But at least Ela’s voice mail activates after the fourth ring.
“Erik,” I stammer into the telephone. “He was at the Munich station, and I can’t get hold of him. Did he get in touch with you?” Even that’s a shimmer of hope. With the way things stand, his first call would probably be to Ela, not me. “Please try to find out. And then call me as quickly as you can, OK? Please.”
Half an hour passes by, an hour. The special report on TV keeps showing the same images over and over, with summaries for anyone just tuning in, as well as experts being interviewed in the studio. Explosion experts. Terrorism experts. They all remain guarded, saying it’s best for everyone to wait until the responsible group steps forward.
Because by now, everyone is in agreement that it’s a terrorist attack.
Ela doesn’t call.
My phone shows that I’ve tried to call Erik forty-seven times. Each time with the same result.
He would pick up if he could, I know that. Despite my knife attack. Despite everything. He wouldn’t do that to me.
By now, there is talk of there being at least thirty-two fatalities. The emphasis being on at least, meaning that this was the number of bodies which had been discovered so far.
I follow the reports in a daze. Some protection mechanism in my head has taken the edge off the panic, stopping me from breaking down completely. I still have no answer to the question of where this intense connection to Erik has suddenly come from, I just know it’s there. Without a single doubt.
When my phone rings later that afternoon, I almost burst into tears. Ela’s name is on the display.
For the duration of a heartbeat, I contemplate not picking up. What if she found out that Erik is dead? What if the uncertainty gives way to a truth I’m not able to cope with?
I pick up anyway, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes before Ela has even said a word.
She doesn’t know anything, I find out after the first few seconds of talking with her. She’s only just listened to her messages.
“Why was Erik at the station?” Her voice is shrill over the phone. “Did he get in touch? Do you know anything?”
“No.” The word is no more than a breath, my voice is as powerless as I am. “I’ve been trying to reach him for hours, but—”
“Oh shit. Shit.” I can hear that Ela is close to tears. “I’ll start calling around right away. I’ll find him. I’ll be in touch.” She hangs up before I have a chance to respond.
I cower back down on the floor in front of the TV, my arms wrapped around my knees, my head resting on top. I only look at the screen every now and then; I’ve already seen all the images being shown, they repeat them at half-hour intervals, and only rarely is there ever any new information. Blue flashing lights in the approaching dusk. Interviews with eyewitnesses who saw everything from the parking lot, from one of the houses opposite, from a car.
Then they show a cell phone video; someone just happened to catch the moment of the explosion by chance, from outside.
An orange glimmer, then windows bursting, flying rubble, walls crashing down.
They repeat it in slow motion, and I imagine Erik in the station, holding his hands over his face for protection, being hurled across the station by the explosion until he crashes against a wall or into a train. Then, part of the ceiling falling in and burying him underneath.
The images aren’t real, but like daggers they pierce the protective layer I’ve built up around my insides. The pain has me doubled over; I hear myself sobbing, want to pull myself together but I can’t.
There’s no point pretending any longer. If Erik was OK, if he hadn’t been at the station, then I would have heard something from him by now. The explosion happened over six hours ago. The six most torturous hours I can ever remember having. But he hasn’t given me any sign of life. Because he can’t. Because he …
Still, I forbid myself from thinking the word. Like thinking it would make everything true. Like it hadn’t already been decided long since.
Around eight o’clock I call Ela again, but just get her mailbox. I leave a message made up of desperate stammering.
I have no idea how I’ll be able to get through the night. Call my mother again? No, that’s a bad idea. I’ll end up needing to comfort her, reassure her, convince her that nothing will happen to me.
And then she calls anyway; she heard about the attack in the morning news. Wasn’t it close to where I am, she asks.
Yes, it was. But I’m OK. I’m fine, yes, don’t worry.
At nine o’clock there is still no word about anyone claiming responsibility for the attack; there have been no messages, no videos. That’s unusual, the experts are in agreement. Especially given such a violent act of terrorism. The number of victims is being constantly updated, right now the count is at seventy.
Politicians announce that action will be taken, without knowing against whom; a national state of mourning is announced.
At around nine thirty, I finally struggle to my feet. I have to drink something, but I can’t even get two gulps of water down; my stomach protests, bringing everything back up. I only manage on the second attempt.
I prop myself up against the sink with both hands. With some luck, I should be able to stomach a little vodka, too. One glass should be enough to give me four or five hours of merciful unconsciousness.
I am just opening the fridge when a key turns in the lock of the front door.
My body moves before my brain has a chance to think. Out of the kitchen, into the hall.
He is standing there. Motionless, as the door falls shut behind him. His suit is torn, there’s a cut across his left cheekbone, the dust and dirt on his face has been wiped away haphazardly.
I can’t get a single word out. My legs only hesitantly obey me; slowly carry me toward him, much too slowly, but then I’m standing in front of him, I put my arms around his neck, press him against me, much too tightly. I want to feel, want to know, that it’s really him, that he’s alive. I want to hear his heartbeat, but instead all I can hear is the sound of me bursting into tears, sobbing, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Instead of hugging Erik I grip onto him, burying my face in his chest, which smells of smoke and metal. It takes me a while to realize that he’s not hugging me back.
I try to pull myself together. Take a few deep breaths until the sobbing subsides. Then I pull back from Erik a little, not much, just enough so I can see his face.
His expression is hard, and at the same time so hurt that my heart almost breaks.
When he speaks, it’s only to say two words.
“Go away.”
30
Very slowly, Joanna lets go of me. She finally takes a step backward, moving in slow motion, creating a distance between us which feels both relieving and painful. Then she just stands there, looking at me. Her forehead and nose are streaked with gray, dust her skin picked up from my jacket.