bend and pick up a magazine; found a naked woman staring back at her, fat stomach rolling underneath two giant breasts. The woman lay sprawled across an armchair; looked cramped, uncomfortable, one buttock puckered like a wind-bruised sea. She laid the magazine down again, circumvented the bed, the crumpled sheet, blankets crusty with old dirt. The second door was only a step away. She reached and held its handle like the hand of a friend; gently, that is, for comfort and strength. Her fist rose: she knocked, drowning out the wheezing of her lungs.
There was no answer.
It wasn’t long before she opened the door, and waited for the light to follow her inside.
Chapter 6
Nine-year-old Anneliese Grotter was sitting on the stairs leading up to the first-floor landing of the building’s side wing and wishing she had brought Kaiser San along. Zuzka had long disappeared through the door at the top of the landing: had struggled with the keys for a while, her breath a broken whistle groping for a tune. Then silence had fallen, a silence full of muffled sound, steps in the ceiling, the murmur of the walls, the tinkle of pipes, all far too loud in the girl’s straining ears. Twice she’d stood up, stretched out her legs; crept up to the door to find it wasn’t locked but leaned shut against the deadbolt. Lieschen had put a hand to it, applied some pressure, felt a weight shift on the other side. Afraid, excited, she’d gone back to her perch upon the stairs; pulled her dress over knees that were bumpy with cold, gave herself over to the passing of minutes. She tried to count them, found herself racing through the seconds; used the rhythm of her heart (Father had shown her, three taps for every two seconds, one had to count out loud or soon lose track), but found it, too, was racing through its beats. It might have been three, it might have been twenty: two lines of spittle running down her chin. At some point, she had pulled a braid into her mouth and started sucking on its strands.
Then a racket roused her, scared her, a rush of water underneath her bum. She leapt up, nearly choking on her hair; recognised the flush of the hallway loo, the tread of a man stepping out. Before she could move, he had walked into sight: stood head bent, hands still busy with his belt, a rolled-up newspaper jutting from his pocket. He wore a black hat and evening clothes, his features creeping with the hallway’s shadows. In the dim light the only thing Lieschen was sure of was the slant of his eye. Another moment and he would turn; see her, search his pocket for a knife. She was two yards above him, three yards to his left; a measly foot from the shelter of the staircase’s turn.
Her feet obeyed her. Later, in the safety of her room, she would feel grateful for their courage, would praise and spin them through another pirouette. Just now she simply stepped away, was on the staircase one moment, and up on the landing the next. She heard him follow her, a heavy man’s shuffle, had a second to make up her mind, crooked neck trained down into the stairwell. She could run or she could hide.
The door gave under little pressure: a chair slid aside, making no noise, her fingers guiding shut the door behind her. She fell to her knees and pressed an eye against the keyhole. The big man was walking towards her, then turned sharply to his left; stopped at the bottom of the stairs (she could nearly read the headline on the newspaper peeking from the pocket of his coat), broke wind, and carried on, his leather soles making a racket on the stone. The knife he carried remained safely in his pocket.
Lieschen exhaled, relieved. She jumped to her feet and turned around, expected Zuzka there, glaring at her, ready to scold. But the room was empty, save for its clutter, and smelled like her father’s, of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat. At the far end, another door stood open upon a shadow of movement. She drew closer, curious, slipped on some magazines that lay
There was no answer.
It wasn’t long before she opened the door, and waited for the light to follow her inside.
Chapter 6
Nine-year-old Anneliese Grotter was sitting on the stairs leading up to the first-floor landing of the building’s side wing and wishing she had brought Kaiser San along. Zuzka had long disappeared through the door at the top of the landing: had struggled with the keys for a while, her breath a broken whistle groping for a tune. Then silence had fallen, a silence full of muffled sound, steps in the ceiling, the murmur of the walls, the tinkle of pipes, all far too loud in the girl’s straining ears. Twice she’d stood up, stretched out her legs; crept up to the door to find it wasn’t locked but leaned shut against the deadbolt. Lieschen had put a hand to it, applied some pressure, felt a weight shift on the other side. Afraid, excited, she’d gone back to her perch upon the stairs; pulled her dress over knees that were bumpy with cold, gave herself over to the passing of minutes. She tried to count them, found herself racing through the seconds; used the rhythm of her heart (Father had shown her, three taps for every two seconds, one had to count out loud or soon lose track), but found it, too, was racing through its beats. It might have been three, it might have been twenty: two lines of spittle running down her chin. At some point, she had pulled a braid into her mouth and started sucking on its strands.
Then a racket roused her, scared her, a rush of water underneath her bum. She leapt up, nearly choking on her hair; recognised the flush of the hallway loo, the tread of a man stepping out. Before she could move, he had walked into sight: stood head bent, hands still busy with his belt, a rolled-up newspaper jutting from his pocket. He wore a black hat and evening clothes, his features creeping with the hallway’s shadows. In the dim light the only thing Lieschen was sure of was the slant of his eye. Another moment and he would turn; see her, search his pocket for a knife. She was two yards above him, three yards to his left; a measly foot from the shelter of the staircase’s turn.
Her feet obeyed her. Later, in the safety of her room, she would feel grateful for their courage, would praise and spin them through another pirouette. Just now she simply stepped away, was on the staircase one moment, and up on the landing the next. She heard him follow her, a heavy man’s shuffle, had a second to make up her mind, crooked neck trained down into the stairwell. She could run or she could hide.
The door gave under little pressure: a chair slid aside, making no noise, her fingers guiding shut the door behind her. She fell to her knees and pressed an eye against the keyhole. The big man was walking towards her, then turned sharply to his left; stopped at the bottom of the stairs (she could nearly read the headline on the newspaper peeking from the pocket of his coat), broke wind, and carried on, his leather soles making a racket on the stone. The knife he carried remained safely in his pocket.
Lieschen exhaled, relieved. She jumped to her feet and turned around, expected Zuzka there, glaring at her, ready to scold. But the room was empty, save for its clutter, and smelled like her father’s, of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat. At the far end, another door stood open upon a shadow of movement. She drew closer, curious, slipped on some magazines that lay
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