Alphabet House

by Adler-Olsen, Jussi

  But now the dressing gown was gone. One of the orderlies had been gazing at it covetously for a long time. His slippers had disappeared ages ago.

  The distance to the Swiss border was manageable, scarcely more than thirty or forty miles. There was still a summer sky above that painted the landscape in clear, sharp contours. But it was cold at night.

  Several weeks ago the west wind had blown up and carried new sounds with it. The occasional whistle and deep rumble of a train came like an echo of salvation. We’re on the edge of the mountains, James! he thought. The railway line can’t be far away. We could jump on the train and ride down to the border. We’ve done it before. We can do it again. It would get us all the way to Basel, James! We’re jumping on that train!

  But James himself was a problem.

  The blue rings under his eyes seemed permanent.

  Sister Petra became more and more grave.

  One night it dawned on Bryan that he’d have to escape alone. He’d woken with a start caused by an inescapable suspicion that he’d been talking in his sleep. Pock-Face was standing beside his bed, looking at him. There was a brooding mistrust in his eyes.

  Escape could be delayed no longer.

  In certain risky moments he had toyed with the idea of knocking down an orderly and stealing his clothes. There was also the possibility that a doctor might leave his civilian clothes in the ward or in one of the offices. But daydream and reality never came seriously to grips with one another. Bryan’s daily sphere of activity wasn’t large. He had a thorough knowledge of only the ward, the consultation room, the electroshock room, the lavatories and the bathroom. None of these presented any possibilities.

  The solution came when one of the patients peed up against the bathroom door and shouted and screamed until they gave him a shot to calm him down. While Vonnegut was on his knees wiping up the mess, Bryan shuffled sideways out to the lavatory, wagging his head from side to side.

  The door opposite the lavatory was wide open. Bryan sat down heavily on the seat, leaving the wooden door ajar. He had never seen inside the storeroom before.

  It was actually just a big cupboard with cleaning rags, soap flakes and brooms and pails stacked on shelves or deposited on the floor.

  A narrow ray of light illuminated the room from the side. Vonnegut was still at work on the floor outside, expressing audibly how far away he wished both himself and everyone else. A few steps and Bryan was over by the cupboard. He inspected the doorframe. It was half-rotten. The lock barely held in the brittle wood. The metal fittings had lost their grip long ago. The door opened inward and only needed a firm push on the handle along with the pressure of a knee. A worn, old pair of overalls hung on a porcelain hook on the back of the door.

  Bryan gasped when Vonnegut shoved the storeroom door open. With a firm grip on his wrist, Bryan was led back to his bed, holding his breath with his heart pounding.

  By the time the moon disappeared and left the ward in total darkness, Bryan had gone through in his head again and again what he’d seen in the storeroom. He’d left his bed and scuttled out to the lavatory four times during the evening. Frequent attacks of diarrhoea were not unusual in the ward. The increasingly poor quality of the food had its effect.

  The first time Bryan went to the lavatory he’d forced his way into the storeroom and removed the two top shelves.

  There was a small window in the storeroom. Situated above the top shelf, it was not easy to reach, but just large enough. And, unlike the small slits up by the ceiling in the bathroom and lavatories, it was not furnished with bars.

  The window hasps could be unfastened without a sound.

  Bryan quickly made up his mind. He would make his attempt the next time or the time after. He would put on the overalls, climb up on to the shelf, crawl out through the window and count on surviving the fall to the ground. Then he would make for the open square and climb over the barbed wire. It was a plan with all odds against it. A desperate undertaking like most of the missions he and James had survived. And now James was once again lying lifeless in the ward. Reality was a harsh master. The thought of having to live the rest of his life with a guilty conscience tormented him.

  But what could he do?

  It took three more trips to the toilet before Bryan remained in the storeroom. On his second visit he was disturbed by the little man with the bloodshot eyes. They flushed with their respective chains and tottered back to their warm nests, elbow to elbow.

  Not until the third time did Bryan feel safe enough to put on the overalls. They provided scant protection against the cold.

  The shelf creaked threateningly as Bryan pushed off and grabbed the window frame. The window was rather narrower than he’d expected. Not a sound was to be heard from the ward.

  He squeezed out through the window to the point where he was about to tip over. Despite the darkness, the abyss beneath him stood out in terrifying detail. The jump was suicidal.

  Parachute jumping and simulated plane crashes had made Bryan better prepared than most. But with a twenty-foot freefall, the chances of not being injured were devastatingly slim. There were no mitigating circumstances in regard to the dark chasm. If the fall killed him, it would happen quickly and mercifully. If, on the other hand, he was wounded and caught, the security police would be sure to take terrible revenge.

  The kitchen building that leaned snugly against the wall of rock was dark and peaceful. Familiar sounds floated alongside the wall and portended the guards’ regular night round. Breath escaped their mouths in steamy puffs of semi-repressed laughter and rose up to Bryan, perched above.

  One of them started laughing loudly as they passed the building. Just as the mirthful roar reached him, a creaking sound came from behind and the shelf detached itself from the storeroom wall.

  Only faint oaths escaped Bryan’s lips. He tried in vain to gain a foothold in order to push himself out as he clung to the brick wall with his elbows.

  He was clammy with sweat in spite of the cold. The guards had not yet quite disappeared behind the square, but the dogs were diverted by their masters’ merriment and danced around playfully.

  In a moment they would be back.

  The crash from inside the storeroom was indefinable. He was still trying desperately to force himself the last bit forwards and out of the window when an iron grip locked his ankles from behind.

  It was too late.

  Chapter 21

  James was still plagued by the nausea and discomfort caused by the blood transfusions. With it came anxiety. Voices merged and confused him. His strength had deserted him.

  Unconsciousness had stolen his time and his daydreamings suffered.

  The aftermath of all the shock treatments, the heavy-handed care and the blood transfusions played tricks on James’ memory. Most of the films and books had vanished or merged into one. Only the greatest literary and film classics remained. And, of course, the fear.

  James felt terrible. He felt sick in body and soul. Exhausted, alone and drained of tears. Around him lurked impotence and madness. Dejected faces, suppressed mania and weird, depressed behaviour. Then there were his oppressors, and finally – Bryan.

  James let things be, now that the malingerers had selected a new victim, and pretended most of the time to be lost to the world.

  He didn’t find this difficult.

  It was the malingerers who had stopped Bryan’s escape attempt. ‘Take him alive,’ Kröner had growled, as they grabbed him. ‘Wash the blood off the storeroom wall and replace the shelf.’ It was remarkable how promptly they’d obeyed. In the ward, only the remaining Siamese twin appeared uneasy, his gaze dancing from the floor to the bell-cord over his head. Kröner hissed at him like a wildcat until the twin started squeaking and curled up under his blanket in the fetal position.

  Bryan let them escort him back to the ward without a struggle. His hands were bleeding. The malingerers bent over him, raining questions down on him as the first faint rays of morning light penet
rated the shutters. Were there any others faking it? Had he any co-conspirators? How much did he know?

  But Bryan remained silent, leaving the malingerers in doubt. Was he indeed simulating? Had he been trying to escape, or commit suicide?

  Bryan survived the next morning’s trials as well. But his desperation was obvious.

  The cleaning woman had discovered marks on the wall. She sounded the alarm and shook the loose shelf without making any appreciable impression on the ward nurse.

  The morning ablutions were over long ago. The malingerers had scowled at Bryan with an odd mixture of relief and malice as he went out to the bathroom, stiff in all his limbs, and removed every trace of the previous night from his arms, hands, shirt and body.

  But he hadn’t been able to remove the scratches on his fingertips he’d received while struggling to squeeze through the window. One of the orderlies noticed the little cuts on his fingers and confided his suspicions to his replacement as he pointed at Bryan.

  And James saw that Bryan was aware of it.

  The security officer finally turned up later that morning. As he was inspecting them one by one, the orderly pulled Bryan’s hands out and thrust them accusingly towards the officer. Bryan just smiled and nodded. Countless tiny wooden splinters stuck out of the bloody fingertips. They looked like porcupine needles. The orderly frowned and shook Bryan’s arms like the neck of a naughty puppy. Then Bryan pulled his hands free and struck them several times against the bomb shutter behind him as he closed his eyes in euphoria.

  The officer’s authority manifested itself so audibly that it gave everyone a start. He grabbed Bryan’s shirt angrily and forced him to the floor. ‘I’ll teach you to make fun of us!’ he spat, forcing Bryan to stand up. He stood with drooping shoulders, face to face with his fate.

  James knew he was fighting for his life.

  In a feverish struggle against time, Bryan had managed to drive the splinters into his fingertips prior to inspection by rubbing them against the rough bomb shutters. At first the malingerers had found it amusing. But they weren’t laughing now.

  The officer investigated every inch of Bryan’s body. The nightshirt was crumpled and greyish, still a bit damp after his thorough morning bath. The orderly shrugged his shoulders. ‘It looks like he didn’t take it off before his bath,’ he said.

  Instead of letting go of the shirt, the officer pulled it further up. Softly, almost caressingly, he took hold of Bryan’s testicles and looked him kindly in the face. ‘Were you feeling a bit homesick, Herr Oberführer? Don’t worry, you can confide in me. No harm will come to you.’ He stood still for a moment, looking Bryan in the eyes without loosening his grip.

  ‘And of course you don’t understand what I’m saying, do you, Herr Oberführer?’ The pain reflected in Bryan’s face as the officer started squeezing couldn’t hide his helplessness and confusion from James. The questions were just as incomprehensible to Bryan as to the crazy Arno von der Leyen he was presumed to be. In moments like this, being able to understand was not nearly as important as not being able to. His passivity irritated the officer. But it also made him unsure of himself.

  At the fifth question he squeezed so hard that Bryan’s screams were stifled by his vomit. Uttering gurgling sounds he fell clumsily backwards, crashing his abdomen into the side of the bed and striking his head against the bomb shutter. The officer instinctively released his hold and stepped aside in order not to mess up his uniform. Then he yelled until a nurse came rushing in to wipe up the floor around his boots.

  Some vomit landed on the neighbouring bed. One of the patients got up and walked past the soiled bed, pointing the whole time at the wall.

  James didn’t know much about the patient. His name was Peter Stich and he always had red eyes.

  Now he was also the one who saved Bryan’s life.

  The security officer was about to knock his hand away, when he looked to see where the finger was pointing. Behind Bryan, who was still drooping beside the window, the bomb shutter had slid half open. Long brown lines were seeping into the grain of the wood along the edge of the shutter frame. The officer went closer, felt along the rough wood and looked again at Bryan’s fingers. He turned abruptly on his heel and charged out of the room, knocking the red-eyed man over.

  Then they gave Bryan a shot to calm him down and replaced the shutter cover.

  The shelf in the storeroom was never replaced.

  For a while the nightly whispering increased.

  The gnome-like Dieter Schmidt was convinced that Oberführer Arno von der Leyen knew all about them and their plans for the future. He demanded they take action.

  But the Pock-Faced Kröner insisted that in the future they should avoid scenes in the ward. Their situation would soon change. The fortunes of war were on the side of the Allies. The war could be over before they knew it.

  If Arno von der Leyen were found liquidated, the interrogations would never cease. Both he and Lankau knew what it was like to be interrogated. No one would be able to keep quiet and no one would be let off.

  Themselves included.

  ‘If you want to find out something, poke him in the eyes a little, pinch his uvula or press hard inside his auditory canal,’ he recited. ‘But be sure you don’t make any marks that are visible, and that he doesn’t make any noise. Understood?’

  During the nights that followed Bryan wept and his throat rattled. But they never got him to say anything. The malingerers were perplexed. James could do nothing. But their cat-and-mouse game would come to an end. This he knew from his own experience.

  Kröner stuck out his lower lip and looked from Bryan to James. ‘Mad or not, as long as they understand we’ll kill them if they don’t behave, I could care less about what else they don’t understand!’

  The skinny Schmidt shook his head. ‘Arno von der Leyen knows everything, believe me. The Postman will want him liquidated. That’s what I’m trying to tell you!’

  ‘Really? And how’s that to be done?’ Kröner enquired sarcastically. ‘By telepathy?’ He wasn’t smiling. The Postman was like a phantom with all the odds on his side. ‘Don’t you think he’s hightailed it long ago? Don’t you think he’s forgotten all about his faithful little squire? And what would that make you, Herr Haupsturmführer? Aren’t you just a fool, you little Jew-plunderer? Isn’t that what we all are?’

  ‘Wait and see!’ There was a special glint in Dieter Schmidt’s eyes.

  ‘David Copperfield! Today I’ll take David Copperfield.’ James leaned his head back on the pillow. The room was quiet. Ever since childhood, James had regarded this book as Dickens’ greatest. Victor Hugo, Swift, Defoe, Emile Zola, Stevenson, Kipling and Alexander Dumas had also chiselled their works into James’ memory. But above them all sparkled Charles Dickens and David Copperfield.

  He recalled the comforting tale during the afternoon peace and quiet when the nurses had plenty to do.

  And these re-creations demanded peace and quiet. Confusion and diffuse thought processes had become his worst opponents. The pills, that disgusting chlorine compound, were gradually muddling his memory more than the shock treatments.

  Already as he began the story, James realised he couldn’t complete it. The names in David Copperfield had vanished. Who was Copperfield’s second wife, his childhood friend? James pondered for some time. The first wife’s name was Dora. Was the other one Emily? No, that wasn’t right. Was she called Elizabeth? Rubbish!

  James was interrupted in the middle of this unhappy realisation and the growing anxiety over his memory having suffered permanent damage. Two orderlies clapped their hands, flipped up the charts and pulled out the case notes. ‘You patients are leaving! Collect your things, you’re going upstairs!’

  Following this announcement the men were herded outside into the passageway and new ones were led into the ward in their place. Sister Petra smiled at James. She blushed a trifle.

  It was Vonnegut’s job to lead the way. It was a terrible constellation, seven
men in all. The three tormentors, himself and Bryan, Red-Eye and Calendar Man. Five malingerers in one and the same room.

  ‘You gentlemen are on the mend, according to the Professor,’ said Vonnegut, although doubt was painted on his face. ‘You’re being separated from the others. Then you’ll be sure to recover, he says. There’s a room that’s become vacant upstairs. It’s quite empty.

  ‘They’ve all been sent to the front!’

  Chapter 22

  The first thing that happened was that Calendar Man stuck his little calendar up on the wall behind him. It said 6th October 1944.

  The room was far smaller than the previous ward. Sounds were muffled, the insanity of the lower floor rendered invisible.

  James’ bed stood in majestic solitude against the short-end wall. The view from his window was seductive. To the right of him lurked Dieter Schmidt and his broad-faced confederate, Horst Lankau, with Werner Fricke, the Calendar Man, in between. The door at the far end of the room rattled in the draft.

  James regarded Bryan’s placing between the red-eyed man and Kröner listlessly. When he returned from shock treatment in a few hours’ time, unconscious and dulled, Bryan, like himself, would be at the mercy of the malingerers. The days ahead might take years to live through. Every joint in James’ body protested. His internal organs were at a low ebb. He was emptied and weak.

  I’ll get you out of here, Bryan, he thought, apathetically.

  But in the meantime he’d have to get well.

  Kröner had already waved a warning hand several times in response to Horst Lankau’s talkativeness. James noted for the first time that Kröner could sweat. The man’s gaze searched the room minutely. It was as though he felt spied upon.

  It wasn’t until after the evening rounds that Kröner dared voice himself freely. They weren’t being monitored by sound sensors.