every question she replied, “It wasn’t my business; it was nothing to do with me.”
Lackner took Larissa to his apartment. She was still a virgin. When he had finished, he sent her home. “Say hi to the old guys” were his farewell words. Back in the apartment, Larissa took a shower under such hot water that it almost scalded her skin. She closed the curtains in her room. Shewas in pain, she was terrified, and there was no one she could tell.
In the next few months things went badly for Larissa. She was tired, she threw up, and she couldn’t concentrate. Her mother said she shouldn’t eat so much candy, it caused her heartburn. Larissa gained almost twenty pounds. She was in the middle of puberty. She had only just taken down the pictures of horses from her wall, and hung up photos from teen magazines. Things got worse, particularly the pains in her stomach. “Colic,” said her father. Her periods had stopped coming: she thought it was because of the revulsion.
On the twelfth of April she barely made it to the toilet. She thought her bowels would explode—she’d had cramps in her stomach all morning. It was something else. She reached between her legs and felt something strange that was growing out of her. She touched sticky hair and a tiny head. “It mustn’t be inside me,” she said later. This had been her only thought, over and over again: It mustn’t be inside me. A few minutes later the baby dropped down into the toilet bowl; she heard the water splash. She stayed sitting. She lost all track of time.
At some point she stood up. The baby was lying down there in the toilet bowl, white and red and greasy and dead. She reached up to the shelf above the washbasin, took the nail scissors, and cut the umbilical cord. She dried herself offwith toilet paper but she couldn’t throw that on top of the baby, so she stuffed it into the plastic bucket in the bath, then sat on the floor till she got cold. When she tried to walk, she wobbled, but she fetched a garbage bag from the kitchen, supporting herself against the wall and leaving a bloody handprint. She pulled the baby out of the toilet, its tiny legs as thin as her fingers. She laid it on a towel. She looked at it, a brief look that was far too long; it lay there, its face blue and its eyes closed. Then she folded the towel over the baby and pushed it into the bag. Carefully, like a loaf of bread, she thought. She took the bag down to the cellar, carrying it with both hands, and set it between the bicycles, weeping silently. On the steps back up she began to bleed. It ran down her thigh, but she didn’t notice. She made it as far as the apartment, then collapsed in the hall. Her mother, who had come home, called the fire department. In the hospital the doctors took care of the afterbirth and alerted the police.
The policewoman was friendly; she wasn’t in uniform, and she stroked the girl’s forehead. Larissa lay in a clean bed; one of the nurses had brought her a few flowers. She told them everything. “It’s in the cellar,” she said. And then she said something that no one could believe: “I didn’t know I was pregnant.”
I visited Larissa in the women’s prison. A judge who was a friend of mine had asked me to take her on as a client. She was fifteen. Her father gave an interview to the tabloids, saying she’d always been a good girl and he just couldn’t understand it. He was paid fifty euros.
There have always been repressed pregnancies. Every year in Germany alone, 1,500 women recognize too late that they’re pregnant. And year after year, almost 300 women only realize it when they give birth. They misinterpret all the signs: menstruation has ceased because of stress, the stomach is distended because of overeating, the breasts are enlarging as a result of some hormonal disturbance. These women are either very young or over the age of forty. Many have already had children. People can repress things, though nobody knows how the
Lackner took Larissa to his apartment. She was still a virgin. When he had finished, he sent her home. “Say hi to the old guys” were his farewell words. Back in the apartment, Larissa took a shower under such hot water that it almost scalded her skin. She closed the curtains in her room. Shewas in pain, she was terrified, and there was no one she could tell.
In the next few months things went badly for Larissa. She was tired, she threw up, and she couldn’t concentrate. Her mother said she shouldn’t eat so much candy, it caused her heartburn. Larissa gained almost twenty pounds. She was in the middle of puberty. She had only just taken down the pictures of horses from her wall, and hung up photos from teen magazines. Things got worse, particularly the pains in her stomach. “Colic,” said her father. Her periods had stopped coming: she thought it was because of the revulsion.
On the twelfth of April she barely made it to the toilet. She thought her bowels would explode—she’d had cramps in her stomach all morning. It was something else. She reached between her legs and felt something strange that was growing out of her. She touched sticky hair and a tiny head. “It mustn’t be inside me,” she said later. This had been her only thought, over and over again: It mustn’t be inside me. A few minutes later the baby dropped down into the toilet bowl; she heard the water splash. She stayed sitting. She lost all track of time.
At some point she stood up. The baby was lying down there in the toilet bowl, white and red and greasy and dead. She reached up to the shelf above the washbasin, took the nail scissors, and cut the umbilical cord. She dried herself offwith toilet paper but she couldn’t throw that on top of the baby, so she stuffed it into the plastic bucket in the bath, then sat on the floor till she got cold. When she tried to walk, she wobbled, but she fetched a garbage bag from the kitchen, supporting herself against the wall and leaving a bloody handprint. She pulled the baby out of the toilet, its tiny legs as thin as her fingers. She laid it on a towel. She looked at it, a brief look that was far too long; it lay there, its face blue and its eyes closed. Then she folded the towel over the baby and pushed it into the bag. Carefully, like a loaf of bread, she thought. She took the bag down to the cellar, carrying it with both hands, and set it between the bicycles, weeping silently. On the steps back up she began to bleed. It ran down her thigh, but she didn’t notice. She made it as far as the apartment, then collapsed in the hall. Her mother, who had come home, called the fire department. In the hospital the doctors took care of the afterbirth and alerted the police.
The policewoman was friendly; she wasn’t in uniform, and she stroked the girl’s forehead. Larissa lay in a clean bed; one of the nurses had brought her a few flowers. She told them everything. “It’s in the cellar,” she said. And then she said something that no one could believe: “I didn’t know I was pregnant.”
I visited Larissa in the women’s prison. A judge who was a friend of mine had asked me to take her on as a client. She was fifteen. Her father gave an interview to the tabloids, saying she’d always been a good girl and he just couldn’t understand it. He was paid fifty euros.
There have always been repressed pregnancies. Every year in Germany alone, 1,500 women recognize too late that they’re pregnant. And year after year, almost 300 women only realize it when they give birth. They misinterpret all the signs: menstruation has ceased because of stress, the stomach is distended because of overeating, the breasts are enlarging as a result of some hormonal disturbance. These women are either very young or over the age of forty. Many have already had children. People can repress things, though nobody knows how the
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