Winter of the World

Carla and Frieda went farther along the street and found the youth hostel. There were thousands of such places in Germany, designed to cater for exactly such people as they were pretending to be, athletic youngsters on a vigorous open-air holiday. They checked in. The facilities were primitive, with three-tiered bunk beds, but the place was cheap.

It was late afternoon when they cycled out of town. After a mile they came to a left turn. There was no signpost, but the road led uphill, so they took it.

Carla’s apprehension intensified. The nearer they got, the harder it would be to seem innocent under questioning.

A mile later they saw a large house in a park. It did not seem to be walled or fenced, and the road led up to the door. Once again there were no signs.

Unconsciously, Carla had been expecting a hilltop castle of forbidding grey stone, with barred windows and ironbound oak doors. But this was a Bavarian country house, with steep overhanging roofs, wooden balconies, and a little bell tower. Surely nothing as horrible as child murder could go on here? It also seemed small, for a hospital. Then she saw that a modern extension had been added to one side, with a tall chimney.

They dismounted and leaned their bikes against the side of the building. Carla’s heart was in her mouth as they walked up the steps to the entrance. Why were there no guards? Because no one would be so foolhardy as to try to investigate the place?

There was no bell or knocker, but when Carla pushed the door it opened. She stepped inside, and Frieda followed. They found themselves in a cool hall with a stone floor and bare white walls. There were several rooms off the hall, but all the doors were closed. A middle-aged woman in spectacles was coming down a broad staircase. She wore a smart grey dress. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Hello,’ said Frieda casually.

‘What are you doing? You can’t come in here.’

Frieda and Carla had prepared a story. ‘I just wanted to visit the place where my brother died,’ Frieda said. ‘He was fifteen—’

‘This isn’t a public facility!’ the woman said indignantly.

‘Yes, it is.’ Frieda had been brought up in a wealthy family, and was not cowed by minor functionaries.

A nurse of about nineteen appeared from a side door and stared at them. The woman in the grey dress spoke to her. ‘Nurse König, fetch Herr Römer immediately.’

The nurse hurried away.

The woman said: ‘You should have written in advance.’

‘Did you not get my letter?’ said Frieda. ‘I wrote to the Senior Physician.’ This was not true: Frieda was improvising.

‘No such letter has been received!’ Clearly the woman felt that Frieda’s outrageous request could not possibly have gone unnoticed.

Carla was listening. The place was strangely quiet. She had dealt with physically and mentally handicapped people, adults and children, and they were not often silent. Even through these closed doors she should have been able to hear shouts, laughter, crying, voices raised in protest, and nonsensical ravings. But there was nothing. It was more like a morgue.

Frieda tried a new tack. ‘Perhaps you can tell me where my brother’s grave is. I’d like to visit it.’

‘There are no graves. We have an incinerator.’ She immediately corrected herself. ‘A cremation facility.’

Carla said: ‘I noticed the chimney.’

Frieda said: ‘What happened to my brother’s ashes?’

‘They will be sent to you in due course.’

‘Don’t mix them up with anyone else’s, will you?’

The woman’s neck reddened in a blush, and Carla guessed they did mix up the ashes, figuring that no one would know.

Nurse König reappeared, followed by a burly man in the white uniform of a male nurse. The woman said: ‘Ah, Römer. Please escort these girls off the premises.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Frieda. ‘Are you quite sure you’re doing the right thing? I only wanted to see the place where my brother died.’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Then you won’t mind letting me know your name.’

There was a second’s hesitation. ‘Frau Schmidt. Now please leave us.’

Römer moved towards them in a menacing way.

‘We’re going,’ Frieda said frostily. ‘We have no intention of giving Herr Römer an excuse to molest us.’

The man changed course and opened the door for them.

They went out, climbed on their bikes, and rode down the drive. Frieda said: ‘Do you think she believed our story?’

‘Totally,’ said Carla. ‘She didn’t even ask our names. If she had suspected the truth she would have called the police right away.’

‘But we didn’t learn much. We saw the chimney. But we didn’t find anything we could call proof.’

Carla felt a bit down. Getting evidence was not as easy as it sounded.