THE MURDER FARM
THE MURDER FARM
Andrea Maria Schenkel
Translated from the German by Anthea Bell
New York • London
New York • London
© 2006 by Edition Nautilus
Translation © 2008 by Anthea Bell
Originally published in Germany as Tannöd by Edition Nautilus in 2006
First published in the United States by Quercus in 2014
The Litany for the Comfort of Poor Souls (for private use) printed in the book is taken from The Myrtle Wreath. A spiritual guide for brides and book of devotions for the Christian woman. Kevelaer 1922.
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e-ISBN 978-1-62365-168-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
I spent the first summer after the end of the war with distant relations in the country.
During those weeks, that village seemed to me an island of peace. One of the last places to have survived intact after the great storm that we had just weathered.
Years later, when life had gone back to normal and that summer was only a happy memory, I read about the same village in the paper.
My village had become the home of “the murder farm,” and I couldn’t get the story out of my mind.
With mixed feelings, I went back.
The people I met there were very willing to tell me about the crime. To talk to a stranger who was nonetheless familiar with the place. Someone who wouldn’t stay, would listen, and then go away again.
Lord have mercy upon us!
Christ have mercy upon us!
Lord have mercy upon us!
Christ, hear us!
Christ, hear our prayer!
God the Father in Heaven, have mercy upon them!
God the Son, Redeemer of the world, have mercy upon them!
God the Holy Ghost, have mercy upon them!
Holy Trinity, Three in One, have mercy upon them!
Holy Virgin Mary, pray for them!
Holy Mother of God, pray for them!
Blessed Virgin of all virgins, pray for them!
Holy St. Michael,
pray for them!
All holy angels and archangels,
All holy choirs of blessed spirits,
Holy St. John the Baptist,
pray for them!
All holy patriarchs and prophets,
Holy St. Peter,
Holy St. Paul,
Holy St. John,
pray for them!
All holy apostles and evangelists,
Holy St. Stephen,
Holy St. Lawrence,
pray for them!
All holy martyrs,
Holy St. Gregory,
Holy St. Ambrose,
pray for them!
Holy St. Jerome,
Holy St. Augustine,
pray for them!
All ye holy bishops and confessors,
All ye holy Fathers of the Church,
All ye holy priests and Levites,
All ye holy monks and hermits,
pray for them!
He enters the place early in the morning, before daybreak. He heats the big stove in the kitchen with the wood he has brought in from outside, fills the steamer with potatoes and water, puts the steamer full of potatoes on a burner.
He walks out of the kitchen, down the long, windowless corridor and over to the cowshed. The cows have to be fed and milked twice a day. They stand side by side in a row.
He speaks to them quietly. He is in the habit of talking to animals while he works in the shed with them. The sound of his voice seems to have a soothing effect on the cattle. Their uneasiness appears to be lulled by the regular singsong of that voice, the repetition of the same words. The calm, monotonous sound relaxes them. He’s known this kind of work all his life. He enjoys it.
He spreads a layer of fresh straw over the old one, fetching it from the barn next door. There is a pleasant, familiar smell in the shed. Cows don’t smell like pigs. There’s nothing sharp or assertive about their odor.
After that he fetches hay. He gets that from the barn, too.
He leaves the connecting door between the barn and the cowshed open.
While the animals feed, he milks them. He is a little worried about that. The cows aren’t used to being milked by him. But his fears that one of them will refuse to let him milk her had been unfounded.
The smell of the cooked potatoes drifts over to the cowshed. Time to feed the pigs. He tips the potatoes out of the steamer and straight into a bucket, and then he crushes them before taking them to the pigs in their sty.
The pigs squeal when he opens the pigsty door. He tips the contents of the bucket into the trough and adds some water.
His work is done. Before leaving the house he makes sure the fire in the stove is out again. He leaves the door between the barn and the cowshed open. He pours the milk from the cans straight on the dunghill. Then he puts the cans back in their place.
He would go back to the cowshed that evening. He’d feed the dog, who always cringes away into a corner, whimpering, when he arrives. He’d tend the animals. And while he worked he would always take great care to give a wide berth to the heap of straw in the far left-hand corner of the barn.
Betty, age 8
Marianne and me always sit together in school. She’s my best friend. That’s why we always sit with each other.