he wouldn’t have been punished at all.”

“But they didn’t,” I pointed out. “He spent years and years, probably hundreds of years, wandering about before Hans asked him.”

“Yes, but if,” said Stefan stubbornly.

“Then his sins would have caught up with him some other way,” said Herr Schiller softly. “They always do.” He shook his head. “But I fear you are missing the point of the story.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The ghost was freed only because someone dared to speak to him. That is the point of the story. Hans dared to address the ghost. Most people would have run for their lives.” Up went Herr Schiller’s bushy eyebrows. His eyes were bright. “Hans was the only one who could put aside his own fears, and act.”

“So the story means you shouldn’t be frightened of anything?”

“The story means that if something needs to be done, then you should do it. Even if it is something that most people would find difficult. Even if you are afraid.”

Walking back to my house in the Heisterbacher Strasse with Stefan, I could still taste Herr Schiller’s coffee in my mouth, a dark and acrid taste that made me think of ashtrays and bonfires. Neither Stefan nor I said anything for a long time. Stefan had his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his coat and his breath showed in little clouds. It reminded me of Boris smoking, the way the white wisps of breath drifted out from between his lips. I was thinking about Herr Schiller, and about Unshockable Hans, and about the ghost with no head.

If something needs to be done, then you should do it.

We had decided to go back to my house via the Salzmarkt and the bridge, passing King Zwentibold on his fountain. So we did not pass Herr Duster’s house, but still I was aware of its location in relation to myself, just as though we had been two gigantic red points on a map of the town: you are here and here it is.

“Pia?”

I glanced at Stefan, but he was looking at the cobblestones, not at me.

“Yes?”

“What did you think of the story?”

I sighed. “I don’t know.” I realized that Stefan had stopped walking, so I stopped too.

Stefan looked up at the sky. A first tiny flake of snow drifted down and settled on his upturned face, melting instantly. He looked at me. “Don’t you think Herr Schiller was trying to make a point? Like the moral of the story or something?”

“I suppose.”

I didn’t feel ready to commit myself. The thought that perhaps we, perhaps I should be the one to do the thing that needed to be done was still too uncomfortable to be examined closely.

“He was,” said Stefan. “I know he was. He thinks we should do something.”

“About what?” But I already knew the answer.

“About Katharina Linden, and the other girls,” said Stefan with a trace of impatience in his tone. He lowered his voice. “About him. Herr Duster.”

“He can’t really want us to do anything about Herr Duster,” I protested. “He’s cool, but he’s still a grown-up. He’s not going to tell us to break into someone’s house or anything.”

“Why not?”

“Because there would be a huge row if we got caught, and he’d get in trouble too.”

“Maybe he thinks it’s worth risking it.”

Now I was really uneasy. “But it’s not him who’s got to do it. And, anyway,” I added, “he didn’t do anything about it when his daughter disappeared, did he? Frau Kessel said he was too much of a Christian. So how come he’s now telling us to do it?”

“I don’t know,” said Stefan. He raised an arm and then let it drop in a gesture of frustration. “Look, even if he wasn’t trying to tell us to do it, it’s still-it’s still a good idea, isn’t it?”

“A good idea?”

“Well, a right idea, anyway.” Stefan’s mouth set in an obstinate line.

“Stefan, we’re two kids, we’re not Batman and Robin.” I shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “If we get caught, he’ll kill us.”

“Well then,” said Stefan. “We won’t get caught.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

Christmas was coming, and the shops were suddenly full of Advent crowns again.

“Nearly a year,” said my father lugubriously.

My mother was more pragmatic. “We won’t be wanting one of those.”

Inevitably, the appearance of the Advent crowns signaled a renaissance in interest about Oma Kristel’s untimely death. Suddenly I was the object of unwanted attention again. Stefan was irritating me a lot-he was forever harping on about Herr Duster and what we should do about him. I remembered why the name StinkStefan had seemed so appropriate-he had a habit of hanging around like a bad smell. And now I was forcibly reminded of the reason why he was the only person I could consider a friend at school.

My former friends, such as Marla Frisch-who had dropped me so rapidly for fear of being contaminated by the Incredible Exploding Family-were now the chief broadcasters of Oma Kristel’s grim story. Children from the grades above, who had not been at the same school as I was when Oma Kristel died, were now eager to hear the sorry tale from the lips of those who had been.

In a way I could not blame them; it was too grotesque to be taken seriously-it was more like a made-up horror story. All the same, this did not alleviate the distress caused whenever I walked into a classroom or into the girls’ toilets and heard whispered conversations stopping dead at the sight of me. It could only be a matter of time before they all started to refuse to sit next to me again.

My parents, meanwhile, were involved in planning the first year’s memorial Mass for Oma Kristel. My mother, who was Protestant, and lapsed at that, was somewhat removed from the planning of the church service, but the burden of the catering was to fall upon her shoulders, much to her disgust.

The great debate was when exactly the service should be held. Oma Kristel had died on the last Sunday in Advent, but to hold the service over Christmas was a depressing idea. My mother said that it was a good thing really; we could hold the memorial Mass in January. It would be just what we needed to cheer us up when