makes you think I have any kind of influence
on my father?”
“But . . . he discussed my family’s situation with you, which made
me think . . .”
Lina couldn’t help herself. She had to laugh. This woman obvi-
ously believed that she and her father sat cozily together discussing the secrets of Hamburg’s business elite. When she saw Katja’s flabbergasted expression, she shook her head and put a hand over her mouth, but
it was no use. The image of her only meeting with her father was still there: he in elegant, sophisticated attire and she at the height of her punk phase—hatching plots in the Ohlsdorf cemetery. She controlled
herself and wiped away tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, still grinning, “but I hope this makes you realize how absolutely absurd such a scenario is.”
She shook her head. “Whatever gave you the impression that my father and I were that close?”
282
Dead Woods
Katja Ansmann seemed peeved about Lina’s laughing fit, but also
couldn’t deny that she was curious. “Your sister suggested something like that,” she said. “Or rather, your half sister. Johanna Steinhagen is a good friend of mine.”
“Oh,” Lina replied. “And what makes Johanna Steinhagen think
so?”
Katja Ansmann was studying Lina with obvious interest. “Do you
know that you and Johanna met once?”
Lina nodded. “You mean at the Hamburg-wide meeting of pupils?”
Katja Ansmann nodded, also. “Johanna told her parents that she
apparently had a double in Hamburg. Your name was probably men-
tioned. She didn’t think more about it, but Meinhart Steinhagen must have guessed that he had another daughter about whom he’d had no
knowledge. Years later, Johanna stumbled on a folder in which her
father had collected information about you—starting soon after that
meeting of students.” Katja Ansmann picked up her espresso cup, was
disappointed to see it was still empty, and ordered some mineral water.
“She told me about it. By then she had long forgotten your meeting,
but when she saw the documents, she remembered everything. It didn’t make much difference to her. So she had a half sister; so what? She
had long suspected that her father hadn’t stuck too closely to his wed-ding vows over the years, and she had often assumed that there were
some other children of Meinhart Steinhagen out there.” The waiter
brought her mineral water and Katja waited until he disappeared again.
“One or two years ago, Johanna by chance overheard your father on
the phone with you. He called you ‘dear.’ At first she thought he was on the phone with his mistress, but then he used your name, and Johanna concluded that you and your father were in contact and must be close.”
She paused. “He has never called Johanna ‘dear.’”
Lina felt uncomfortable. Her father had collected information
about her? He never addressed his first-born daughter, who lived with him, with the dumb term of endearment he used for her. She felt as if 283
Maria C. Poets
she were part of a game without knowing its rules—a game in which
she was just a pawn. She shivered. For a long time she stared at the cold foam in her cup, until she noticed that Katja Ansmann was waiting for a response. She looked at her and saw again that her eyes were gray, but a hint of green was visible today. “Do you know my father?” she asked in a low voice.
Katja Ansmann nodded. “Our families are close friends and an
uncle of my mother is married to a cousin of your father.” This meant that across thousands of corners Lina was somehow related by blood
or marriage to Katja Ansmann. Something in her wanted to laugh, cry, and scream—all at the same time. “I’ve known Meinhart Steinhagen
my entire life.”
Lina now thought about meeting her father at the Ohlsdorf cem-
etery, at the family crypt, and about the feeling of connectedness she had experienced for a brief moment. This woman had known her father
her entire life while she . . . Well, she had Christian. She was ashamed as soon as the thought had popped into her head. Christian was her
father; she never wished for another one. Yet . . .
She took a deep breath. “I’ve seen my father exactly one time,”
she said with a firm voice. “It was a few weeks after this student meeting.” She told Katja what she had told Max: there was no further
contact after that meeting, but Meinhart Steinhagen had been calling her every now and then for the past few years. “I don’t know exactly why he does it, but I know that he’s up to something.” She shrugged.
“I just know it.”
Katja Ansmann leaned back and exhaled audibly. “I