Children of Guilt – Volume 1

Mira Hartmann pressed her thumb to the scanner at Stadelheim Prison and walked into the visiting room for her scheduled meeting with Bernd Krüger.

The scanner gave one short tone. Beside the door, the officer glanced at the screen, then at her pass, then nodded her through with the same flat courtesy he always used. Everything in the corridor was clean and pale, built to be wiped down. On the wall beside the second door hung a laminated notice with colored bars and numbered categories for monitored contact, transport restrictions, and incident review. Below it, another sign reminded visitors that all contact was recorded and could be terminated at staff discretion.

She had read both before. She read them again.

The visiting room was half full. Tables fixed to the floor. Chairs that scraped but couldn’t be lifted. Glass along one side, not between visitors and inmates here, only between the room and the control station. A camera in each corner. A clock above the far wall.

She sat where they usually sat and put both hands in her lap. Her stomach had been wrong since morning, a rolling, unsettled movement that didn’t ease even when she held still. She had slept two hours, then not at all, then drifted in fragments on the train. Twice she had jerked awake hard enough to hit her shoulder against the window.

A side door opened. Bernd entered with an officer two steps behind him.

He looked older in ways that didn’t matter and older in ways that did. More gray at the temples. Less weight in the face. The same level look that never rushed to meet her and never avoided her either. As he sat down across from her, the officer stepped back to the wall.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Mira said, “I read the trial transcript from May ninety-nine.”

Bernd folded his hands on the table. “Did you.”

“You changed your statement.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He looked at her a moment too long, at the area under her eyes, then her mouth, then the way she held her shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that she had to lean in to catch it.

“I can see you’ve started sleeping wrong.”

Her back tightened. “No.”

“Have the dreams begun?”

She kept her face still. “I’m here about you.”

He didn’t blink. “That means yes.”

“They’re not dreams.”

“Not yet, maybe.”

She stared at him. The room around them stayed exactly the same. A chair moved three tables over. Someone coughed. An officer said something low into a radio. Mira had the feeling that the air had thinned.

“You’ve heard of this?” she asked.

“I know the start.”

“How?”

“You came to ask me something else.” He nodded once toward her hands. “Ask that instead.”

She had tucked them together too hard. The knuckles had gone pale. She forced them apart and set them flat on the table.

“I’ve been tired,” she insisted. “That’s all.”

Bernd remained silent.

“I fall asleep for a moment sometimes.”

“How long?”

“I said a moment.”

“In school?”

She didn’t answer.

“On the train?”

Her jaw moved once. “Maybe.”

“In public, then.”

Heat rose under her skin at the way he said it. His tone held no concern, only assessment.

“It’s manageable,” she replied.

“That ends.”

The answer came too fast. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Something cold passed through her stomach then, cold enough to sharpen everything. The scratches in the table. The seam in his sleeve where the prison shirt had been repaired. The red light above the control door.

“How?” she asked again.

He leaned back a fraction in his chair. “When it starts, people think it’s poor sleep. Stress. Blackouts. They tell themselves they’re still awake because they can hear the room.”

Mira didn’t move.

He asked, “When did you first lose time?”

She looked at him and understood, with a clean drop in her chest, that he wasn’t guessing.

“Three weeks,” she admitted before she could stop herself.

His face changed less than hers had. “And now it’s closer together.”

She hated that he was right. Hated more that the relief came before the disgust. Someone recognized what this was, someone who had seen the pattern before.

“They’re not memories,” she insisted. “It’s just—”

“Do you smell things?”

Her mouth closed.

“Metal,” he said. “Rot. Damp fabric. Blood, if you know it well enough.”

She swallowed. The room gave a small shift under her, then steadied.

“I haven’t—”

“The dead don’t come as memory,” Bernd

“The dead don’t come as memory,” Bernd told her. His voice stayed level. “They come in sequence.”

Mira kept her hands flat on the table. The plastic edge pressed into her palms. On the other side of the scratched partition, Bernd watched her with the same fixed attention he had given the transcript when she first slid it toward him, without apology, haste, or strain.

“You changed your testimony in May nineteen ninety-nine,” she said. “You lied then, or you lied later. You don’t get to lecture me about sequence.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“It has everything to do with this. You want me to believe you know what is happening to me. Why would I?”

“Because I know the order.”

She let out one short breath through her nose. “From what? Your own experience?”

His eyes held on hers. “From records.”

“What records?”

He didn’t answer at once. The pause made her sit harder into the chair.

“Convenient,” she muttered.

“There were case files before BEA. They didn’t call it that. They didn’t publish it. They watched families after conviction, especially children.”

A guard moved at the far end of the room. Keys struck a belt with a sharp click. Mira heard it too clearly, then not at all. She kept her gaze on Bernd as he spoke.

“Who watched them?”

“Different offices. Local police, court psychiatrists, state welfare. Anyone told to report changes.”

“In children of convicted killers.”

“Yes.”

She stared at him. “And you had access to this?”

“I saw enough.”

“When?”

“Later.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ll give here.”

She almost laughed. “Of course.”

His face didn’t change. “You lose time. Then smell. Then waking intrusion.”

The words landed one after another, flat and exact.

Mira said, “No.”

“The next stage doesn’t wait for sleep.”

A pulse started in her throat. She swallowed as the warning settled in. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t know me.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

It mattered. It had to matter. She sat straighter. “You’re taking scattered symptoms and building a system around them.”

“I’m telling you the system was there before you.”

She shook her head. “No.”

He leaned forward by a fraction. “Has it happened yet when you were fully awake?”

Her answer caught. She saw the hall outside her apartment building, not in any full image, only the cut of dirty tile, the smell of wet concrete, the sense that several minutes had passed without her. She had called it exhaustion, stress, hunger, anything that left the shape of her life intact.

She looked up.

“When it becomes visible,” he said, “someone reports it.”

The room closed around that sentence.

“To whom?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On who sees.”

She could hear her own breathing now, too loud, too close. “Visible onset,” she said. “That’s your term?”

“One of them.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means you stop being able to pass unnoticed.”

A sour taste touched the back of her tongue. She swallowed. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“Yes.”

The answer came so quickly that she blinked.

“Why?”

“Because if it starts here, in front of staff, you won’t be able to contain it.”

Heat rose under her skin. “Contain what?”

He watched her for another second, then said, “You should have left sooner.”

Mira pushed her nails into her palm and held his gaze. “Tell me who kept the files.”

The floor shifted.

The movement stayed small, too slight for anyone else to notice. A tilt under her chair, a slip in balance that didn’t reach her face. Mira gripped the edge of the table. Her fingers had gone cold. She looked at the white wall behind Bernd and saw the color drain from it, then return in a dirty wash.

No, she thought, not here.

Bernd continued, but she only caught fragments. “—look at me.”

The smell came first, sudden and thick: wet fabric left in a sealed room, iron with something sweet underneath turning bad.

Her stomach clenched.

The partition between them reflected a pale shape that took her a second to recognize as herself. Her shoulders were rigid. Her lips had gone bloodless. She couldn’t feel her feet.

This is happening, she thought, and hated the calm of the sentence.

The visiting room was still there, the table and the chairs bolted to the floor, the guard by the door. But she had chosen to keep him talking, and now another place pressed against it with such force that she couldn’t keep the lines separate. Damp air.

Damp air.

It sat at the back of her throat before she knew whether she was smelling it or remembering it. In the room in front of her were a white wall, plexiglass, Bernd’s hands on the table, and the guard by the door, still with his weight on one leg. The air shifted again, and she felt cold against her face, not from here, not from this room, and somewhere close water moved in short, uneven drops.

“Mira.”

Bernd’s voice landed cleanly this time. When she looked at him, his expression had changed from fear or surprise to recognition.

“Don’t look away,” he told her.

She pushed her chair back too fast. The metal legs scraped hard over the floor. The sound cut through the room, and the guard by the door turned his head at once.

“I’m fine,” she said, and heard the strain in it.

Her own voice sounded wrong to her, too thin, pulled tight. The smell thickened, iron and rot beneath it, damp concrete. Her stomach rolled so sharply she pressed a hand against it.

Bernd stood.

The officer moved before Mira fully understood he had started. “Sit down.”

“She needs to get out,” Bernd insisted.

“Krüger. Sit.”

Bernd didn’t sit. He kept his eyes on Mira. “Listen to me. If they write this up under your name—”

“Shut up.” The words came out louder than she intended. Her pulse hammered in her neck. She couldn’t tell whether she had spoken to him or to the guard or to the smell.

The room narrowed. For one instant it wasn’t the visiting room at all, but a dark wall slick with moisture on stone, a hand dragging across a surface, fingernails catching and slipping. The white fluorescent light snapped back over everything so harshly that her eyes watered.

She bent forward and gripped the table edge.

The officer was beside her now. “Frau Hartmann.”

“You’re not.” Bernd’s voice stayed level. “This is the onset.”

Her head jerked toward him. He shouldn’t have known the exact second to name it. He shouldn’t have been able to stand there and say it before she had found a word for what was happening in her own body.

The officer looked from one to the other. “What onset?”

Bernd answered without hesitation. “Call medical, and don’t file it as a behavioral incident.”

The officer’s face closed at once. “You don’t give instructions here.”

Mira tried to stand straight. Her legs held for a moment, then one knee gave under her. The officer caught her elbow. She tore it free on instinct, and the movement sent a wave of blackness through her vision. She tasted acid. She could stay and let them write it down, or she could get to the washroom before her body made the choice for her.

“Washroom,” she said.

The officer was already reaching for his radio. “Need assistance in Besucherraum drei. Visitor unwell.”

“No.” The word ripped out of her. She grabbed the edge of the table again, forced herself upright, and turned toward the door.

Bernd said very clearly, “Do not put this in the regular log.”

The door opened. Another officer stood in the hallway, a woman Mira had passed on the way in. She took one look at Mira’s face and stepped aside. “This way.”

Walking was the only thing left between her and collapse, so Mira walked. The corridor was too bright. Every light left a smear when she blinked. Behind them, one of the guards called, “Medical review, incident entry,” and the words landed with full force.

“No incident entry,” Bernd called from the room.

A hand touched Mira’s back, guiding, not gentle. “Keep moving, please.”

The washroom door opened. White tile. Stainless steel. Paper towels in a metal dispenser. One of the officers pushed the inner door with her

foot and got Mira to a stall before her body gave out.

She hit her knees on the tile and barely caught the bowl before she vomited. The first heave left her shaking hard enough for her teeth to knock once. It didn’t stop there. Her stomach pulled again and again until almost nothing came up, only spit, acid, and a raw pain under her ribs.

The officer stayed just outside the stall door. “Do not lock it.”

Mira braced one hand on the seat. The other slipped on porcelain. Cold sweat ran down her back under her shirt. She kept her eyes on the base of the toilet, because when she looked up, the white tile came apart and the other place pushed through.

Yellow light replaced the white. Dirt filled the grout, or there was no grout at all. Water spread thin over concrete. A metal circle sat low in the floor. Her throat tightened.

“Breathe,” the woman prompted. “Can you hear me?”

Mira spat, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and nodded once.

“Name.”

She almost laughed. Her stomach clenched again, but nothing came. “You know my name.”

“I need you answering.”

“Mira.”

The woman crouched until her face appeared at the edge of the partition. Mid-forties, pale hair pulled back, no softness anywhere, practical eyes, a badge clipped high on her chest. “Good. I’m Officer Seidel. Medical is on the way. Do you have a condition we need to know about?”

“No.”

“Epilepsy? Diabetes? Panic disorder?”

“No.”

“Medication?”

“None.”

Outside, through both doors, boots crossed the corridor. A radio crackled. Someone said, “Visitor female, acute onset during interview. Emesis, disorientation.”

Mira twisted in the stall. “Skip the report.”

Seidel looked at her without changing expression. “There will be documentation.”

“Minimal,” Mira insisted. Her voice scraped. “Write that I felt sick. That’s all.”

“You had a visible collapse.”

“I didn’t collapse.”

“You were unable to stand without assistance.”

Mira pushed herself back against the partition and opened her eyes fast when the dark made it worse. The officer watched her more closely now. “Look at me.”

Mira didn’t.

“Ms. Vale.”

She turned her head.

“Any head injury?”

“No.”

“Did you take anything today? Prescription, drugs, alcohol?”

“No.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”

A second woman entered the outer washroom. “Doctor’s delayed five minutes. Nursing staff are coming first.”

“Fine,” Seidel replied. “Get me the visitor file.”

Mira pushed herself up enough to sit against the wall, legs trembling as she wiped her mouth again. The younger woman returned with a clipboard. “We need an emergency contact.”

“No.”

“We need one on file.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Minor visitor protocol requires—”

“I said no.”

“Mira,” the officer said, still calm, “your refusal can be noted. The question still gets asked. Parent, guardian, social worker, foster placement contact, anyone responsible for you outside this facility.”

The word guardian landed clean. Mira went still.

“No one.”

“That isn’t credible.”

Mira looked at her then. “Write that too.”

Seidel checked a line on the form. “Who brought you here?”

“I came with—” Mira stopped.

Seidel waited.

Mira swallowed. “No one you need to call.”

“We decide what we need.”

From the corridor, a man’s voice called, “Krüger is asking whether he can make a statement.”

Mira’s head came up so fast the room tipped. “Absolutely not.”

At the doorway, the younger woman turned.

“Tell him to wait,” Mira said.

Her voice scraped out, raw. She pushed herself harder against the partition, one hand flat to the cold wall, the other pressed over her mouth. Her stomach clenched again. She bent forward, reached the basin, and vomited in a thin, burning stream into the stainless steel.

Water was already running. It struck the basin with a hard, steady noise. Seidel stepped in beside her, not touching, close enough that she could feel her presence at her shoulder.

“Ms. Hartmann.”

Mira spat, coughed, and stayed bent over until the cramp passed. Her eyes watered. The smell of acid filled her nose. Beneath it, for one sick second, something else came through, damp and stale and old. She shut her eyes.

Not here.

“Did you hear me?” Seidel asked.

Without looking away from her, Seidel answered the younger officer at the door. “He doesn’t decide that. Have him wait.”

Mira opened her eyes while the basin swam, steadied, and swam again, and she saw yellow light catch on the steel. For a beat it wasn’t steel at all but a different surface, dull and wet. Her fingers locked on the edge until the shape in front of her settled back into basin and drain and running water.

“Can you stand?” Seidel asked.

“Yes.”

The answer came too fast. Seidel heard it for what it was.

“That man in the visitor room recognized it immediately.”

Turning her head sent a sharp pulse through her skull. “I told you.”

Seidel gave nothing back. “He used the word episode.”

Mira tasted acid again. “Write that he used it.”

“I’m writing what I observe and what is reported in my presence.”

“Write that I object to any statement from him.”

Seidel glanced toward the younger officer. “Close the door.”

The door shut. At once, with the white tile and gray joints on every side, the washroom seemed smaller. The mirror above the sink caught her face and returned it pale, wet-haired, older than it had been an hour ago. She looked away.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” Seidel said. “A visitor collapses in custody, vomits repeatedly, cannot provide a consistent account, and another witness says he has seen the onset before. That will be documented.”

She gripped the basin harder. “He isn’t a witness.”

“He was present.”

“He’s an inmate with a story for everything.”

Seidel let that sit. “Then your interest should be to make your own statement clear.”

Mira gave a short laugh. It scraped her throat. “My statement is clear. He says nothing.”

Another cramp bent her lower, but nothing came up. She stood breathing through it, one palm against the metal, water running over her fingers.

Seidel lowered her voice. “Look at me.”

Mira didn’t want to. She did.

“Do you know where you’re?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Stadelheim.”

“Date?”

Mira said it.

The pen moved, and Mira hated the sound. “I want that omitted.”

“That isn’t your decision.”

“I was dizzy.”

“You’re still dizzy.”

Mira swallowed. Her mouth watered again. She reached for the tap and splashed water against her lips, letting it run off into the basin. The steel rang softly when her ring touched it. The sound pulled up something else for half a breath: a wet floor under a yellow bulb, a corner where dirt had gone black.

Her shoulders jerked. She stepped back too fast and hit the partition.

Seidel saw it. “What did you just smell?”

Mira stared at her.

“You reacted before. In the visitor room too, according to the officers’ report. You smell something, then you lose orientation.”

Her pulse beat hard at the base of her throat. “There are no notes from me.”

“There are notes.”

“Destroy them.”

Seidel’s expression didn’t shift. “You know I won’t.”

Mira put her hand over her eyes for a moment. The dark behind her lids came with movement in it, pieces she couldn’t hold: moisture on concrete, the pressure of knees on a hard surface, breath that wasn’t hers, too close. She dropped her hand at once.

“Do you have a physician?” Seidel asked.

Water struck the basin in a steady thread while Mira kept her mouth shut.