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We delay our steps, letting the funeral procession pass the intersection before turning left from where they came.
Soon, a bare concrete and brick building comes into our view, with a sign identifying it as a cemetery chapel. Uninviting-looking doors stand open, allowing a view into a vestibule lying in semi-darkness.
Philipp hesitates only briefly, almost imperceptibly. Then he heads for the building so purposefully that I can hardly keep up.
A sober whiteboard on the wall shows the day’s schedule. The funeral services and burials are closely timed:10:30 h—Frieda Reinhardt—Room 1, 11:00 h—Prof. Dr. Dr. h.c. Leiserfluss—Room 2
“Eleven thirty, Gesine Grosse-Garbe, Room One,” Philipp reads off in a low voice. Then he looks at me. “Well, seeing that in black and white now already helps me to believe that…”
So it’s not just to me that the scenery seems completely unreal.
“Let’s see what it says.” Philipp points with his finger to the line below.
Farewell at the open coffin: Side room 7b
While I am still reading, Philipp turns around on the heels of his black leather shoes.
My head drags behind with my thinking.Where is he going? What doesopen coffinmean? Not what I am fearing…? No! Stop!As quickly as I am able given the required etiquette, I hurry after him.
A semicircular corridor runs to the left, with doors leading off on both sides. Most of them are closed.2b, 4b, I read off next to the doors on my right,3b, 5bon the left.
The door to 7b is open, but the passageway is blocked by two silver ball-tipped posts with a thick, shiny black cord hanging between them. A sign dangles from it:Access for family only.
Philipp bends down and grabs the snap hook with his left hand.
Oh my God! I’m going to be late! But—what is it?
The clacking of heels sounds from the semi-darkness of the corridor. With awkward movements, a person dressed all in black approaches. “Wait a minute.” The man grabs Philipp by the forearm. “Can’t you read?”
I cover the last few meters practically running. Completely out of breath, I try to squeeze in between the two. In vain.
“Take your fingers off,” Philipp hisses.
“Not until you let go of the rope and take a step back,” the gaunt guy demands. “Mr. Sandtmann has given clear instructions: Access only for him and his son.”
For an overlong moment, there is deafening silence.
Then a spiteful laugh erupts from Philipp. “Gee, I’ll be damned. That’s a perfect fit…”
“Excuse me?” Apparently completely flabbergasted, the guy allows Philipp to push him aside. “What do you mean by that stupid remark?”
“I am the son.”
The collective gasp of shock from the funeral home employee—by now I’ve deciphered the discreetly embroidered lettering on his tie—and me drags on like cheese strings on lasagna.
Finally, the string bean moves into gear. “What are the odds of that?” He takes a step toward the doorway, but this time I’m faster.
“Stop!” I urge him, both hands raised. “Stop right there!”
“But this…” The guy tries to get past me without touching me.
I use my physical strength in its entirety. Even though I think Philipp’s plan is a conceivably bad idea—he should at least be able to do it without being disturbed.
“But anyone can claim that!” The mortician literally steams out his indignation.
“But if it’s true?”
“Don’t make a fool of yourself!” he hisses at me. “Unlike you, I have seen Mr. Sandtmann’s son!”
