Alina Bronsky - Broken Glass Park

“I find myself having to take responsibility for something that cannot be justified. Whatever you criticize us about, you will be completely in the right.”

“Why do you have to?” I ask.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why do you have to take responsibility?”

“Because I’m the section editor,” says the man flatly. “I am in charge of the local news. When I came back from vacation, I gave Ms. Mahler and my co-worker who ran the piece an earful. That’s why she was a bit nervous when you honored us with your unannounced visit. I had told Ms. Mahler that, as a result of her little ditty, for the first time in my career I hoped our paper wasn’t being read and that the family of the victims never came across it. My wish was not answered. I ask for your forgiveness from the bottom of my heart.”

He sticks the rest of the cookie in his mouth and smiles at me. It’s a crooked smile because his left cheek is bulging out.

“I’m so sorry,” he says suddenly with his mouth full. “I followed the news about the case two years ago. And not just for professional reasons. It created a sense of shock and dismay in me that exceeded anything I had experienced in the course of my work in years. I’m very sorry.”

I nod.

Then we’re both silent for a while. I listen as he chews up the cookie and swallows it. Then he pours himself a cup of coffee and reaches for the cream.

“What can I do for you, Sascha?” he says as he does. “You can dismiss that as an empty offer, but I would actually be willing to do a lot to try to ease things for you. Do you have any ideas about how I could do that?”

I try to think. Not that I expect to come up with something, but I want to be able to answer in a way that doesn’t sound stupid for once. My best moments so far have been silent ones.

A white rectangle with letters on it pops into my field of vision. I put out my hand. The rectangle is put into the palm of my hand.

You are capable of reading, Ms. Naimann, I think to myself. You taught yourself how to read when you were four. And ever since you’ve read everything you could get your hands on.

So read it.

I read: Volker Trebur, Editor, City Section. There’s an address, telephone number, email, private address, and phone number.

I look at him quizzically.

“Call me when you think of something I can do,” he says. “Hang on, my mobile number’s not on there.” He pulls a pen out of his chest pocket, takes the white rectangle from my hand, writes a row of numbers on it, and puts the card back in my hand. “It would be an honor,” he says flatly.

I try to shove the business card into my pants pocket. But when I stand up to do that, I drop it on the floor. I bend over to pick it up and crumple it in my fist.

“Is it a deal?”

“What? I’m sorry?”

“You’ll come up with something?”

“I don’t know if I’ll think of anything,” I mumble. “I’m not very creative.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Then don’t.” I pull my backpack onto my shoulders. The man stands up quickly.

“Thanks for letting me in,” I say. “It’s nice to be taken seriously. I’m off.”

“I’ll take you down,” he says and opens the door for me. We ride the elevator silently. The card wriggles in my hand like a captured butterfly. Maybe it just feels that way because my hand is shaking.

At the glass door I turn to him. I’m expecting to have to shake hands goodbye. I don’t like shaking hands and don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

But he doesn’t try to shake my hand. He puts his hand on my shoulder and says “Good day.”

“Good day,” I answer like an echo.

I take the subway, the commuter rail line, and the tram. The business card in my hand has stopped wriggling. I open the apartment door with the other hand and toss my backpack in the corner beneath the jackets.

That’s when I see them — the shoes.

I wouldn’t have noticed them if I hadn’t tripped over them. They’re big, stained leather shoes. The laces hang limply from them.

Huh, I think lethargically, and shove them aside with my foot. I want to go straight to my room. But I stop at the door to my room and turn around to look back at the shoes again.

It’s a riddle, I think. A pear, a banana, an apple, and a circular saw: which one of these things is not like the rest?

It’s nice operating in a gray fog, I think to myself. Gray is a nice color. It’s underrated. Ignored. Has a bad reputation. But I’m warming up to it.

“Maria,” I call out, surprising even myself, “there are some shoes out here.”

The answer comes quickly, high-pitched, kind of surprised. It’s not a word so much as an “Oh!”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I say angrily.

Maria appears in the kitchen doorway. She’s in flesh-colored tights and a floral-pattern blouse. She’s frantically patting down her hair.

“Little Sascha,” she says, her eyes wide. “You’re home so early today. We. . I hadn’t expected you.”

“What do you mean early?” I say. “I’m not early.”

“You always have your get-together Friday afternoons,” Maria says.

“My club,” I correct her, realizing she’s right. Fridays the philosophy club meets after school. I’d forgotten. “And so what? Aren’t I allowed to come home when I want?”

“Yes, yes,” Maria says quickly. “Of course, of course.”

She looks a little pale to me today.

The circular saw is the correct answer. It is the only one of the four things that doesn’t rot.

Instead of going into my room, I go to the kitchen. Maria blocks my path. I have to shout at her for a second before she steps aside. I take a step forward and make the big discovery.

Sitting at our kitchen table is Grigorij, the father of Anna’s friend Angela. I recognize him from seeing him around. We always say hi to each other. He’s short and wiry, has a black moustache and a messy head of salt-and-pepper-colored hair. He’s in an undershirt and sweatpants, trying to hide behind his teacup. But he can’t, even though it’s a big cup. Steam rises from the cup. Grigorij’s holding onto a spoon, the other end of which is in a jar of jam. The still life is completed by a plate of cookies.

“Hi, Uncle Grischa,” I say out of habit.

Grigorij puts the spoon in his mouth and licks it off — probably just a displacement activity as he ponders his next move.

“Hello, Sascha,” he says. I hear an unfamiliar rustle. I frown, concentrating, until I realize it’s the sound of Grigorij’s feet — in blue socks — fidgeting around beneath the table. Probably looking for his shoes.

“Your shoes are in the entryway,” I say coolly. “Or do you already have a pair of slippers you keep here? Just don’t tell me you use mine. I wouldn’t know, because before today our paths haven’t crossed in this house, have they?”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Sascha,” he says. This gets me briefly fired up, because there’s nothing I hate more than people talking ridiculous bullshit.

“What exactly have I got wrong?” I ask. Maria disappears like a shadow at noon and reappears just as quickly with Grigorij’s shoes in her hand. She lays them deferentially at his feet.

“You might as well put them on for him, too,” I say, looking at the wall. “Why half-ass it?”

Grigorij slips out of his chair and squats to tie his shoes.

“It’s not right, acting this way, Sascha,” he says, lifting his wrinkled face toward me.

“What’s not right?” I ask loudly. It comes out that way because my anger is being tempered by a gnawing, sudden sense of pity. Just what I need, I think. Her genes. At exactly the wrong moment.

Couldn’t I have gotten her beautiful eyes instead? Please?