What Happened That Night
Let’s get straight to the point. Nike van Dinther and Sarah Gottschalk from the fashion blog This is Jane Wayne chat in the latest episode of their podcast Jane knows Wayne about the Harvey Weinstein sex scandal, the resulting hashtag #MeToo, and their own experiences with discrimination, fears, and assault that both have encountered in the past.
Nike also talks about a press trip to Garmisch-Partenkirchen in 2011, which both of us attended together: There’s this one story where I genuinely got goosebumps now, in the wake of this #MeToo movement, because I was reminded of how frightened I was, or above all, how embarrassed I felt. And I remember… well, the backstory to that is… or to that thought is simply that back then I always used to think: women who get raped or who are groped—how does it come about that they suddenly feel guilty? Surely you’d immediately stand up, call the police, talk about it. I couldn’t really understand how you can feel so dirty that you don’t dare speak about it.
Nike continues: Something like that actually happened to me, in a more minor form. This was a few years ago now. I had a boyfriend at the time, I think—I’m not quite sure anymore. It was on a press trip. And it was the editor-in-chief of a relatively well-known, large German online magazine slash blog, who was also known for being a bit off-kilter, based on the topics that were, well, featured. There was a lot of sex, a lot of tits, a lot of whatever. But you always thought: yeah, well, that’s just how it is, clickbait. And it was… We all got absolutely hammered—the whole press group. I was… as I said, this was at the beginning of Jane Wayne, things we wouldn’t do today, where we now know you have to stay professional somehow. I hadn’t quite figured that out yet back then. It felt a bit like a school trip to me. We were all completely plastered. And this particular editor then suggested he could walk me to my room.
She continues: I don’t know why, but somehow we ended up in his room and not in mine. But I have to say—he wasn’t my type, I wasn’t looking to have something with him, because if that had been the case it would have been nice and perfectly fine.
Sarah interjects: It should be said: you two already knew each other beforehand.
Nike replies: We already knew each other. We got along pretty well too. And that’s why I didn’t find it strange either. I just thought: thank God there’s someone here to rescue me. Then he brought me to the room and said something like: yeah, just lie down in the bed and sleep, I couldn’t care less, I’ll head back out, or whatever. Why I then did that, I don’t remember anymore, the alcohol… I was just… I was just glad to be lying down, and I trusted him, and then I fell asleep.
Nike pursues her thought further: Yes, and then I woke up because I had a few nimble fingers playing around inside my vagina. And I remember, in that moment when I woke up and realised: excuse me, I am currently being fingered in my sleep and I absolutely do not like this. So… from today’s perspective I would say: I should have jumped up—ideally, even though violence is never a solution… I think nowadays I would have given him a good slap, I should have run out of there, called the police, let everyone else know, also to protect other women. Because in that moment the thought went through my head: wow, so many female editors had come and gone—I won’t be the only one this has happened to. But what did I, you idiot, do? I was so mortified in that moment that I pretended to be asleep. I just let it happen to me, turned away so that he’d notice: oops, she might be waking up, I’d better stop. And then he did stop.
But that wasn’t the end of it: Then I could just see out of the corner of my eye, when I secretly looked, that he was standing up and going to the bathroom. And then I just saw him from behind, naked, going to the bathroom and showering. And I was just: what the fuck! I quickly got dressed and left while he was in the shower, I think that’s how it went. I went to my room, lay down, and eventually fell asleep again. And the next day I genuinely acted as if nothing had happened. I was so embarrassed.
Sarah chimes in: I wasn’t there, but we spoke on the phone the next day and you were already in this… moment… it’s so absurd… did this even happen? Did I imagine it? Sarah, what if I imagined it? And I was like: hey, you don’t imagine something like that! This can’t be, Sarah! Yes, and then the whole thing sort of faded away.
Nike concludes the story: Yes, it really was like that, it was so awful, because I also knew that I was drunk, but I knew: no, all of this is so real, I have the feeling, I know I saw it, I absolutely did not dream it. I could also tell from his reaction the following day that something wasn’t right—that he was avoiding me, but on the other hand also trying, whenever he did have contact with me, to be super, super polite. So I knew: something happened. But I talked myself into it so much—that I’m not allowed to accuse him now because I can’t know it one hundred percent, given how drunk I was—that I never spoke about it again, until after a few weeks we said: damn, damn, damn, somehow I can’t get this out of my head. And then I tried, at the time, to get him to admit it over Skype—that’s what we used, I think—writing back and forth. I wrote something like: hey, Marcel—oh damn, now I’ve said the name, yeah, whatever, I don’t care, people can know—anyone who’s in the know or moves in those circles can draw their own conclusions.
And further: Yes, and then it was really like this—I wrote: tell me, is it possible that we had something together or whatever, I was so drunk. And then there was this immediate defensive reaction, really… no person who has nothing to hide reacts like that. It was really like: uh, well, erm, Nike, what you’re making up here, what nonsense, you were absolutely wasted and blah blah blah… And then I really thought: how crazy is that, that is actually the best proof that something happened. Yes, and I told nobody, because I also knew that he was popular, or is, or whatever, and because I was genuinely afraid that people would accuse me of talking rubbish. And for the first time in my life I felt truly solidary—connected—with all the women in the world to whom far, far worse things have happened and who still don’t dare to speak up.
I could just leave it at that now. I could accuse Nike of lying. I could admit to the whole thing. The problem is that at this point I can only repeat what I have already told Nike after that night, in multiple digital as well as in-person conversations: I don’t know. I don’t know what happened that night. What has stayed in my memory is that, because it was a press trip sponsored by Jägermeister, we all drank ourselves into the ground, and I ran into Nike late one evening in the hotel corridor. We didn’t go to my room—because that night I was sharing a room with a friend—but to Nike’s room. And I didn’t say: here, lie down, I don’t care—instead we sat on the bed and watched television. That is all I still know from that night. And that the next day everything was strange.
I am not perfect. I have never claimed to be. And anyone who has been reading this website long enough knows that too. Alcohol doesn’t exactly turn me into a better person either. I don’t necessarily become aggressive when drunk—more clingy. Or I simply walk away. That’s why I try to keep my alcohol consumption in check. I don’t like myself when I’m drunk. And I have made enough mistakes in the past that I cannot be certain whether what Nike claims is invented or not. And simply saying I don’t know!
when accused of something is the oldest excuse in the world. But it is the truth.
The morning after, I behaved strangely towards her because I noticed she was behaving strangely towards me. I thought at first that this was because we woke up together in one bed and it was a little awkward for us, or because we had perhaps done something that was down to the alcohol but that neither of us could quite remember exactly. Or maybe the others would simply have found it strange if they had known we had slept in the same room. Also because you had a boyfriend at the time. Perhaps I was also being a bit naïve there.
Rape is no joke and sexual assault is no trivial offence. They must not happen in a modern world—that much is clear. Can I claim of myself that I have never pushed another person, at least in an intimate direction? No, I cannot. Am I proud of that? No. Do I have anything to say in my defence? No.
However, I did not behave defensively towards Nike—rather, I sought conversation with her on multiple occasions. I told her that I was sorry if something bad had happened that night. Blaming everything on the alcohol is easy, but justifies absolutely nothing. Can you apologise for something you don’t even know whether it happened? That too I do not know. Is an apology not automatically an admission of guilt? Perhaps.
What I do know is that Nike and I got along quite well before that night. We were together in Prague, Hamburg, and Cologne, went for a nice lunch in Berlin, and met in the evenings for a drink in lovely bars. I liked Nike, Sarah, and their project This is Jane Wayne very much, and I am still sad today about how greatly this situation has destroyed our relationship and our friendship. Can one blame Nike for that? I don’t think so. Nevertheless, I find it a shame.
Of course it is Nike’s every right to address this story in her podcast. And I celebrate all people who use the hashtag #MeToo to help turn this world into a better place. Nike, I would dearly like to know what happened that night. So that you and I can move past it. Perhaps that too is a lie. Perhaps I don’t really want to know. Perhaps it would hold up a mirror to my dark side that would shake me to my very core. My hope is that at some point we will be able to speak normally with each other again. But that will probably remain nothing more than a hope.