Bernhard Schlink - Self's Deception

Peschkalek came and stood next to me. “That's that, I guess.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“You knew Wendt personally?”

“Yes.” I saw no reason not to tell him. “His father has commissioned me to investigate.”

“Then we really are on the same track. Not that I'm investigating for his father-I'm investigating for myself. But you and I are aiming to get to the bottom of this. Want to grab some lunch? You can leave your car here; I'll bring you back afterward.”

We drove over to Ladenburg. In Zwiwwel they were serving chervil soup followed by lamb with potatoes au gratin. Peschkalek had the waiter bring us a bottle of Forster Blauer Portugieser. For dessert we had fresh strawberries. Needless to say, I wanted to know why Peschkalek was investigating, what he was looking for, and what, if anything, he had managed to unearth. But I was in no hurry. Again our get-together was short and pleasant. He told me of his travels as a photojournalist all over Europe, America, Africa, and Asia, and quite nonchalantly touched on a colorful hodgepodge of wars, conferences, artwork, crime, famines, and celebrity weddings that he had covered. I was amazed. Wanderlust or no, I was happy enough to be the provincial that I am. Much as I like to head off to faraway places, my travels have been pretty much limited to a short trip to America, a few Aegean jaunts on a yacht with an old Greek girlfriend from my student days, and a few trips to Rimini, Carinthia, and Langeoog with Klara. I don't think I want to see a civil war, regardless of how photogenic it is, or Elizabeth Taylor marrying Boris Becker with the Taj Mahal as backdrop.

Over an espresso and a sambuca, his pipe and my cigarette lit, Peschkalek began of his own accord: “I bet you're wondering what I'm doing photographing all these things to do with Wendt. I'm not sure yet. But I have a nose for hot stories. And when there's a hot story somewhere, I take hot pictures. It's not the text that's the issue. If push comes to shove I even throw something together myself. Probing-that's what counts, and probing means photographing. If it isn't in the camera, it doesn't exist. Do you know what I mean?”

He had expounded his journalistic credo with passion, and I was happy to nod my assent.

“What did your nose get wind of?” I asked.

He reached into the inside pocket of his denim jacket and took out a piece of paper. “All you have to do is put two and two together. A week ago yesterday, Wendt was murdered. He had hidden a young terrorist, Leonore Salger, in the State Psychiatric Hospital. The police are looking for this terrorist because of an attack on an American military installation. The official search is initiated on the evening of the murder-Monday evening I saw it on TV, and Tuesday morning I read it in the papers. You're not going to tell me that's a coincidence, are you? Did Leonore Salger kill him? Or someone from the CIA, FBI, or DEA? Since the Achille Lauro incident, the Americans aren't too pleased about attacks on their installations or people of theirs being taken hostage or murdered. They retaliate. And from what I hear, there were some casualties during the attack on their installation.”

I pointed at the piece of paper in his hand. “What's that?”

“Now we're getting to the mystery. I'm not sure how carefully you've been following things. So the police aren't saying anything about the circumstances of Wendt's death or about motives and suspects? Fine, I can understand that. I guess they don't know enough. But can you explain why not a word has been said about the exact time or place of the terrorist attack, or how the attack was perpetrated, and what came of it all? There's been nothing specific, not a single specific thing! Not on TV and not in the papers. I even went so far as to take a look at some of the old articles about Baader, Meinhof, and Schleyer. What they wrote back then was often wishy-washy, but still more precise than what we're reading and hearing now. Do you see what I'm saying?”

“I certainly do. And it's not just the media. The police, too, are pussyfooting more than they usually do.”

“I said to myself, something's got to be wrong. You can't trumpet an attack like that to all the world on one hand, and keep your lips tightly sealed on the other. If such an attack had passed unnoticed…But I can't imagine that either. Perhaps people just didn't realize what was going on. But somebody must have noticed that something happened. And then that somebody wouldn't have kept it to himself. But I can't cover the whole area questioning everyone and his mother. However, I did look through all the newspapers, the local news. The Mannheimer Morgen , the Rhein-Neckar-Zeitung , the Rheinpfalz , and all their offshoots. I sifted through the local items, looking for something like, 'Last night Mr. L, a farmer, was shaken out of deep sleep by a blast that shattered the windows and rattled the plates in the cupboards. The incident remains a mystery…' Do you know what I mean?”

“Did you come up with anything?”

With a broad, proud smile he handed me the paper. Over the article he had written “Viernheimer Tageblatt” and a date in March.

“Go on, read it.”

Explosions at the Munitions Depot?

“Have there been any explosions in the past few years at the American Forces Munitions Depot near Viernheim? Why has the guard detail for the last few months been issued special protective clothing?”

In the District Council yesterday, the Green Party put this question to the council chief, Dr. S. Kannenguth, in his function as the head of the Emergency Management Agency of the Bergstrasse District. The speaker of the Green Party, J. Altmann, did not clarify the background of the question.

As was to be expected, the council chief could not provide an immediate reply, but promised an investigation and an official written response by the next session.

In fact, in January of this year, I happened to be driving through the woods one evening when I observed the glow of a fire above the munitions depot. The Viernheim police at the depot gates were not authorized to provide me with any information, and repeated queries to the press office of the American Forces have remained unanswered.

H. Walters

I read the piece twice. And then a third time. Was I missing something? Was I slow on the uptake? The attack had taken place in January at a munitions depot near Viernheim, and had caught the attention of Walters. I could not gather more from the article than a confirmation of Leo's account. Peschkalek couldn't even do that. What did he find so exciting about it?

I kept to the matter at hand. “What were the district council chief's findings?”

“What do you think? Inquiries made to both German and American agencies indicated no explosions at the munitions depot. As for the guards at the depot, they're periodically issued protective clothing for training purposes. The safety of the people of Viernheim has at no time been compromised through activities at the munitions depot.”

“Did you speak to Altmann? Or to Walters?”

“It was Altmann who provided me with the district chief's reply. Otherwise, he was a bit of a disappointment.” Peschkalek grinned at me. “And I admit I'm a bit of a disappointment as a pipe smoker. I think I'd rather go for one of your cigarettes.” He put away his pipe, which hadn't lit despite his desperate attempts, reached for my yellow pack of Sweet Aftons, and began smoking with relish. “Altmann doesn't have any insider information worth mentioning. Everything he knows comes from Walters. But what Walters happened to see that night was all Altmann needed to take a little swipe at the district council chief. I don't know if Walters knows more. I didn't manage to catch him yesterday.” Peschkalek looked at his watch, out the window, and then at me. “What if we head over to Viernheim and have a chat with him? He should be in his office now.”