Strangers: A Novel(64)

In the background, a man passes by who is built like Erik, but his face is unrecognizable because it’s white and gray with dust, with just a sharp, blood-red line across his forehead.

No. Now that the man’s closer to the camera, I can see that it’s not Erik.

“We have an eyewitness who was in the station when the explosion took place,” the reporter is saying. An older man comes into the picture, visibly struggling to breathe.

“Could you describe for us what you experienced?”

The man coughs. “It’s indescribable,” he croaks. “I was just inside the main entrance and suddenly there was a bang, an unbelievably loud bang—and then fire, and smoke. I turned around, but before I did I saw part of the ceiling collapsing inward. On top of … people.” He turns aside, wiping his hand over his face. “If it had been three minutes later, I would have been standing right there. My God. Those poor people.”

“Thank you,” the reporter says, and the camera sweeps to the side, to a medic who is just getting into an ambulance. Then back to the building. A mixture of smoke and dust is still billowing out from it.

I know they aren’t allowed to film inside. Or at least, not to broadcast what they’re filming. Luckily.

They switch back to the studio, where the presenter gives an emergency hotline number for those worried about loved ones. As I note it down, my hand shakes so much that I can barely read it.

But first I try to reach Erik’s phone again directly, wishing nothing more than to hear his voice, so that I don’t have to keep imagining his dead body underneath the rubble.

Nothing. Just the network message again. The number you have dialed is not available.

The hotline, then. The first time I call it’s busy, and on the second try I’m placed on hold.

Waiting, in this situation. Doomed to uncertainty and helplessness. I know I won’t be able to stand this for much longer, and at the same time I’m surprised, wondering where this strong reaction is coming from.

The man I’m worrying about is … No, not a stranger anymore, but neither do I know him well enough to feel this much fear at the prospect that something could have happened to him.

Would I be this upset if it were Darja? Or Ela? I’ve known both of them longer than Erik, have a kind of friendship with both of them. But all the same—my panic wouldn’t be as great as it is right now. I would be terribly worried, sure, and I would try to find out if they were OK, but not with desperate urgency like this.

Ela. Thinking of her raises my spirits a little. If I can get hold of her, that’s better than any hotline. She can make inquiries with her friends in the hospitals—I know she would. She cares about Erik a great deal, she would do anything to find out if he’s OK.

But she doesn’t pick up either. I should have guessed; all of the hospitals far and wide must have put their emergency procedures into action, and with all likelihood there’s chaos at the lab as well.

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.