I am Hellen Ch. 01

1948

Berlin always tastes of coal smoke in late November, the evening mist sticking to the warmth of your skin. I always noticed the little things in this city, always have. The graze of the bare branches on the old brickwork, the heat the stone slabs where the sun hit. This old city was alive, a breathing carcass of reused stone, aching to listen to your secrets. I left at six every evening from the publishing buildings, my face down, feeling my lungs inhaling sharply against the cold. I didn't like seeing the men looking. If I didn't look up, I couldn't wonder what they were thinking.

That evening was calmer, the streets quieter after finishing a little later at seven, the coal smoke from the chimneys drifting out in flumes across the crooked streets. I pulled my gloves up my wrists to hide my watch. It was dark now, I did not wish to stop to give the time. I remember every detail of that night, as if it was stitched into my soul. Someone had left a boot hanging from a burnt out lamppost in Lucker Strasse, it's laces fluttering in the wind. Probably a cruel trick of some schoolchildren, but the sight was eerie all the same. The streets were littered with discarded papers, their titles strewn half forgotten in the gutters. The oil in the puddles lit up blue, violet in the window light.

I can still smell the coal smoke, the dry burn of washing powder. I remember everything. I remember the smell of the leather of his glove as it hit my mouth, forcing the air from my lungs and rendering me too shocked to scream. The crumble of brick dust from the wall as he pushed me against it. My mind ran like film frames wildly, trying to control my flailing body, to put a face or reason to this attack. He was closer now, his hat shielding his eyes in shadow, his hand down on my shoulder, his cologne thick and heady, mixed with hot liquor. He doesn't touch me, just stares intently. I'm not sure why I don't scream out. We stand there, me shaking, under the gaze of the streetlight.

"I thought it was you. " He says, drunkenly, his fingers heavily clamping on my skin. German isn't his first language, and I desperately attempt to put a nationality to his accent. American?English? I speak it well, but he is too drunk for me to identify him. I don't reply, just stare coldly into his eyes. If he sees he doesn't know me, perhaps he will let me go. I wonder whether to direct him to the brothels on Ackerstrasse. He is breathing heavily, closer now. "Helene. It's you. Don't pretend. "

My name hits me with as much force as his hand, and I stare at him sharply. No one knows me here, least of all by my national name. I'm anonymous, the faceless filing girl, the woman in the blue jacket. "I don't know who you mean. " I whisper back hoarsely. I hope he is just an acquaintance, will believe me and walk away. Deep down, I know the truth. Impossible. He doesn't take it, shaking his head and slamming his hands on the side of the wall, either side of my head.

"You don't recognise me, perhaps. But no one forgets a face like yours. " He lifts his chin and for a minute I see two dark, glittering eyes. Oh, I know him all right, I realise, and try not to pull away instinctively. To do so, or show I am who he thinks I am, would be a death sentence. I stare at him blankly.

"A lot of women look like me,sir. " I answer as directly as I can, trying to pronounce my words with a hard Munich 's' to throw him off. He is taller than I remember, stronger too, but the cruelty is still there, the determination, the obsession. He doesn't fall for it, laughing sharply. I can see his face fully now, the pale skin, the thin cold lips, those dark, hellish eyes. I want to run. I want to run far away from what he did to me, faster than I can in any dream, any race, any nightmare. But I can't. In my mind I see him grabbing my arms again, my hair, pulling me back and forcing each fist into my skin. I don't let him see. I am Hellen now. Hellen with the Munich 's'.

"Its over, Helene. " There is a new edge in his voice. "You ran and I found you. You ran, and I found you. " He smirks, a laugh rising in his throat. He starts humming mockingly, the old English song he used to play over and over all those years ago.

Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run.

Here comes the farmer with his gun, gun, gun.

He puts his hand to his pocket at the word gun, and sees me wince, knowingly. "See little rabbit? Lies aren't any quicker than open windows. " He has me now. I've put my own noose over my neck. All that's left is for him to pull the strings, hang me with his obsession.

"Why me?" I burst out, feeling my knees weaken, resisting the urge to fall to the ground and beg for mercy. I didn't deserve this. I had run so hard, so fast, never looking back. I had left him behind in Lille, in a crumbling hotel with a locked door. Why did he chase me now, or at all, as if I was the most precious of prey? I had never provoked him. I was always quiet. I was good. I worked hard and never looked up. He stopped humming, pressing his repulsive hands around my vulnerable, un-corsetted waist.

"Oh you know that, Helene. You're mine. Good girls like you don't want to run away. Good girls-" He paused, pressing his thumbs unpleasantly into my stomach. "Enjoy a good chase. " He pressed harder, until I was racked with pain, watching me intently. "I was going to hurt you properly to punish you. " He forced his nails deeper into my skin, crushing my body in his hands like fresh fruit. "But truth be-told I have rather enjoyed looking for you. " The pain is far too much and I grab his wrists, digging my nails in so hard he lets go sharply. He's angry now, his eyes full of hate. I start to run but he grabs my hair and pulls me back, inches from his face. I see there are tears in his eyes.

"I'm not letting you go, not now. You're mine. You were meant to marry me and be mine. " He is slurring now, but the passion and hate in his eyes speak for him. I shake my head, trying to push him away.

"I'm not yours. I was your prisoner, Gabriel. "

He stared at me, running his fingers trembling across my jaw and down my neck, with a tenderness I had not seen in many, many years. Cupping my face in his hands, he pulled me closer still, smelling the scent of my hair. The memory of me momentarily stalls his anger. "It's different now, Helene. My father's going to change his mind about my inheritance and I can look after you-" He stops, searching my cold eyes for a spark of weakness. He knows I won't go quietly. I speak the language here, and can scream for help and run to who I want faster than he could ever stop me. But I don't say so. I don't want to dignify him with my voice. As usual, my silence angers him, and he shoves me to the wall.

"Go home then. Go home and live in your pathetic hovel. But as long as you live, you are mine Helene. I can find you and have you whenever I want. You promised. That will uphold in any court of law. " He grabs my blouse, pulling it open so the buttons spill over the pavement, scattering into the earth. Flinging me aside, he storms away. I don't wait for him to return, and run off into the darkness, pulling my coat across me to cover my humiliation.

He's going to find me now, he will have had someone to follow me home, I know that. But I have no where else to go, I thought, running through the forest of empty streets, up to the old great apartment that I called home. All I can think of are his huge hands, around my throat at the backstreet hotel of Pigalle, his friends having to tear him off before he killed me, there and then. Run, they had said. Run before he finds you.

I lit candles throughout the apartment so I could see if he did come out of a corner. They are good at prosecuting shadows. Then I pulled out a crate and sat there, centre of the room, wary to turn from the door. I must have sat there for hours, and I allowed to think back on the man I had tried so hard to forget.

1938

I'm in a white lace dress my mother had given me a week or so earlier for my 18th birthday. Its collar itches, and I'm convinced it makes my legs look like grasshopper's, but it's the latest fashion and I'm determined to wear it. It's a light April day and we are spending the summer in the southern resorts on the border with Italy. Mother and Stephanie are walking the gardens with the nice Swiss gentlemen, but I've stayed on the porch with my books as he talks too much about plants for my liking. The tall young man at the next table has light suede shoes and is lying stretched back over his chair with his legs kicked out. I'm impressed by his reckless relaxation at a place so vigorously run on manners. He catches me looking and grins, lighting a cigarette with one hand and watches me intently. I smile back and blush, returning to my book. I'm not used to the attention of men. I've been out in society for only a few months. I expect him to have left a minute or so later but I hear the chair opposite me being pulled back, and I am met with two deep grey eyes. He isn't handsome, his lips are too thin and he is as pale as a photograph, but he has a rebellious charm. We talk a little about who I am, if I have a beau. I tell him no. He is English.

1948

I must have fallen asleep because when I wake up, it is very early morning. I turn back to the door but there is no sign anyone has entered. I wonder if I had dreamt the whole thing, but when I wash there are sharp bruises on my stomach and shoulders. I call the office using the phone on the landing as sick. I don't want him finding me walking home again. And my stomach is too sore to bend or kneel, I don't want questions.

He once pressed so hard I lost a baby.

I wash my hands again, trying to cleanse myself of his touch. As I do, I look up at my reflection in the mirror. Why had he let me go? I wonder, as I run my fingers through my hair. Was it to torment me further later?Or had he genuinely began to lose interest in me? Maybe the thrill of finding me was what he was truly chasing. I look carefully at my face. I realised I still looked the same as I had with him. When I first came to Berlin, I had dyed my hair blonde to throw off anyone following me, but as the months had passed I allowed it to go back to its usual dark, thick brown. My eyes were still round and mottled green, but now dark circles had closed in around them. There was no point changing how I looked now. He knew where I was. I could have kicked myself for being so careless.

1938

The Englishman is six years older than me, and is supposed to be getting engaged next winter, but he didn't care. He said women were to play with, and marriage would soon be seen as a silly conquest. Monogamy didn't exist, only the illusion of it. He plays cards well and cleared my debts of two francs-which I would have gladly given him-for a kiss. He said he didn't want it now and would cash it in later. He did so in the rose gardens that evening, quite at surprise. Mother tried to turn my attentions to the old Swiss gentleman at supper but I would have none of it. The Englishman, Gabriel, was quite angry when I told him and said I should marry him instead, if anyone, as he understood the conventions of a proper marriage. I laughed and told him he was engaged, and I would rather marry the Swiss gentleman than commit bigamy. I meant it playfully but he stormed off. It is gossip he drinks quite a lot.

1948

I spent the day changing the locks with hot wax and paper mache, using the paper from my old photographs and certificates as they were sturdier. I decided to sleep in the attic in case of any further intrusion. I told my land lady, the woman across the hall with the plush drapes, that a man had become obsessed with me at work and she was to reject him if he came to call. She questioned me a little but took it as the truth. I hoped she would not go against my requests, or tell him I lived here. When I got back to my flat, I opened my door to a shock.

A line of words, written in blue ink from my desk, was scrawled across the wallpaper above my bed.

No need to run, rabbit.