Frankfurt, Germany. January 4 1989

I will tell you what I saw. I have lived at 62 Schützenhüttenweg in Mannheim, Germany, my entire life. I have seen generations of children come and go, but these teenagers, I must say, get worse with every passing year. I heard that last week, the Weber boy went missing. The police have been asking questions, but I'm certain they are looking in the wrong place. They should be looking at Henrich Schmidt. These two boys live in the same neighborhood, but they have never been friends. Not even close.

Henrich is a bully, and he seems to relish it. He is a tall boy, about 16 years old, with the fair hair and bright blue eyes that are so common here. Most of the children in this town have them. But Henrich's eyes are cold and empty. He has a cruel streak that goes beyond typical childhood mischief. He picks on all the other children, stealing their toys and their bicycles. He's the one who paints the ugly graffiti on the street and is not a friendly child in any sense of the word. He lives with his father on the other end of Schützenhüttenweg. There is no mother, and his father is a known drunk, a man who spends his days and nights at the tavern. It is clear that this is why Henrich is such a terrible boy. He is without guidance, a weed in a field of flowers.

Eno Weber is the exact opposite. He is also about 16, but he is short and stout, with a round face and a slight frame. He comes from a good home, a family that is kind and respected in the village. He wasn't a handsome boy, with his big nose and pimply face, and he wasn't a particularly outgoing boy either, but he was harmless. I often see him walking down the street, his head down, doing the shopping for his mother.

Henrich takes every chance he gets to pick on Eno. A month ago, in June, I saw Eno walking home from the grocery store again around 4:00 PM. He was carrying two heavy bags, and Henrich was right behind him on the street. He ran up to Eno and shoved him with a cold laugh. Eno fell to the ground, the bags of groceries tearing open as they hit the pavement.

I saw Henrich stomping on Eno's groceries and laughing. It was quite a mess, with milk and eggs splattered on the sidewalk and a loaf of bread being crushed under his heel. I yelled out my window at the two boys, and Henrich, startled by my voice, ran away. I went outside, helped Eno gather his things, and patted him on the shoulder. He didn't say anything, just looked at me with a pained, embarrassed expression. In the last weeks, the attacks on Eno were getting worse. It was now almost every day. Henrich would wait on the corner of Wormser Street for Eno to walk by, and then he would attack him. We complained to the police about Henrich, but it did not help. They said there wasn't much they could do until something more serious happened.

Last week, on Tuesday, July 12th, I saw Henrich waiting on the corner of Wormser Street, just as he always did. Around 4:00 PM, Eno walked by, as he always does, on his way home from the market. But this was different. This wasn't a playful shove. I saw Henrich grab and pull on Eno with a malicious force, his hands a blur.

I watched them, my heart pounding in my chest. They went right onto Wormser Street and fell out of my view. I didn't see anything more after that, but I heard a sound, a short, muffled cry of pain that was quickly silenced. I ran to my window and looked out, but all I saw was the empty street. The air was silent.

Today, I hear that Eno is missing. The police have been asking if anyone saw him after he left the market, but they are asking the wrong questions. You need to talk to Henrich Schmidt. He is responsible.

Sincerely,

Emily Reiner