The Whisperer

Justizvollzugsanstalt Plötzensee

Friedrich-Olbricht-Damm 16

13627 Berlin

Liebe Mutti,

As promised, I am writing to you now.

I have not written Norwegian for many years, so please bear with me. I speak German, think German and dream in German. I quickly became part of this country and of this city, Berlin, which I love so much.

The inspector told me about your throat operation and the terrible consequences it had for you. He told me I would have to listen carefully on the phone, which I did. It was not very easy, but I will learn. It is so sad that you now have this disability, I remember when you spoke to me as a child, your voice was like that of a young girl, high and bright. I can hear your voice, and I remember your laugh too, tumbling out like sweeties from a bag. And now your voice is gone forever. But I listened hard and I understood.

So, a catastrophe has brought us together again. After so many years of silence. A silence that was wanted — intended. Here I sit in my cell. Things went so wrong, even though that was never my intention. I embezzled huge sums of money over a long period of time. It was quite easy, no one noticed, the accounts at the Dormero are so enormous, so I continued month after month, closed my eyes and ears to what I knew would eventually happen, a little bit here, a little bit there, until eventually it amounted to millions. A slippery slope, you know, you start slowly at first, and then faster and faster, and you know you will end up at the bottom. But that is no excuse for my crime, no excuse. To begin with, I imagined I would pay it all back, it so often starts that way. There is a problem to be solved, and then you will pay it back. But the figures grow and grow, and eventually I went under. I ran away and hid in another part of town, in a poor neighbourhood where I thought they might not look. So I stayed there and waited. The inspector cannot tell me why you are in custody without your consent, but he said it was serious. I don’t understand, Mutti, I really don’t understand. Were you driving a car? Did you hit someone? Were you driving at monkey speed? Here in Berlin that means driving over the limit. Can you tell me what you have done, or not done? Are you innocent? I am not.

Everything started so well here in Berlin. My first job was at the Gasthaus, do you remember, as night security, when I was seventeen. People came stumbling in drunk late at night, they could not stand up and had lost their keys. So I helped them, let them in with the master key, and they gave me tips because they were so glad to be finally going to bed. The money was not great, but I had my own room and board. I studied hotel management every night. Sat alone at reception, often without interruption, except for the odd guest looking for matches, or a beer, or a schnapps. Being the only one awake in the whole building, reading in the light of a single lamp, while I followed the clock hour by hour, until morning, made me feel like a lord of the night. The others slept, and I watched over them. They were wasting their time, I was using mine well. Then after a while I got a job at the Dormero, as a bellboy. You should have seen the uniform. I often stood in front of the mirror and saluted. I was there to serve. When I think about it now, I smile like an old man. It was red with gold buttons and cords, and very dashing. I polished my shoes every morning. The wages were still not anything to write home about, but the guests were wealthy and I got lots of tips. Not just coins, big notes too. They gave me whatever they had in their pockets, without looking, as the light was usually dim. At night especially, when they came back from the restaurants, and I took them up in the lift to their rooms, opened the door and showed them in, as I had done in my previous job. I carried on with my studies, and did my best to get noticed. When I finally got a job as a receptionist, having studied hospitality management, I took out a big loan and bought a flat in Landsberger Allee. Oh, I wish you had seen it, Mutti. Two big balconies and a view over Berlin. And a BMW in the garage.

It is hard to explain, really, why that was not enough. I wanted more, I always wanted more, it was so easy. Everyone liked the blond Norwegian, the polite, hard-working receptionist, they were blind as bats and could not believe it when my fraud was discovered. But by then, I was gone. I worked in a small hostel on the other side of town, where the pay was pretty poor, but I got a room. The guests were largely men and women without means, tarts and escorts. I spent twenty-four hours a day at the hostel, never went out. I changed the beds, washed the toilets, never asked any questions. Oh, that I had fallen so far. Day and night, I waited for the police. I knew they would come. I could not sleep and I barely ate. Every time the door opened and someone came in, I started with fear. Every time I passed a window, I looked out, if only you knew how it feels to be tormented in that way, the feeling that everyone is after you, it is unbearable. So when the cars finally drove down the street and I saw the navy uniforms, all I felt was relief. I breathed easy and I walked out with a straight back and got into the car. I think I may even have smiled, though I am not sure. You might find that strange, no doubt you think I should have gone out with my tail between my legs. But I didn’t. Coming into the cell was like coming into the light after too long in the dark. Can you understand that?

There are twenty men in the unit here, but there are 570 inmates in the prison. Everyone in my unit, which is called Erstemal, is a first-time offender. You know what that means, don’t you? They have all made a mistake, like me. Peter is the youngest, he is only eighteen. Travelled frequently to Colombia to get cocaine, then suddenly one day no more. It is a blessing, of course, that he was not caught down there. Can you imagine what the prisons are like? Erstemal is no doubt very different and we live well here. Helmut is sixty-nine, and he was a little too fond of children, so they caught him. He tends to keep himself to himself and we just let him be. Full of remorse, of course, as they so often are. I also like to be left alone. Have spent so many nights working and studying while others sleep. So time passes slowly and the days are long, but they are good, and without fear and torment. And in a few years, I will be released. Everyone here, the guards and men and women alike, is friendly. They ask me about Norway, everyone has heard how beautiful it is, with all the waterfalls and mountains. I have no visitors, but I have my music, my computer and training. I have some muscles now, Mutti, you should see them. The thin boy who left Kirkelina is no more, and my muscles are not only useful when there is something heavy to lift, in a way they also help me to carry all that I have to carry now. And then there is Wilfred, the priest, who also comes to see us. We all suspect that he is gay, and think he is in love with young Peter. He frequently goes into his cell and stays there for a long, I mean a long, time. We hear their hushed voices and sometimes it is strangely quiet. Then our imagination runs wild, but nothing is said out loud. But we do think, Helmut and I and the others, that the priest is serving a sentence too, he does not dare come out of his cell. Peter is very pretty, almost like a girl, and the priest’s eyes are always shining when he has been in Peter’s cell. If I want to, I can work in the kitchen or laundry, or one of several other workshops. I am no pleb, Mutti. But, my cell is my castle, it is quiet here. Everything is neat and tidy and no one is after me. Lots of time for thinking, and I often think of you. Not so much regret, it is simply not there, all I did was take the opportunity, a golden opportunity. But am I a bad person for it? I do not think much about the future. Perhaps I should, one has to find one’s place in the world, after all. I should never have lied to you, I should never have given you the impression that I ran the hotel. But I wanted you to be proud of me, and to think that I was doing well and that I was the boss and earning lots of money. I thought I was the bee’s knees in my dark suit behind reception. I liked being in the limelight, I liked having lots of staff under me, the cleaners and the chambermaids and serving staff. And the lie just lay there and festered, grew bigger and bigger by the year. It was always there, like the black box on an aeroplane, they have to find it when the plane crashes to discover the truth, if the pilot was drunk or there was a storm. So, now I am writing to you. The inspector will no doubt read it all, but we can forget that, Mutti, let it just be me and you. To think that we are now both sitting in a cell, in different cities. My cell is twelve square metres. How big is yours?

Your son, Rikard. The Swindler. The Lost Son.