by Per Wahlöö
When Siglinde turned her eyes upwards, she saw that the cliff wall was leaning in the wrong direction and the upper edge of the cliff was almost directly above her head. A long way up, large white birds were shooting over the edge as if they were being slung from a catapult. They flew in wide circles and disappeared again where the cliff cut off her field of vision. All the time, she heard them screaming. Even farther up the sky was covered with a silvery shimmering mist.
Dan slapped her good-naturedly on the shoulder and held out the line with the lead weights and eight baited hooks on it. She took it mechanically with her left hand. Dan lifted up the boxlike wooden frame with the line on it and gave it to her.
‘You seem to be in a hell of a daze,’ he said, slightly irritably. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
Siglinde forced herself to smile slightly.
‘I’m fine, darling, thank you.’
He left her and went forward to the bows. The boat rocked slowly as he moved.
Siglinde sat quite still and looked at the others. Ramon and Santiago had placed themselves roughly midships, one on each side. They had already got their hooks in the water. Ramon was squatting with his elbows on the side and the line over his coarse forefinger. He was staring at her with large glistening eyes, his mouth half-open, and she could see the tip of his tongue between his red lips. Santiago was half-lying against the side. He seemed to be looking straight into the cliff wall. Siglinde shook herself and let go the weights and hooks. They fell into the water with a small plop.
When she began to let out the line, Santiago turned his head and looked at her for the first time since they had left the puerto.
‘Let out all the line,’ he said.
His light brown eyes were cold and factual. He looked into her face and smiled a little.
The line was very long and she held it over her forefinger, feeling the vibrations as the water took it away. She looked at the cliff wall, wet and black and shiny, and at the small industrious waves which were slowly hollowing it out. She remembered that on all the occasions she had been here before she had enjoyed herself. But today everything was different and she could not stop thinking: In three hours’ time I’ll be home again.
And a moment later: A quarter of an hour must have gone by now. In two hours forty-five minutes I’ll be home again.
She had no watch and she tried to reckon the time. She sat and counted the seconds for a long spell. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty.
There is nothing so long as a minute. Thought Siglinde Pedersen.
No one in the boat said anything, but they did not usually talk while they were fishing.
Now and again someone hauled in the line. There were always two or three small pink fish on the hooks. The fish were unhooked and flung down on to the bottom of the boat, where they thrashed about once or twice before dying. Then the empty hooks were re-baited.
Siglinde sat for a long while and registered the weak distress signals in her line before she began to draw it in. It went slowly and her arms felt feeble and without strength. She had got four of the red sharp-finned fish and when she jerked them off, she saw how the hooks tore their small red mouths. When she let out the line again she thought that if she waited for a long time between hauls, she would not have to take the line in more than three or four times more.
After a while she got another bite, but she remained sitting quite still, looking down into the dark greenish water. High above she heard the cry of the birds. They must have been here for half an hour already, perhaps three-quarters of an hour.
Siglinde was senselessly frightened and she did not know why. Now she used all kinds of small tricks to quell her disquiet. She thought about different things.
At intervals the others drew in their lines and unhooked small red fish. A couple of dozen already lay in the bottom of the boat.
Siglinde thought: Today I’ll fry the fish. They are salmonetes and they’re good. And expensive if you have to buy them. But I’ll keep some and tomorrow I’ll make bouillabaisse. First I clean the fish and boil the heads and insides and perhaps a couple of the poor ones if we get any of those. I’ll use the big pan and put in two litres of water. They have to boil for a long time and be well salted and then I’ll sieve it all through a cloth so that I have nothing but the stock left. The heads and guts the cat can have, when they’re all boiled, but he can’t have raw fish as he only gets worms from it. Then I’ll buy saffron and dried pimentos and ordinary onions and cut them all up and put them all in the stock together with garlic and a little rice that I’ve already got at home. There should really be a few bay-leaves in it too, but perhaps they’re hard to get hold of. I could ask of course, if I remember. And dried tomatoes too, and red pepper and a little oil, as Willi likes blobs of fat on his soup. Then I’ll let the lot simmer under the lid for half an hour at least and put in some cleaned salmonetes, at least two each. Then we’ll sit on the stones in the kitchen and eat the soup and I’ll really make it good this time, as now I’ve learnt how to make it. It must be strong and …
Suddenly she could not go on. She felt how the small jerks had increased in strength, but it did not occur to her to pull in the line.
Instead she forced herself to look in another direction. She turned her head quickly and saw the open sea spreading beyond the small rocky skerries. On the horizon was the superstructure of a large passenger liner, slowly ploughing its way from north to south. A minute or so later she let her eyes wander towards the men in the boat. Dan was just hauling in his line. Ramon was staring straight at her. Santiago was also looking in her direction but as if he were observing something just behind her.
Siglinde shuddered and again looked at the rugged black cliff wall.
She sought for another diversion. In desperation she fumbled for one she used only seldom and then only when in direst need.
She thought about the man she had lived with before she met Dan.
At the time she had been working in a drawing office and was well, but life was dull. He was working in an advertising agency and was a very well-dressed and well-brushed young man, well brought-up and everyone said he had a way with him. She had met him before at college and he had been much the same then. They had quite a lot in common, and she quite liked him, at least at times. He lived in two rooms, which were very neat and clean and practical and decorated with a kind of modernistic bogus-artistry, geometry on the walls and chilly impersonal mobiles hanging from the ceiling. Gradually she moved in with him, but it was some time before she did. Once or twice a week, he became completely transformed and tore off her clothes and threw her down anywhere, on the carpet, or the bed, or sometimes even the kitchen floor. This usually happened on Saturdays and sometimes on Wednesday evenings. When she was naked, he forced her legs apart and she remembered that his hips were quite broad and that he had black hair on his chest and stomach. He bit her on the breasts and shoulders and under her chin and on Mondays she had large red marks on her body which turned blue in the middle of the week and hardly had time to disappear before the next Saturday. He did everything very quickly and roughly and was sometimes impotent and bit her throat in desperation, and she was not frightened but very embarrassed, for she was inexperienced and had not learnt what she ought to do. At first she had thought that all this was rather good, but she had fairly soon lost interest. Long afterwards she discovered that she had learnt to loathe people who became transformed. But there were still situations from th
e kitchen floor or the carpet which she could not bring back to mind without feeling a certain excitement.
Siglinde saw the dripping black cliff wall in front of her again. She had goose-flesh all over her now and her fear had grown wild and unreasonable. Dimly she saw that her thoughts had chosen the wrong channel.
At that moment a large fish bit. Its heavy strong jerks made the line run through her fingers, but she contented herself with winding the line once round her hand and holding on. She sat like this for a long time, until Dan said: ‘Siglinde, you’ve got a bite.’
Then she began to haul in the line slowly and all the time she kept her eyes on the line down in the water. Soon something shone down there, as the large fish threw itself about to free itself. It came nearer and nearer and it was not so large but quite big all the same, perhaps eighteen inches long. She had also got three small red fish and the other four hooks were empty. She swung her catch into the boat and at that moment the big fish flung itself loose and shot between her feet. It was fat and shimmering green and purple, and she saw a large cold circular eye. She took it in both hands and tried to break its neck against the big stones lying in the bottom of the boat, but although she hit several times she only succeeded in gashing it more and more. Finally she could not bring herself to hold it any longer. It slid away from her and down the length of the boat.
Without looking at her, Santiago put his bare foot on the fish and drew his knife out of its sheath and cut its throat. The fish died at once.
Siglinde sat still and looked at the knife. Her hands were sticky and cold and there was a little thin blood on her fingers.
‘That’s what I call luck,’ said Dan. ‘And you hardly able to hold the line today.’
Siglinde shuddered. She was sweating all over and her heart was beating violently.
Ramon was staring at her, greedily and openly.
She thought one single clear thought, over and over again: As long as I get home, as long as I get home, I’ll do anything as long as I get home, as long as …
Santiago had pulled in his line and wound it up on the wooden frame. He half-rose and looked out over the sea.
‘It’s beginning to blow a bit now,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’d better go back.’
Along the horizon the mist had grown greyer and more compact. The water was slapping a little more heavily against the cliff wall. High up above the birds were screaming.
Siglinde returned to reality. She blinked and looked round as if she had just woken up from a nightmare. Her heart was still thumping and she could still feel the fear in her diaphragm, but nevertheless everything seemed different. They were to leave now and nothing would happen and in an hour’s time they would be home. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and smiled confusedly, sitting down on the stern seat.
Santiago gathered up the fish and slung them into a flat basket. Dan and Ramon wound up their lines.
It grew slowly darker on the horizon and a cool breeze wafted along the cliff wall.
Dan rose, stepped over Ramon, walked to the stern seat and sat down. He freed the rudder and pressed the tiller.
‘How are you feeling, darling?’ he said, stroking her cheek.
‘I’m all right. Yes, I’m all right.’
He looked at her in surprise.
‘Are you frightened?’
‘Yes, a little,’ said Siglinde.
‘Funny darling,’ said Dan, laughing. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
Santiago had sat down cross-legged and begun to put the lines in order.
Ramon was kneeling on the floor of the boat turning the engine. The engine started on the second turn and the boat increased speed along the cliff wall.
Dan Pedersen steered slightly away from the land and held course southwards to go round the island. They came out of the shade and into the sun and he laid his hand on Siglinde’s thigh, calmly and comfortably, and so high up that a couple of fingers crept in under her shorts and brushed a few hairs that had made their way out under the elastic of her pants. They had the tiller between them and were holding it from each side.
Siglinde felt her confidence returning. She looked at the Alemany brothers and they looked the same as usual. Santiago was standing bent over the hooks, humming slowly as he worked. Ramon was squatting by the engine, poking at the fuel regulator.
Dan moved the tiller over and rounded the south tip of the island. The swell here was already quite strong and the dinghy on the tow-line danced lightly on the waves.
Siglinde fumbled for cigarettes under the seat. In an hour they would be home.
At that moment the engine began to cough. It did not stop, but it was labouring heavily and unevenly.
‘What is it?’ said Dan Pedersen.
Ramon peered into the engine, fiddled with the fuel regulator and shook his head.
‘We’d better fix it before we go on,’ said Dan. ‘We’ll go in here into the bay and then we won’t drift.’
He drew the tiller towards him and the boat swung back towards the island in a tight slow curve. The engine was misfiring badly now.
The west side of the island was different from the sea side. The mountain sloped more gently and the coast was cut up into a long row of separate stony bays, with calm water and small beaches of shell-sand. Just here, near the southern point, was a sheltered bay where they had bathed several times.
As they passed through the narrow approach, the engine stopped. The boat slid slowly through the water until the bows softly burrowed their way into the tawny yellow sand on the shore.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll soon have it fixed up,’ said Dan Pedersen.
‘I know what it is,’ said Santiago. ‘Oil on the plugs.’
He began to get up.
‘Oh, let Dan do it,’ said Ramon laughing. ‘He wants to so badly.’
Dan knelt down by the engine. Ramon stood diagonally behind him with his hands on his knees. Santiago had got up.
‘Give me the spanner,’ said Dan Pedersen.
Siglinde was still sitting on the seat in the stern.
Time stood still. Every detail was visible with corrosive clarity, as if in a permanent flash of lightning.
Siglinde did not know why she had been afraid and she had been right and it was too late.
Dan Pedersen was dead and lay prostrate over the engine.
Ramon Alemany had bent down and lifted one of the diving-stones from the bottom of the boat and smashed in his head.
What remained was steely terror and reflections of horror in their eyes.
Siglinde lay on her back on the shore, while Santiago held her arms and Ramon tore off her shorts and pants. She smelt the smell of fish and sweat on their trousers. High up above her, she saw the white birds shoot over the ridge of the cliff, as if slung by a catapult.
She wanted to live and so she resisted.
Half-an-hour later, they killed her.
Part Four
1
Willi Mohr had a good friend called Hugo Spohler.
They had met at the end of 1951 in a repatriation camp outside Cologne, where they were living in a wooden hut and had top bunks in the same partition. In the daytime they were occupied with clearing rubble and in the evenings and at night they talked to each other. The winter was cold and grey and muddy and it rained nearly every day.
Willi Mohr had crossed the zone border in Berlin a few weeks earlier, received new identity papers from the Commandant of the British Sector and then he had been sent west. He was missing his mother and had already regretted having changed sides.
Hugo Spohler was from Dresden in Saxony and the whole of his family had vanished either in the great raids towards the end of the war, or in the confusion that followed. He was four years older than Willi Mohr and had already been chosen for the Life Guards when he was still at school. He was blue-eyed and broad-shouldered and nearly six feet tall, so more than fulfilled the physical requirements, although he was in fact not particu
larly strong.
Now he was troubled by stomach ulcers and occasionally by an old wound, and he had long since managed to get a doctor to remove the SS tattooed on his left upper arm.
So far as he was concerned, the war had ended in 1944 when he personally had capitulated to the Americans in Normandy after his unit had been surrounded and wiped out in small groups. It was a clear morning and very early as he had crouched down and run along a narrow path between high hedges. As he ran he held his pistol loose in his hand so that in a flash he could either use it or throw it away, whichever the situation demanded. Round a sharp bend, he had run into an American soldier, so he had stretched out his pistol on the flat of his hand and said: ‘Souvenir.’
The astonished American took the gun and with that Hugo Spohler managed to achieve his sole aim at that particular moment, to become a prisoner-of-war.
As he had been a member of the SS, he was sent to the United States and not sent back from there until the authorities were quite convinced that he was a reasonably insignificant figure.
Before that bright clear morning between the high hedges, Hugo had managed to experience the war fairly thoroughly. He went to France after the great offensive in 1940 and was posted to Bayonne. It was a pleasant posting and he had enjoyed it very much, but a year later he had overslept with a seventeen-year-old French shop girl and missed a parade. The following week he was sent to the Russian front. He spent fourteen months on one of the southern sectors of the front, in thirty degrees below zero in the winter and the same above zero in the summer. In the autumn of 1942 he got a grenade splinter in his right upper arm and was transported back to an Italian field hospital. The wound was a serious one, was badly treated, the Italian surgeon’s eyes were red and sore, and he had had blood on his white jacket from operating for ten hours at a stretch.