We reached Frankfurt at about four in the afternoon. The jet touched down on the tarmac as if on velvet. Through the window, I saw the parade of glass façades, planes connected to gates, service vehicles, wagons overflowing with baggage, wide buses … and the sun. It was a nice day in my city. I had been expecting an overcast sky, with drizzle and wind appropriate to the occasion, instead of which a glorious afternoon was rolling out the red carpet for us. How to define the feeling that overcame me the moment the wheels of the jet touched my native soil? Impossible to describe it. Impossible to contain it. A remarkable alchemy took possession of my being, of every drop of my blood. I was millions of emotions … The jet rolled along a secondary runway, circumvented several small blocks, and at last stopped outside a structure that looked like some kind of grand reception area. Journalists were waiting impatiently behind a barrier. Flashbulbs started popping, and reached a peak as I got off the plane. The Chancellor and a few members of her government greeted me at the foot of the stairs. Not having eaten since Khartoum, I didn’t feel well. Somebody whispered something to me, but I didn’t catch it. Since everyone was smiling, I did the same. Happiness is contagious. Chests restricted my breathing, arms encircled my body, hands engulfed mine. The Chancellor was so moved she had tears in her eyes. She said something to me, but the yelling of the journalists drowned it out. I thanked her. I heard myself thanking everyone for everything. Behind the official staff, the Makkenroth family were having to grin and bear it; clearly, this media attention, these ministers, the whole performance was intruding on their mourning. I would learn later that they had wanted things to be done as privately as possible, but protocol had other requirements. I went up to Bertram, Hans’s oldest son. I had known him for years. We threw our arms around each other. The hug was a brief one. His wife, hidden behind a black veil, lightly touched my fingertips. Mathias, the younger son, patted me on the back. I had met him two or three times, but couldn’t remember where. He was a taciturn, mysterious young man. Deeply affected by the loss of his father, he avoided looking me in the eyes. An old lady, doubtless the senior member of the family, leant towards me and whispered, ‘We don’t want to know anything about what happened, Herr Krausmann. Hans is dead, and that’s all that matters.’ Her voice was low, but what she said sounded like a warning. Hans’s coffin was taken from the hold of the plane and placed on a catafalque covered with flowers. Again, there was an explosion of flashbulbs. There was a stirring within the Makkenroth family, but it was quickly stifled. The Chancellor made a moving statement to the press, then held the microphone out to me. I raised my hand in refusal, much to the disappointment of the journalists, who were eager for a speech. What could I say, what could I add? The embassy people had worn me out in Khartoum, and I couldn’t wait to go home. Bertram agreed to address the journalists. He was concise and fair: ‘My father always felt that it was through sharing that one reached maturity. He shared his fortune, his time and his humanity with the poor all over the world, and he shared their sufferings and tragedies, too. Hans Makkenroth didn’t do things by half. He was generous and sincere, and never promised what he couldn’t deliver. He loved people, and many returned that love. He was an exceptional man. He gave so much of himself to others that they have kept him for ever.’
A hearse appeared, followed by a column of official cars and black limousines. The journalists started running towards the exit. The crowd behind the barrier thinned out, and I saw Claudia Reinhardt. She was standing near a group of cameramen who were feverishly packing up their equipment in order to miss nothing of the end of the spectacle. She was wearing a sober tailored suit, and gave me a reluctant smile. Gerd Bechter offered me a lift in the back of his car. I told him I was going straight home. He tried to dissuade me, but I wouldn’t listen to him and walked towards Claudia. At that moment, when my world was shrinking around me, she was my whole family.
A cluster of journalists were cooling their heels outside my house. I told Claudia not to stop. She did as she was told and took the first turning. She drove very badly. The emotion, perhaps. Earlier, when she had taken me in her arms, she had burst into tears. She was lost for words. She laughed and cried, grimaced and smiled, and shook from head to toe. The touch of her body against mine reassured me. Here I was, really here, in the flesh. I was in my country, in my city, in my element. The Frankfurt sun reconciled me to my feelings. I was free, I had my life back, and my suit had stopped chafing me. I lowered the window and couldn’t stop breathing in the air, drawing strength and confidence from it. I looked at the buildings, the cars passing us, the lawns, the advertising hoardings, the street lamps, the surface of the road, and for the first time the hiss of the wheels on the asphalt silenced the hate-laden voices and the gunshots that had been using my head for sparring practice.
Claudia suggested we go to her place. I agreed. The journalists would have to cut me some slack in the end, and then I would go home and learn to live again.
Claudia lived on the third floor of a small building in Eckenheim. I had set up my first practice in that area, two years before I got married, and had really liked the place and the people, but Jessica had wanted me to move to Sachsenhausen, near where she worked, so that we could have lunch together. We had been very close at the beginning of our relationship. It was as if we were one and the same person. We would phone each other all the time, about insignificant things — we were just happy to know that we were only a call away from each other. The phone line constituted our umbilical cord.
Claudia preceded me into the entrance hall. There was no lift. We took the stairs as quickly as possible because I had no desire to be recognised by a neighbour. My photograph, along with Hans’s, had been in the newspapers and on television for months.
‘I sent someone to clean your house,’ Claudia told me as she unlocked her door.
‘Thank you.’
In the hallway of her apartment, she took my bag and helped me off with my jacket. ‘You can stay here as long as you like,’ she said. ‘My mother will put me up for a few days.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I really don’t want to impose. I should go back to the house. It’ll be night soon, and the journalists must have homes to go to.’