The 7th Day

By Nika Lubitsch

"The 7th Day" has topped the German Kindle ́s best-selling list for several months.

Sybille and Michael are a happy couple, finally expecting their first baby. But then Michael disappears without a trace, and Sybille finds herself living a nightmare. When her husband is found, stabbed to death, there is only one suspect: Sybille. While listening to the witnesses ́ testimonies during her murder trial, Sybille recollects her life with Michael. On the seventh day of the trial, Sibylle realizes the truth. But how can she ever prove it?

This clever mystery is set in both Berlin and at a secret place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nika Lubitsch
• Release date: Nov 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311247056

Nika Lubitsch

Nika Lubitsch lives in Berlin, Germany, and in Florida, USA. "The 2nd Face" is Nika Lubitsch's second book in English. Having been rejected by all German publishers, her first ebook "The 7th Day" was at the top of the bestselling list only one week after its publication, surpassing even "Shades of Grey". The novel stayed number one in Germany for 100 days. A major production company has already bought the film rights. The "Queen of E-Books", as a major German magazine dubbed her, again landed a number one hit in Germany with the "The 2nd Face".

Book preview

The 7th Day

Nika Lubitsch

Copyright: 2012 by Nika Lubitsch, Berlin

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English translation: 2013 by Karin Dufner

American editor: Wilson Lewis

Proofreading: Jim Henry

Cover Design: Hanspeter Ludwig

Cover Photo: Fotosearch.de

Ebook: Corinna Rindlisbacher

Prologue

Some people are born victims. Only three years ago, not in my wildest dreams would I have ever believed myself to be one of them. However, I’ve since been occupying a cell in the Berlin-Pankow detention facility for the last six months, waiting to be convicted of a crime I didn’t commit. Or might the psychiatrist be right with his theory that my mind has simply erased the murder of my husband, Michael Thalheim, from memory?

Again and again, I’ve revisited the events of the last two years, always coming up with the same result: True, I wanted him dead, and in my fantasies he died exactly the way he actually did. But while I clearly remember every detail of these two years—by the way, the worst time a person can be put through—I can’t recall a single moment of the crime itself.

Can’t . . . or won’t?

The Night Before My Trial

Tomorrow will be my first day in court. Although I hear the sound of his voice, what he is saying doesn’t really sink in: Ullrich Henke, my old friend Ulli. The Marlboros he has brought along for me are a great comfort. Still, my thoughts keep on returning to that fateful hot summer day in August of 1999.

My best friend, Gabi, and I had decided to spend a weekend at Timmendorfer Strand. I was just trying to manhandle my ancient Spider convertible into an undersized spot across the street from Café Engelseck. Die Ärzte’s then-popular tune Männer sind Schweine—all men are pigs—was blasting from the stereo, with us singing along at the tops of our voices. After I had maneuvered the car back and forth for about the tenth time, I felt the cigarette being taken from my hand, and a pleasant and sonorous voice said: You’re never going to make it holding a cigarette. I looked up and into a pair of dark brown eyes, promptly mixed up clutch and brake and backed up right into the car behind me. Crap, the voice said. Congratulations, darling. This happens to be my car, by the way. This is how I first got to know Ullrich Henke. And the same night, he got to know my body.

Ulli also has brought me the latest newspaper cuttings. I’ve trained him well: Each article has been neatly clipped and glued to a sheet of paper and comes with the date as well as the name of the publication it’s from. The stack is rather bulky and has a reassuring smell to it. Newspaper cuttings have always had this comforting effect on me; they’re my job. Correction, were my job, past tense. Job openings for publicists whose names have been associated with aggravated embezzlement and now even with murder are few and far between.

The corporation I worked for was glad to see the last of me. You have to understand, Frau Thalheim . . . Yes, message received. Multinational corporations have no patience with personal tragedies. Especially as the two of us weren’t exactly nobodies back then. Michael and Sybille Thalheim. The star attorney and the publicist. Hardly a day went by when one of us wasn’t either quoted in the papers, or hadn’t a camera lens stuck in their faces. At the restaurants haunted by the in-crowd we always got the best tables, and our names were on all the important guest lists in town. The higher you climb, the farther you fall.

Press Agency:

Tension Rises Before Thalheim Trial

Berlin – Tomorrow will be day one of the trial against Sybille Thalheim at the Berlin criminal court. Thalheim, 38, is charged with having stabbed to death her husband, the notary Michael Thalheim, 48, last February in Berlin. Michael Thalheim had been under police investigation for allegedly embezzling 9.6 million Euros worth of clients’ funds. The defendant so far denies all charges against her.

All papers have quoted this press release verbatim. Two Berlin papers have even garnished their articles with my photo. The woman who looks at me from the pages has become a stranger. My once-short brown curly bob has morphed into a shaggy mop I struggle to tame with a rubber band in the mornings. Gone is the optimistic smile, while the shadows under my eyes are rapidly gaining in size. In the old days I loved to play games with my fawn eyes. Oh, Ulli.

Remember what we’ve discussed. Try to get some sleep tonight and dress for the part tomorrow morning. I want you to look like the suffering Madonna, says Ulli.

I am the goddamn suffering Madonna, I retort.

Ulli gives me a bear hug before he leaves. I know him so well, his smell, his movements, his quirks. Since that fateful summer day ten years ago, Ulli has been my friend. Even though our relationship was an accident that sent me careening straight down the road to disaster: Michael. He always used to say that Ulli was the best damned defense-attorney this country has ever seen.

I can only hope that, for once, he was speaking the truth.

Book One

Day One

The mob is already lying in wait. There used to be a time when I looked forward to meeting these photographers and camera crews. Here I am, Bille, Harald calls. He’s with Germany’s most notorious tabloid and wants me to face his camera. Bille, come on, look at me, it’s my turn now. This is Wolfi from the press agency.

There is the usual jostling for the best places. But hiding my face under my jacket is out of the question. These guys used to be my friends, after all. And so, I stop and pose for their cameras. Please don’t expect me to smile, I say. What else am I supposed to say? Thank God, Ulli has arrived by now.

Are you ready?

Yes, Ulli, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. He encouragingly squeezes my hand. A female court clerk ushers me through a door into the cordoned-off area of the courtroom, reserves for defendants.

Well, here we are at the venerable regional court of Berlin-Moabit. Might the dark oaken woodwork, by any chance, serve the purpose of intimidating the defendant, or the witnesses even? In spite of it being a beautiful day in August, the sun hardly stands a chance of penetrating the leaded stained-glass windows. Oh, how I’ve come to hate the month of August!

Next, the honorable judges file in. What a spectacle. I study the people who soon will pass judgment on me. Thank God, the chairperson of the three professional judges is a woman in her fifties. The way she peers over her gold-rimmed glasses seems a little stern, and the rather sagging corners of her mouth make me suspect that she might not be the partying type.

The judge to her right is slightly younger. To be honest, I liked him best from the moment I set eyes on him. His face, under a receding hairline, is dominated by bushy eyebrows, which almost join in the middle in a unibrow. Although this gives him a slightly diabolical air, there is a kind expression in his blue eyes.

The judge on the chairwoman’s right reminds me a little of Pumuckl, the friendly and impish troll from the popular German children’s series. Like that character, the judge sports an unruly red crew cut; his face has not yet been marked by life.

The female lay judge next to him is very obviously thrilled to be serving the German government in an official capacity. Her heart-shaped mouth, which seems to be disproportionately small compared to her face, makes her look rather self-righteous. Oh, well.

The second lay judge, seated next to Herr Unibrow, makes me think of a glib insurance salesman. You know, one of those types who’ll talk you into taking out life insurance for your dog if you don’t start running fast enough. He is rather on the obese side and already sweating copiously.

Oh, my goodness. And here I am, at these people’s mercy. The courtroom is packed. Hundreds of eyes are resting on me. I know some of the journalists present. In the old days I would have greeted them with a good morning, dear colleagues. Tonight, however, I’ll be relegated to the role of talk of the town in all the usual journo-haunts. Have you seen what she looks like now?

The prosecutor is a poindexter whose black nerdy glasses make him look older than he probably is. They also make him look hard. I put him in his mid-thirties.

It takes them forever to make sure that all parties involved have actually deigned to show up.

All parties involved. This must be a joke. The charges themselves are a joke. Sadly, a bad one. Ulli turns around to smile at me. He looks good. Professional and dignified in his black robe. Does he approve of my suffering Madonna act?

However, you know only too well that I’m anything but the Madonna, my dear Ulli. I made you scream for your mom and you came crawling after me on all fours, begging for mercy. And I took pity on you and sucked your cock until you exploded. Later, after you did me in the brambles, I ended up in the emergency room, where a doctor had to remove the thorns from my backside with a pair of tweezers. Later, you treated my wounds with iodine and took me from behind. We more-or-less screwed our way through the summer of 1999.

Only when winter came did we begin talking. What a winter we had at the turn of the millennium. Oh, yes, we were happy!

After the court has solemnly lectured everyone present about their rights and duties, the prosecutor proceeds to read the charges. Sybille Thalheim, née Wiegand, born December 2, 1971, in Berlin is accused of killing her husband, Michael Thalheim, on February 3, 2009, around 2 a.m. in the Hotel zur Post, Berlin-Lichtenrade, by inflicting 18 knife wounds . . .

Afterwards, the witnesses are asked to leave the courtroom. What witnesses are they talking about? Isn’t it precisely the problem, that there aren’t any real witnesses? They want me found guilty based solely on circumstantial evidence.

Ulli and I have agreed that I will only answer questions about my personal data and remain silent in regard to the charges. He will take care of the requests to produce evidence.

You know the way you are, Bille, you have too much of a temper.

Ulli, you should never have introduced me to Michael! We had such a wonderful and uncomplicated relationship. Which was over the very moment I met HIM. Michael, your best friend. The two of you were just making plans to rent office space together.

The Sunday in September was still warm. Totally shot, we were sitting in a little wine bar called Enoteca: rough brick walls, uncomfortable chairs, but the best antipasti in all of Charlottenburg. You were pleasantly surprised when Michael happened to walk in. Well, in those days I was still something to show off to one’s friends. I was a little drunk already. On your juices and the Chianti.

Michael was the absolute opposite of you. Laid back and reasonable. I thought he was cute. He looked a little vulnerable when he took off his glasses to polish them. But in his grey-green sparkling eyes, intelligence and humor were competing for attention. You didn’t contribute much to the conversation that night. I guess you knew that some chemistry was starting to brew there. Something so very different from our little sexy fling. Unlike our relationship, it did not start with a bang, but rather slowly and quietly. I felt as if I were coming home at last.

Ulli has explained to me at great length what to expect on day one in court. First, they will charge me with murder. This much I knew. I also have a good idea of what else is in store for me today. All the gory details will be dragged out into the open again.

And I’m not disappointed. The first witness called is Marion Heinzel, the chambermaid who found Michael in his hotel room. She struts in on seven-inch platform heels that remind me of poor-quality prostheses and steps into the witness stand. The poor girl’s entire face is covered with pimples. It must have been a terrible shock to find Michael in a pool of blood. I’ve seen the photos myself. Revolting!

Do you remember, Ulli, your first office in Sybelstraße? Naturally, my friend Gabi and I helped you getting settled, after you had found this fantastic office space. Almost 2,000 square feet, with hardwood floors, stucco ceilings, and wonderful arched windows. We kept on moving your desks around, until you were finally satisfied that the place looked like a successful law office.

We staged you guys behind those desks, put potted plants in every room, and hung the right pictures on the walls. And sometime during all