The Exception

by Christian Jungersen

  A handful of mature-looking men have settled down with their cans of beer in a group of scarlet egg-shaped chairs. There is an electric keyboard by the glass wall and a young woman seems to be testing it. She must be the conductor. Anne-Lise feels almost queasy watching her, because she looks like Malene, only not as pretty.

  Anne-Lise checked the home page of the Copenhagen Postal Choir and one of the things she found out was that the conductor recently completed a university degree in music. Before last year Anne-Lise used to enjoy being in the company of artistic young women, but now they just annoy her.

  The conductor welcomes her. ‘It’s great to see a new face. How did you find out about us?’

  ‘I found you on the Internet.’

  ‘Oh, good, our website must be doing its job.’ She turns to the rest of the group and speaks to them in the beautifully controlled voice of a singer, not unlike Camilla’s. ‘Listen, everybody. This is Brigitte; she’s going to sing with us tonight. Try not to scare her away! Hopefully she’ll come back next Wednesday.’

  The women laugh and begin to introduce themselves. Talking across each other, they tell Anne-Lise about the choir, its performances in churches and elsewhere, and the various excursions they go on.

  ‘We sing every year at the Summer Festival here in Copenhagen.’

  ‘But the main thing is, we always have such a good time together. Great parties, don’t you think, ladies?’

  Several exclaim at the same time.

  The home page had informed Anne-Lise that, although most of the singers worked within the post office, the choir has been open to outsiders for a long time.

  ‘Have you sung in a choir before?’ one woman asks.

  ‘You’ll get the hang of it quickly, don’t worry.’

  The conductor addresses Anne-Lise. ‘Brigitte, do you know what part you sing?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You sound like an alto. Why don’t you join the altos for now.’

  A woman in her early sixties with very black hair holds up her case of sheet music. ‘Brigitte, my name is Tess. Come and stand next to me. You can sing from my music until you have your own set.’

  So far, so good. The knot in Anne-Lise’s stomach is loosening. When people round you are as kind as this, it is impossible to stay scared for long. She had been so worried that someone would recognise her and instantly see she’s lying. Or, almost as bad, that she’d have one of her sudden fits of weeping.

  The conductor claps her hands. The men drag themselves away from their chairs at the far end of the room and join the women.

  Suddenly Camilla’s name is mentioned. ‘Camilla Batz called me from work this afternoon. She can’t come tonight – it’s the parent–teacher evening at her daughter’s school.’ The woman has mahogany-coloured hair that is pulled back in a knot and she’s wearing a navy scarf.

  Anne-Lise whispers to Tess, trying to sound surprised: ‘Camilla Batz! Does she have curly blonde hair?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know her?’

  ‘Yes. How extraordinary. We were childhood friends. How is she? What is she doing now?’

  Tess has no time to answer, because the warm-up has begun. Anne-Lise is new to the exercises, but follows them as well as she can and keeps her voice low. All the singers practise breathing with their diaphragm and are told to stand with their feet planted evenly on the floor. Shoulders and neck must be relaxed. They launch into ‘Tears in Heaven’ by Eric Clapton.

  During the first break Anne-Lise returns to her questioning. ‘What about Camilla – what does she do now?’

  ‘She works in an office that gives out information about … oh, about something – I’m not sure. But she’ll be here next Wednesday, so you can see her then. Some of us get together for a beer afterwards, so if you join us the two of you will have a chance to catch up.’

  It surprises Anne-Lise to realise how easy it is to lie.

  Tess has a lovely voice but it’s weak. One of the tenor’s voices rises above the rest as they sing.

  Anne-Lise feels exhilarated, almost intoxicated by the combination of her own adrenaline and the sheer warmth of these people who have welcomed her so readily.

  Tess leans over to whisper to her: ‘I think it’s a great song too!’

  They must be able to see something of what she feels in her face. The women who are standing near Anne-Lise believe that it is the music that has moved her so much. When the conductor stops to explain a few changes in the rhythm to the male singers, Pernille, an alto in the front row, turns to whisper to Anne-Lise: ‘Brigitte, does that mean you’ll come back?’

  Anne-Lise realises these complete strangers are more sensitive to what she’s feeling than the people she has worked with for a whole year.

  The singing starts up again. Anne-Lise thinks of Yngve’s bleak view of human nature. She refuses to believe him. People aren’t like that. She promises herself to find out more about research into the human capacity for evil.

  It’s a paradox, she thinks, that – in Danish at least – the best brief introduction to the subject is probably two articles written by Iben and published a year ago in two consecutive issues of Genocide News under the title ‘The Psychology of Evil’. Anne-Lise makes up her mind to read the articles again when she is back home.

  They stop for a break. There are cans of beer and fizzy drinks with a box to collect the money. Anne-Lise pays for a can of fizzy orange. A large woman called Ruth, another alto, expounds on the need to hold notes for different lengths of time in their rendering of ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’.

  ‘The basses have long ones and the tenors short ones. Imagine that!’

  Everyone laughs. Normally Anne-Lise wouldn’t find this kind of innuendo amusing, but she has been on edge all day and now she shakes with laughter, and the fizzy orange drink goes up her nose. She can’t swallow, but tries to keep her mouth closed. It doesn’t work. The drink sprays all over Ruth’s blouse and the table, dribbling down Anne-Lise’s chin and onto her own blouse.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Ruth. I’m such an idiot …’ If only she could run away from the whole scene. But she stays, words tumbling out of her mouth. ‘I’ll clean it up. Is there a rag anywhere? Let me buy you a new blouse …’ One of the singers has already found a sponge.

  The woman with the navy scarf smiles, deepening the laughter lines at the corners of her eyes. ‘Ruth is too funny for her own good. I can see you agree!’

  Ruth is kind as well. ‘Brigitte, don’t apologise. And don’t even think of buying me a new blouse. This one can be dry-cleaned just fine.’

  Anne-Lise stares at the floor. One thought keeps running through her head: It never ends. It never, never ends! Where can I be the old Anne-Lise?

  After a short silence Tess turns to a woman in a black skirt. ‘Do you remember when I managed to spray you with a mouthful of Coke?’

  The woman looks at her, mystified.

  ‘You must remember – I was laughing so hard I couldn’t help it.’

  Anne-Lise raises her head in time to see the woman realise what she is supposed to say.

  ‘Oh, yes of course! I’d almost forgotten …’

  Between them, they manage to cheer Anne-Lise up. Her mood has improved when she goes off to the Ladies’ room. The Eric Clapton song is playing in her head.

  Several women are standing in front of the mirror. A soprano called Vibeke speaks to Anne-Lise. ‘You will enjoy having Camilla here next week. Especially since you know her so well.’

  ‘I did, once. We were in the same class up to fourth form, but I haven’t seen her in years. How is she now?’

  Silence.

  ‘What is it? Have I said something wrong?’

  Vibeke backs away from the mirror. ‘I was under the impression that she had no friends in her class.’

  ‘Well, it was quite a long time ago … I have no idea what she’s doing now.’

  ‘Were you really in her class?’

  ‘Yes, why?’
/>
  ‘What did you think about what went on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Where were you when your class gathered around Camilla every single breaktime, and picked on her? When they forced the weakest kids to touch her so that they would scream because everyone said she was dirty and smelly?’

  The others try to calm Vibeke down. ‘Vibeke! Take it easy!’

  But Vibeke is on a roll. ‘What did you think when a pupil in another class tried to kill herself because she was so badly bullied? And the rest of you simply carried on as if nothing had happened? Would anyone have cared if Camilla had tried to kill herself too? What were you thinking?’ Vibeke has worked herself up into such a state that Anne-Lise hasn’t had a chance to answer before she storms away, slamming the door behind her.

  The others start apologising at once. They tell Anne-Lise that Vibeke has her own problems and that she is prone to outbursts. She had one just before a performance in Malmö. They assure Anne-Lise that if she joins the choir she’ll find that there’s a much nicer side to Vibeke. Most likely Vibeke will tell her she’s sorry.

  But no one says anything about the truth of Vibeke’s accusations.

  *

  Walking back to the rehearsal room, no one speaks. Tess comes to meet them. ‘You’re in luck, Brigitte!’ She beams.

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘It seems Camilla’s parent–teacher meeting was over sooner than she’d expected. She’s decided to come tonight after all.’

  Anne-Lise freezes. She hopes the others won’t notice.

  ‘She’s just taking off her wet things. I told her about you and she thought she could place you straightaway.’

  Anne-Lise can barely swallow. ‘Ahaaa …’

  She turns away from them and tries to pull herself together. ‘Oh, damn, I’ve left my eye-liner in the toilet. You go ahead and start. I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Brigitte. We’ll wait for you.’

  At least there is nobody in the bathroom now. Anne-Lise knows that she must get out of there. But how?

  She needs to find a different staircase that will take her down into the network of basement corridors that lead to the exit. Then Anne-Lise remembers that her coat and umbrella are still in the rehearsal room. At least she had the foresight to bring a coat that Camilla has never seen her wear, in case the others start describing Brigitte to her. But her wallet, with her driver’s licence and credit card, is in her coat pocket. How can she grab it without Camilla spotting her?

  Why didn’t I put the wallet in my handbag? I was just about to. Now it’s there, right under Camilla’s nose.

  When Anne-Lise no longer hears voices in the corridor, she sneaks out of the toilet and slips away. After turning a few corners and passing through two sets of fire doors, she reaches the top of a staircase that leads down to the basement.

  Below, the hallways seem even more confusing. She has no idea where she is in the maze. The lighting is uniform and everywhere looks the same. She searches her memory for markers: a firehose wound up in a drum, anything, but there’s not the smallest piece of graffiti, not a single discarded postbag. Nothing at all to go by.

  After turning several corners, she spots a darkish trail on the light floor. It looks like a skid mark. She can’t recall having seen it before. Next, she comes across one of the metal staircases. She runs up it and finds a large door.

  If she pushes it, will the alarm go off?

  Somewhere down here they keep money and valuables worth millions; security guards must patrol these corridors round the clock. What if she’s arrested and dragged away in front of the choir, including Camilla?

  She stands still and listens. The door looks heavy. Presumably sounds wouldn’t penetrate it easily? She listens but can’t hear a thing. No barking of guard dogs. No voices.

  She reaches for the handle and pushes it down.

  No alarm, but the door is locked. She feels like hitting something, anything, but orders herself to calm down.

  Walking noiselessly, she retraces her way along the corridor. Is it the same one? Impossible to be sure.

  If only she could make her way to the reception area. Then she could spy on the choir through the glass wall and see when Camilla leaves. And once she’s gone, Anne-Lise could run back through the corridors, praying that she won’t meet Camilla on the way, and retrieve her coat before anyone starts going through its pockets and discovers she’s not Brigitte. Anne-Lise knows that she will have to be improbably lucky to succeed. Still, what other option does she have? She could try finding the route the postal vans take into the complex – there must be vehicle access somewhere – but that wouldn’t solve the problem of her purse.

  She comes to another metal staircase and the door at the top is not locked. It leads to a small anteroom with three doors – two of them locked, the third with a large triangular sign saying ‘Alarm’ pinned above it. She doesn’t dare try it and returns to the basement.

  How long has she been down here? Twenty-five minutes, according to her watch, but that doesn’t feel right. It must be longer.

  She hears breathing somewhere nearby. Panting. Possibly the sound made by one – no, two – dogs, excited at picking up a scent and pulling impatiently on their leads.

  Anne-Lise stops and takes off her shoes. Then, after turning a corner, she spots a half-used roll of kitchen paper on the floor. She recognises it. It tells her that she is not far from the staircase leading up to the entrance door.

  She hurries again now, trying all the doors to find one that isn’t locked. All the time she hears the panting noises coming from somewhere behind her. At last, one of the doors opens. Behind it is a cupboard full of boxes, bottles and cleaning equipment. It’s dark but she wouldn’t dare put the light on even if she could find the switch.

  A little later she hears two men walk past. She holds her breath and sits perfectly still on the floor, hugging a vacuum cleaner. The men are speaking an unrecognisable foreign language. Could it be Serbian? Bizarre conspiracy theories flash through her head. It occurs to her, when their voices have died away, that one of them could easily have been Paul’s, but that doesn’t make sense. Everything is so unfamiliar, almost otherworldly down here in the darkness.

  She picks up the strong smell of ammonium chloride.

  Then she hears a voice outside calling. ‘Brigitte! Brigitte!’ It is the woman with the navy scarf. ‘Maybe she got lost on the way back from the toilet?’

  Another voice replies: ‘You know as well as I do that it’s Vibeke’s fault. I don’t know why she has to be like that. Remember when we were with that Swedish choir in Malmö and she …’

  Their voices gradually fade away.

  Anne-Lise persuades herself that the panting is probably not dogs but a defective pump somewhere in the ventilation system. She listens for people talking. Not a sound.

  After stealing back out into the corridor, Anne-Lise follows it for a few more turns. Another metal staircase and, at the top of it, a small anteroom. She pulls at one of the door handles but this one is alarmed and a siren goes off. The sound is like the piercing noise of a giant dog whistle.

  Anne-Lise looks around her. She is in the reception area. The choir is staring at her from behind the glass wall.

  This is the end.

  How can she tell Henrik that she has been fired? Now he’ll have to put up with her languishing at home for years: another drunken, useless Jutta. And the children will suffer as their mother slowly falls apart.

  Pernille opens the door leading into the rehearsal room. It doesn’t matter, now that the alarm has been set off.

  ‘Oh, good. There you are!’

  Anne-Lise can’t answer. She tries to muster the courage to stand in front of them, exposed as a liar.

  Someone calls out. ‘Hey, Camilla! Your old classmate has found her way back!’

  Tess has joined Pernille. ‘We’ve been quite worried about you, Brigitte.’

  Anne-Lise scans the
room for Camilla. She can’t see her anywhere.

  Another voice from the back of the group.

  ‘Camilla?’

  Others join in.

  ‘Goodness, where did she go? We keep losing people today.’

  ‘Camilla? Camilla, where are you?’

  ‘Look, her bag is gone! It was here a moment ago.’

  Anne-Lise quietly collects her coat and umbrella. She smiles vaguely at no one in particular.

  She hears someone mention how Camilla reacted when she heard about ‘Brigitte’. Even after all these years, Camilla was so upset that she sneaked away without anyone noticing.

  Anne-Lise excuses herself. ‘I’d better leave too.’

  The women look sympathetically at her.

  The Psychology of Evil I

  Interest in the psychology of perpetrators is growing rapidly. Past research in this area is summarised in this and the next issue of Genocide News.

  By Iben Højgaard

  In the Old Testament whole populations are described as being ‘wiped off the face of the Earth’ on twenty-seven separate occasions. The phenomenon of genocide is integral to not only Western, but also non-Western cultures, although the latter has surprised some observers.

  For thousands of years genocides have been known to take place in just about every location on Earth, and during recent centuries, we know that the number of killings has been increasing steadily. In the course of the twentieth century, over 100 million people have died in genocides and wars. This is more than five times the number killed in this way during the nineteenth century, and more than ten times the corresponding number in the eighteenth century. At present there are no signs to suggest that the rate will level off without active intervention.

  Genocide is always committed by the group holding power at the time. The first time psychologists were able to do research into the mechanisms driving those who plan and carry out mass murder came after the defeat of the Nazis at the end of the Second World War.

  The Nuremberg military tribunal