Die Frau ohne Seele

Berlin, winter 1926: chandeliers drip like stalactites over a charity cotillion where industrial baron Karsten Seebold flaunts his latest acquisition—his third wife, the marble-skinned Irena, rumored to have buried two husbands already. Irena glides through waltzes without blinking, her pupils twin voids where conscience should live. Across the ballroom, the penniless violinist Alfons Merian sees her, drops his bow, and suddenly the Strauss on the bandstand sours into a funeral march only he hears. By dawn, Alfons is hired as house-composer for the Seebold estate, a walled fortress on the Havel where topiary shadows look like hangman’s knots. Inside, Irena’s step-daughter, the consumptive Kathe, clutches a locket holding her dead mother’s hair; the governess Fräulein von Mildenburg rehearses bedtime prayers that sound like indictments; and the butler Krastin eavesdrops through keyholes, storing secrets in a notebook bound with human skin—he calls it his “soul ledger.” Over twelve nights of candlelit corridors and frostbitten gardens, Irena seduces Alfons, persuades him to pen a requiem whose climax will coincide with Kathe’s “accidental” drowning in the frozen river. Yet every time the plan tightens, the estate’s mirrors fog, as though some ancestral breath objects. On the eve of the premiere, Alfons discovers Irena’s bridal portrait in the attic, its eyes scratched out by her own diamond ring. Guilt erupts; he swaps the requiem for a lullaby whose frequencies shatter the drawing-room windows. Kathe survives, but the ice beneath Irena cracks, swallowing her into black water. She sinks without screaming—proof that a woman without a soul is also a woman without a voice.