Ulrike Draesner

“The summer of ‘72,” said Katja, stirring her tea energetically, “everything about that summer seems to be intertwined, you turned up, Max disappeared.”

“Max,” said Susanne, “I remember the name, you were very fond of him, Jozef too, but wasn’t it all already over by then?”

Katja just nodded. Susanne got up, fetched a packet of biscuits, put them down on the table. “The summer of ‘72,” she said softly, “the stadium, the Olympics.”

“And the attack!”, said Katja.

“I remember, the terrorist on the balcony with his mask, it made one of his eyes much bigger than the other, creepy. But the other images are all hidden, as if behind a veil. For me it was a happy time, because of you and your father!”

Happiness.

As if this was her cue, as if she had been waiting to hear something as improbable as “happiness” in connection with the summer of ‘72, Katja began her tale. About the raid on Max. His decision to switch to the police. It was the first time she had spoken about it to anyone. She left nothing out, did not spare herself.

When she was through, the tea was finished and Susanne got up to brew a new pot. Katja rummaged in her pocket, looking for Labello, “Have you got some?” Susanne shook her head, but took a tin of Nivea from the draining board. “Even the motif for my best photos comes from that time,” said Katja, holding the lid off the tin in her hand, as if she wanted to look into it like a mirror.

There was a question Katja had come to ask. Thinking about it now made her tremble. But maybe Susanne could be distracted. Take your heart in your hands and take the leap, people said. That was all very well. But what if your heart just leapt right back, quaking in your breast, like hers was now.

Susanne was not to be distracted, “And what happened to Max in Fürstenfeldbrück?”

“Juschka, shall I make some more tea?”

Katja nodded and shook her head at the same time. It must have looked Indian; Susanne gave her guest a dubious look. “Tea yes,” said Katja, “Max no. I know almost nothing about him, he has a wife and a child, according to father,” Katja shrugged her shoulders, as if to underline her honesty, and put the lid back on the tin. With her lips all white now, she looked as if she was expecting sun, altitude, light. “For a while we heard nothing,” she continued after a pause, “all through the autumn his siblings remained stubbornly silent. Until carnival time in ‘73, just before the holidays, when his youngest sister planted herself in front of me during break at school. She was a head shorter than I was, she put her hands on her hips and trumpeted it out, ‘Max has a limp’. ‘So what?’ I said and thought, what do I care? ‘It’s permanent,’ Isabelle shouted. ‘And?,’ I asked again,” Katja smiled sheepishly across at Susanne, “stupid as I was. Instead of getting out of there, I kept asking, not aware of what was going on, although everyone at school had known since Christmas that Max had been injured in Fürstenfeldbrück. The media didn’t mention his name, out of consideration for his age and for his parents. And there I was asking his little sister, ‘How come?’ ‘I thought you weren’t interested,’ Isabelle sneered and ran off. I ran after her, shouting ‘Yes I am – I am now!’”

Katja swallowed. No, surely it wasn’t a good idea to dwell on these old things. She should call Toni. Get back to her work, keep travelling, who needed a home, she hadn’t needed one for twenty years!

“Isabelle claimed that the shooting went on for hours.”

“That can’t be true!” said Susanne, sitting back down opposite Katja.

“It is true. And Max was injured.”

“Ahuh, and by whom?”

Again, Katja had to shrug her shoulders. “Shot in the lung and the hip.” Susanne drew breath sharply through her front teeth. Katja nodded, “By the time Isabelle spoke to me, his life was no longer in danger. His leg was the only thing they couldn’t fix,” whispered Katja, her hand on her knee, as if needing to prop herself up. Susanne reached for the Nivea tin and put some on her lips, too. Perhaps to be closer to Katja. She smiled at her encouragingly: “Was Max’s sister lying?”

“I ended up wondering about that too,” Katja answered, “wishful thinking. At school, the word was that Max had had to quit the police and that he was studying at vocational college to retake his Abitur.”

“But that didn’t prove anything!”

“Precisely,” said Katja, “so I went there. It wasn’t hard to find out when they started in the afternoon. And he actually turned up, his right leg twisted outwards, his right shoe a little higher than his left. It wasn’t a real limp, but a stiff, unhappy gait. Very slow. He looked completely changed,” Katja whispered, “which frightened and haunted me even more.” She fought back the tears. “I stared at his lips, the same fullness as ever, ‘Sanne, but all the defiance was gone. And that wasn’t the end of it. At break a few days later, Isabelle confronted me again in the crowded hall, looked around her, her eyes aglow, and before I realized what was happening, she was already shouting: ‘It was you who dreamt up the raid on Max. And because of that he’ll be limping for the rest of his life. It’s your fault!’.”

“Then,” Katja murmured, “she burst into tears. Her, not me. The whole school talked about it for days.”

“Oh dear,” said Susanne and tugged at her earlobe, “now I remember. Out of the blue, you ran up a high temperature, with no other symptoms whatsoever. So that’s what it was.”

“Typical doctor,” thought Katja, “that’s how they tick.”

“And?,” asked Susanne.

“What do you mean: And?”

“Did you never find out if what she said was true?”

“He had a limp, I’d seen it for myself!”

Susanne waved this aside, “But Katja, it’s as if you’re being blind on purpose. The question is not whether he had a limp, but how it happened!”

“What do you mean?”, asked Katja and swallowed with impatience, “that’s exactly what I just explained.”

Susanne shook her head. “Slow down. There were so many police in Fürstenfeldbrück!” “One of them was even shot dead,” Katja shouted. Susanne frowned, “Who says that Max dropped out of school because you dreamt up the raid? And that you are also to blame for an injury he suffered six months later. Six months – that’s time for a lot of decisions!”

Katja looked at Susanne questioningly.

“And anyway, how many casualties were there?”, Susanne asked. Katja said, “No idea.” “And why Max specifically?”, said Susanne. And Katja said, “Hmm”. Susanne said, “Maybe he made a mistake himself?” And Katja said, “Hmm”. And Susanne said, “Disobeyed an order? Behaved foolishly, inexperienced as he was!” “Hmm,” said Katja, “could be.”

Her unease collapsed in on itself like a pricked soufflé. Why had she never bothered to find out the details of the operation? Max was supposed to have been standing right next to the policeman who was killed. That was all she knew.