Bernhard Schlink - Self's Deception

In an instant the officer was at my side, and helped me first of all to a sitting position, then onto my knees, and finally back onto the chair, which he had set upright again. Peschkalek emitted regretful and worried sounds. Lucky for him he didn't touch me, otherwise I'd have tackled him, wrung his neck, cut him into tiny pieces, and fed him to the birds.

But he wasn't afraid of me. He seized my left arm and marshaled the officer to my right, and both of them helped me to the door and down the stairs. Peschkalek talked and talked. Downstairs the jeep was waiting for us and all three of us got in the back, with me in the middle. As Peschkalek helped me out of the jeep at the main gate, I managed to ram my healthy elbow into his solar plexus. That winded him, but he quickly got his breath back and continued talking at the officer.

The taxi came. The officer was sorry, Peschkalek was sorry, I was sorry. “ But we must make us on the socks ,” I said, and the officer again looked at me oddly. The soldier with the white cap and belt held the door open for us, we got in, and the soldier slammed the door shut. I rolled down the window to say a few last words, but the officer and the soldier had turned away.

“ That's what happens when you have an army with nothing to do ,” I thought I heard the officer say to the soldier, and if I had heard right, our visit had not made a particularly good impression.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Please!” he hissed. “Wait till we're out of here!” He had told the taxi driver to head for the train station. He asked him to hurry so we wouldn't miss the 12:11 train. He also asked him all kinds of questions: How was the local Lorenz Standard Electric Company doing, and Brown, Boveri & Co., since when did Mannheim have streetcars, what was playing at the National Theater, was there actually any water in the Water Tower, and he wove into the conversation that this was our first time in Mannheim and that we needed to get back to Bonn on time. I felt he was laying it on a bit thick, that all this was unnecessary and embarrassing. I leaned my buzzing head in my hands, looked out the window, and hoped to God that the driver wouldn't recognize me if he ever picked me up again.

Peschkalek and I went into the train station through the main entrance and out again through a side door on the left. “Take off your jacket. The Heinrich-von-Stephan Strasse is visible from the taxi stand.”

Here, too, I played along. When we were safely out of view, Peschkalek flipped out. “I got my hands on it!” he shouted. “I got my hands on it!” He threw his jacket on the ground and triumphantly held up the binder. In the commotion after my fall he had snatched it from the fire chief's desk and hidden it in his jacket. He grabbed me by the arms and shook me. “Self! Cheer up! You were great-we were great! Here's the proof, and nobody can say there was no attack!”

I freed myself from his grip. “You don't even know what's in that binder!”

“Well, let's take a look. How about grabbing a bite somewhere nice and elegant. We have something to celebrate, and I owe you one. You know, I thought of telling you what I was thinking of doing, but then you'd have tensed up and really ended up hurting yourself. Plus, you'd never have been as convincing as you were!”

I was in no mood to have lunch with him. Nor was he too pleased that I wanted to make myself a photocopy of the file at the nearest copy center. He tried to forestall it, but in the end couldn't refuse. When my copy was ready we said a cool good-bye.

I went home and took two aspirin. Turbo was out roaming the rooftops. In the refrigerator there were eggs, Black Forest ham, tuna, cream, and butter, and in the freezer a package of spinach. I made a béarnaise sauce, warmed the spinach, poached two eggs, and let the ham sizzle for a bit. I placed the can of tuna in hot water. Turbo enjoys his tuna just as much when it's ice cold, but I can't believe it's good for him. I served lunch on the balcony.

Over a cup of coffee I began going through the American file with the help of a dictionary. When the fence had been cut, the alarm had gone off in the guardhouse. There had been fog, and it took the guards a while to locate the hole. The fog also made a systematic search of the terrain difficult. At one point they thought they had found the intruders. They had called out to them and then fired, both actions specified by regulation 937 LC 01/02. Then came the first explosion, and when they reached the area there was another, the result of which was that one intruder and one guard were killed, and a second intruder was injured and taken into custody. The second explosion had ignited stored chemicals. The fire brigade and the ambulance had been called in and appeared promptly. The fire was extinguished within minutes. No toxic substances were released. There was also a reference to two further reports: numbers 1223.91 CHEM 07 and 7236.90 MED 08. Along with report number 1223.91 CHEM 07, there was a further reference to suggestions for future storage of the chemicals. There had been no authorization at any time for the involvement of the German police, who had appeared at the entrance of the depot. A brief report furnished by the fire brigade was enclosed. The reports identified the fire brigade and guard patrol units, and named the two dead men and the arrested man: Ray Sachs, Giselher Berger, Bertram Mohnhoff. The respective superiors had signed the reports.

Now I had it in black and white. I could imagine Pesch-kalek cursing up a storm, trying to figure out how to get his hands on those other two reports, 1223.91 CHEM 07 and 7236.90 MED 08. Perhaps he'd return to the depot as a member of a cleaning detail? Or disguised as an American army chaplain? I, for one, had no intention of heading out with Peschkalek, dressed as Donald Duck and Daisy, to entertain the poor boys of the chemical and medical divisions.

The afternoon was still young. I drove down the autobahn, realized when I got to the Waldorf junction that I'd gone too far, turned off at the next exit, and meandered back through villages I'd never been through before. When I reached the psychiatric hospital and drove up the winding road leading to the old building, I saw it shining in the distance. The scaffolding had been removed, and the building was covered in fresh yellow paint.

I found the temporary director ensconced in Eberlein's office. “What I have to say,” he told me, “I shall say to the police and to the Public Prosecutor's Office.” He let there be no doubt that I was not welcome.

“When will Professor Eberlein be back?”

“I don't know if he will return, or when. Do you have his address on Dilsberg Mountain? He lives on the Untere Strasse-my secretary will give you the number.” He bade me good day. He hadn't even asked me to sit down, and I was standing before his desk like a corporal before an officer. I walked to the door, and through an intercom he ordered hissecretary to give me one of Eberlein's remaining business cards. I had barely crossed the threshold when I found her standing at attention with a little envelope in her hand. Would the janitor salute as I walked past? No, he was reading a tabloid and only looked up for an instant.

I headed straight over to Dilsberg without calling Eberlein first, parked my Opel in front of the old town gate, and found his house on the Untere Strasse. There was a note taped to the door. “I'm at the Café Schäne Aussicht. E.” I found him on the terrace of the café.

“You? The detective?”

“I realize you were expecting someone else-I figured the note wasn't meant for me. But do you mind if I sit down for a moment?”