CoE 01: Potent Zero

It was an unusually cold winter morning as he parked the department’s car in front of the apartment building. The car’s heater had failed for some reason and he rubbed his frozen hands together to warm them.

“Well then,” he said and grabbed his equipment. He exited the car and his already shivering body was hit by an outside gust of chilly air. His breath still formed clouds, so he assumed he wasn’t dead yet. He chuckled, hunched deeper into his coat and walked up to the front door of the red-bricked building. He guessed that it was roughly 90 years old, built soon after the Second World War. Large parts of the city had been destroyed back then and rebuilding had resulted in whole quarters looking like this - four or five stories high, red-bricked residences for the masses.

He searched for the name of Adamczyk on the intercom board and pressed the button when he found it. It took a while until an answer came. "Hello?” The female voice had a slight Polish accent.

“Good morning. My name’s Patrick Hainer. I am from the health department; I think we have an appointment?”

A soft click was followed by a buzz and he pushed the heavy door open. It was one of the newer models with additional reinforcements and security locks. The hallway behind it looked cold and boring, but also clean and well maintained. People in this house liked to keep their little space in good shape. He heard a door open further up so he started climbing the hard, unforgiving concrete stairs.

On the third level, a woman in her forties waited in a doorway; her arms were crossed. She seemed slightly annoyed. Her dark hair was tied in a ponytail, she wore an apron. “Mrs. Adamczyk?” he asked.

“Yes, please come in.” She gestured an invitation. “Do you want a coffee? I just brewed some.”

“Oh yes, please. I am freezing. It’s really cold out there.” He smiled. The thought of warming his hands on a hot mug filled him with glee.
As he entered her home he let his eyes wander, as he always did. In the tight entry was a small statue of Mother Mary praying. Most of her furniture looked old and well-used but properly maintained. The place was clean, tidy. A chain of little LED lights hung below the ceiling. A router in the corner blinked happily. A simple carpet decorated the parquet flooring. The walls were kept in unexcited white.

The woman closed the door behind him and led the way into the kitchen. “Please sit,” she said and pulled a chair from a table for him, then went to prepare the cup.
“Do you want sweetener or oat?”

"I’d like some oat, please.” He sat down and gladly took the steaming cup when she handed it to him. She also sat and looked at him. Her brows furrowed, eyes wary.
“Mrs. Adamczyk, thank you for welcoming me. As said, my name’s Patrick Hainer and I am doing home visits for the department of health - assessing your situation and the level of support you may need from the government.” He paused and took a sip from his coffee, registered that she was rationing the beans, then pulled out a tablet and a stylus.
“I understand your daughter is very ill, yes? We were informed by your doctor. It says here she always got migraines. She is eating very irregularly and complains about constantly aching joints?”

“Yes, yes. She cannot keep her food down. And I really tried everything but I cannot make her go to school. I know, she has to. I tried everything. She has lost so much weight.” The woman’s gaze focused on her cup, her face was drooping.

“I see.” He watched her attentively. “It was also mentioned in the report that she feels a never-ending fatigue. She is 15 years old, right?”

“Yes. I don’t know what I did wrong. She was such a good child, so lively. Maybe I was asking too much of her?”

“I am pretty sure that it is not your fault, Mrs. Adamczyk. Still, do you want to elaborate?” He tried for his warm and soothing voice. He found it helped best with people on the brink of despair. It also was a very good tool to give fraudsters the notion of him being naive and easily deceived, making them careless in telling a constructed lie.

“She was such a perfect little girl, always so thoughtful.” The woman paused, slowing down. “When we had to run from the invaders, and when we came here, she was always so sweet, always helping, asking nothing.” She turned her eyes to his, full of sorrow and pain. He assessed that she either indeed felt the pain of her memories or was a very good actress.

“You were born in Lublin, right? Did you live there before the invasion? It was such a nice, historical city.” He kept his voice soft, affectionate.

“Yes, I lived in England when I was in my twenties, but I returned. I wanted to raise my daughter with my family after her father took off.” She hesitated, looking down, remembering a life decades ago. “It felt safe back then. You visited Lublin?”

“I was stationed at the eastern front for three years. I was there when the city got destroyed.” Saying it out loud in front of someone who could relate, hit him harder than he had hoped. He had read the file of this woman’s daughter, knew that this detail of their past was bound to his own. So he had packed his vulnerability into a thick armor of mental numbwool, but it still lay accessible, sensitive.

He focused on some seldomly used bowls and pots perched high upon the cupboards. A harvestman slowly picked its way across them as a wave of emotional terror sloshed through his insides. He took a few deep breaths to regain control, his eyes threateningly moist. After the wave had passed, he lowered his gaze again and realized that the woman had reached out her hand over the table to hold his. The touch was warm and gentle, her skin coarse.
Their eyes met, and for a brief moment they looked at each other - shared trauma without words, then both withdrew their hands.

“You filed an application for residential therapy for your daughter and further financial support due to your refugee status. In order to proceed with this, we’d need to make sure some formalities are met and, the most important part, I’d have to talk to your daughter as well. By regulations I have to inform you that our interaction is recorded,“ he smiled a bitter smile, “for the sake of efficiency. Do you agree with this?”

His eyes fixed on hers, he raised a thumb at the side of the tablet. She said “Yes.”

“Your name is Milena Adamczyk, 43 years old, born in Lublin, Poland. Your daughter Rozalia was born in August 2020 in Birmingham, England and you migrated back to Poland in 2024. You and your daughter fled to Germany in 2028 and have been living here as refugees ever since, correct?”

The thumb went up. “Yes.”

“Our records show that you have applied for permanent residency every year, all of which have been rejected because you have no employment and are not permitted to work. You are definitely not seeking work here?”

For a short moment his gaze was fixed on the skin of her hand, remembering her touch, then he looked at her directly. She looked at his thumb.

“No, I am not working,” she said. His thumb went up.

“Well, Mrs. Adamczyk – I actually do think we already have all the personal data we need since… 2028, I think.” He emptied his cup and smiled at her. “What do you think, can we get a look at your daughter then?”

He stood up before she did and made sure to keep the tablet in a position to film everything in front of him.

“Roza,” the woman called out. No response came. She called out again. “Follow me,” she said, leading him out of the kitchen to a closed door in the small entry. She knocked, waited, but there was still no response.

She opened the door slightly and looked at him. “Can you wait a second? I want to make sure she’s… ready.” He nodded as she squeezed through the gap of the slightly opened door. The mother obviously tried to wake her daughter by repeatedly saying her name.
“The man from the department is here, are you dressed adequately?” “Already mother?” “Yes, get up, you need to talk to him.” The rustling of blankets. A drawer opened. More rustling.

Shortly after the door swung fully open, revealing a teenage girl in pyjamas sitting on a bed. Her long, unkempt hair flowed over her shoulders, framed her gaunt face, her exhaustion, in auburn. Her large, weary eyes were looking through him like he was a semi-transparent household chore.

“Come in. Sit,” said the mother as she fetched a chair which she placed in front of her daughter. He did.

“Rozalia, right? I am Patrick.” As she turned to look at him he tried to radiate harmlessness, relaxing and supporting himself by putting his elbows on his knees when he inclined forward. “I am with the department of health and I am here to assess how you are doing.” He kept his voice soft, affectionate. “So… how are you doing?”

She furrowed her brows and pouted, her eyes filled with defiance.

“You know Rozalia, I’ll try to get out of here as quickly as I can, okay? I’ll just need a recorded personal statement of your health situation to make sure your family receives support.” He paused and added, “Further.” He hated this part. It was both reality and a threat.

The girl looked at him with more disdain. The mother hissed her name, causing an even harsher expression on the girl’s face.

“I suppose your mother and I could give you a few minutes of space? Maybe that helps?” He turned to rise from the chair. “And then we try another time?”

“I need to take a piss,” the teenager growled. Then she stood up shakily and slowly swayed out of the room.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Hainer. Please don’t leave yet, she is just a tee…” He hushed her, asking her to be quiet, his eyes still fixed in the direction the girl had gone.
“Did you see that, Milena?” He turned his head to her, eyes wide. “Did you see that?”

The mother looked at him nonplussed. “What? I… no. What?”

“Her feet did not touch the floor.” He paused. “She was floating.”

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