Ilse approached one of the guards, a young man, explaining why they were there. There was something about her tone, she sounded almost angry, a headstrong child who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“There’s nobody here anymore,” the guard said. “They’ve been gone for a while now.”
“But, I mean, where are they?” Ilse asked. “We wanted to deliver this.”
She pointed at the paper bag. The guard glanced around him.
“I don’t know where they’re going,” he told her after a moment’s pause. “There were trucks and buses; they arrived and drove them away.”
An older guard walked in their direction.
“You can’t be here,” he shouted. “Go on! Get lost!”
Kirkeveien 23, that was the last they knew of their father’s whereabouts. Now Sonja has started to wonder if Marie knows something else. What had happened to the men afterward; where had they been taken? Had Marie’s father and brothers sent word somehow?
It feels as if it has been forever since she was out on her own, forever since she had any time to herself. The past few weeks had been filled with so many practical tasks. It’s odd, she thinks: Their father was arrested, the shop was closed down, their mother was losing all sense of reason, and what was it that occupied her own thoughts? The daily routine, that’s what, the work that allowed them to leave behind one day and move on to the next. Ilse helped out too, but she didn’t carry any real responsibility, she had more freedom, she was more of an assistant than anything, she lent a hand from time to time and then went her own way with a good conscience. Sonja never went anywhere, she always stayed at home with their mother, with Miriam; maybe she ought to get out more often, just to find some space to breathe. They reacted so differently to things, she and Ilse. Ilse would fly into a temper, raising her voice and stomping around, but Sonja clammed up, hardly saying a word, blunt. Instead she entered the kitchen, did the washing up, worked like a machine that couldn’t be deactivated. She still hadn’t said anything to her mother, or to Ilse for that matter. Everything was so different at home since her father’s disappearance—how could she possibly bring up the theater? She had tried talking to her mother once when she had been lying on the divan. Ilse was out and Miriam was in the bedroom with Karin.
“Mum?” Sonja sat on the edge of the bed. “Mum, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Her mother lay motionless. Sonja leaned over her to check if her eyes were closed. They weren’t, and she lay staring at the wall in front of her, the index finger of her left hand gently stroking the wallpaper, as if she were trying to rub away a stain.
“I’ve … ”
She made it no further. Her mother turned around abruptly and stared at her.
“Can you take Karin back up to the Rustads’?” she whispered. “They’re making such a racket out there. I can’t bear having other people’s children around.”
She turned away again, wrapped the eiderdown tightly around her, and closed her eyes. Disappeared.
Sonja hovered at the doorway, peering into the bedroom. Miriam and Karin lay on the floor, each drawing something, not speaking a word to each other, no sound to be heard but that of pencils on paper.
She left her mother in peace. It wouldn’t do to blurt out news like this, not now. Anyway, she wasn’t due to start for another three weeks; she’d find another opportunity, sneak it into conversation somewhere. Plus, it could be good news now that the shop had been closed down and they had no money coming in. But to say so, to allow the words to cross her lips, that would be difficult, impossible.
Something else had come up too, just before their father had disappeared. One day Sonja was locking up the shop for the day only to find Helene standing right outside.
“I hadn’t thought about the fact that you’re a Jew,” Helene said. “Are you a proper Jew, or just a little bit Jewish?”
Sonja looked at her. What was she trying to say?
They took a walk through the cemetery at Gamle Aker. Helene had heard some of the seamstresses commenting on Sonja’s surname. Stern, one of them had said, isn’t that Jewish? Would the theater director really employ a Jewish seamstress? He was appointed by the government, after all.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Helene advised her. “Wait until they see how good you are, then maybe it won’t be so bad.”
“But the theater director,” said Sonja. “Does he know I’m Jewish?”
“I don’t know about that,” Helene continued. “But he’s not one of the bad ones, I don’t think. Lots of people like him, even if he is one of them.”
She makes her way up Bjerregaards gate, reading the small plaques bearing the numbers of each of the apartment buildings. There’s a tailor shop on the corner, a sign hanging in the large windows at street level: Fish skin shoes.
On one of the first days after her father’s disappearance, she and Ilse had gone to their shop. It had been a sunny day, and a faint, dwindling light had glimmered on the shop windows.
It was only then that they had seen it, something on one window, a word, just one little word scrawled in white, cursive script: Jew.
“Was that why he was always washing the windows?” Ilse had whispered.
They had tried the front door. It was locked. They had no idea where the key had gone after they had delivered it to the police. A note had been affixed to the front door: Closed until further notice.
She stops outside number eleven. Makes her way through the gate that leads to a narrow backyard.
Nobody opens when she knocks at the door to Marie’s apartment. Sonja waits there for a little while, knocking one more time. The door of the opposite apartment opens and an elderly woman sticks her head out.
“Are you looking for the Abrahamsens?” she asks.
Sonja nods.
“Well, they’re not home. Mrs. Abrahamsen and her daughter left early one morning, can’t have been more than a week ago,” she continues.
“Where did they go?” Sonja asks.
“Well, I certainly don’t know. Are you a relative?”
“I’m a friend of Marie,” Sonja replies.
The old lady closes the door behind her and approaches Sonja.
“I don’t know this for certain,” she whispers, “but I don’t imagine they’ll be back.”
Sonja looks at her. “What do you mean?”
“The Abrahamsens had a cat. On the morning that they left, they knocked at my door and asked me very nicely if I would take her.” She hesitates before continuing. “I think they’ve crossed the border.”
“Crossed the border?
“Crossed the border and fled to Sweden. They didn’t say where they were going, but they were wrapped up well and seemed a little jumpy. I haven’t seen them since.”
She gives Sonja a kind smile before returning to her apartment, closing the door behind her.
Sonja takes a different route home. She walks up Ullevålsveien, cuts across the road diagonally, and carries on toward St. Hanshaugen, right to the top of the hill, standing there for a moment and looking out over the city. The clouds linger heavily in the sky; she can see a vessel just off Nesoddlandet, a gray block sailing outward across the fjord. It would be so wonderful to travel, she thinks, wonderful and terrifying, she can’t really decide which. What should she say when she gets back in, should she tell the others that Marie and her mother have fled to Sweden, what would they make of it all, would they start considering doing the same thing? And what about their father? They had no way to warn him. And the theater, the job that awaited her, was she really prepared to leave all that behind too? Perhaps they’d have to. Perhaps when the theater director found out who he’d employed he’d tell her that a Jew couldn’t be permitted to work at present, not in his theater at any rate.
Sonja decides to tell the others that Marie and her mother weren’t at home when she called. It is the truth, after all. She will mull over the Sweden thing herself, maybe mention it to Ilse. They can take some time
to consider it, look into it again in a little while.
Tiny, cold drops start to fall from the sky and she runs fast, the gravel crunching beneath her feet.
THE SMELL HITS HERMANN THE MOMENT he enters the passageway. Rotten, like food that has been left out for too long, a dead animal. He stops by the rubbish bins, lifts the lid, and sniffs; no, it’s not coming from in there. Maybe it’s coming from the backyard, a rat, he’s seen them enough times, stiff wretches with vacant, glassy stares. The grass is almost white, it rustles beneath his feet. He glances up at Ilse’s window, sees only darkness. He feels a sense of trepidation.
Lately he’s spent every afternoon with Einar, every evening too, for that matter. They’ve worked all night to get the secret newspaper out. He’s managed to catch a few hours’ sleep in the red room before he’s had to get up again to make it to work at the brewery. Half-conscious he’s worked, sleeping during his breaks, sitting with his head resting against the wall. Everything around him seems dizzying, the sounds so loud, threatening, the clinking of the glass bottles, heavy crates crashing to the ground; he jumps at the slightest thing. He can’t go on like this. The foreman is out to get him, always asking uncomfortable questions. At home his mother and father are at it too, complaining about the debauched life they’re convinced that he’s leading, nights spent in drunken depravity, reminders about the work that he’s neglecting. He’s tired of taking it all without being able to defend himself, tired of the foolish paintings he has to show off when he gets home, landscapes and perspective pieces; he’s on thin ice.
He hasn’t been to see Ilse. He should have, really. Should have ventured the few steps across the stairwell, knocked at her door, helped out, been there; after all that had happened, he really should have done the right thing. But he’s kept his distance, and for what? He’s shut himself up with Einar for company, lain in the red room, the safe yet unsafe red room; he’s closed his eyes and tossed and turned, in and out of his slumber, sweating, cold. But he’s thought of her. He’s thought of her often.
One evening over in Frogner they had each been sitting in their chair in the lounge when Einar had brought out a bottle of brandy, pouring a generous measure into two large glasses.
“Cheers,” said Einar. “Here’s to … something or other.”
He raised his glass. Hermann didn’t say a word. He felt the throbbing pain, the warmth, the soothing heat of the brandy as it slid down his throat. He glanced at the bottle—half-full—he could ask for another, head to bed dizzy, maybe even catch a whole night’s sleep, peaceful, numb.
“And the young Miss Ilse Stern,” Einar said, a serious expression on his face. “Have you managed to speak to her?”
Another sip. Warm. Warm and cold all at once, a shiver down his spine; he would have loved to have said yes, that he had spoken to her, that they were ready, that all there was left to do was to set things in motion. He wished he were more efficient, that he spoke with clarity and conviction, but the walls here, the walls at home, the air outside, he couldn’t breathe, there was something there, pressing in on him all the time, his thoughts were hazy, like tangled ropes; he doesn’t know where to begin to unravel it all, to find the end, and regardless of how he pulls, things only ever seem to become more inextricably entwined. Hermann shook his head.
He had told Einar about Isak, about the shop that had been closed down, about those who had been left behind. Should they do something, get away? He was so concerned about them, so concerned that something might happen to them. Should he bring them here, to the red room? Could Einar organize something, get things moving? And what about him, what should he do, should he do anything at all?
“How many of them?” Einar had asked.
“Ilse and her sisters, Sonja and Miriam, and their mother too. Miriam’s only five.”
“Do they have any family in the city?”
“Not anymore. Their grandmother died last year. There’s no one else.”
“It’s the men who are most vulnerable, but you never know. I think you should talk to Ilse.”
But he hasn’t. Not yet. Perhaps he’s cowardly. Selfish, maybe. He had bumped into Ilse in the passageway a week ago, she had been standing there with a bag of rubbish in one hand, fiddling with the lid of the bin. He had asked if she had wanted to take a walk and she had nodded.
They had strolled down through Grünerløkka, through Birkelunden Park, along Thorvald Meyers gate. He could hear Einar’s voice in the back of his mind; now, he thought, now, you have to do it now. He cleared his throat, closed his mouth, opened it, cleared his throat once more, but there were no words, he couldn’t work out how to begin, what should his first word be, the very first to cross his lips?
Ilse walked by his side; it was silent but for the sound of their footsteps and his ridiculous spluttering. When they reached Olaf Ryes Square they sat down on a bench. Some children played tag, a woman begged. He laid his arm across the back of the bench, she looked at him, and suddenly, as if in one soft, swift, effortless shift, she moved in close and pressed her face into his coat. He could hear her crying. He remained there, holding her close to him, moving his lips to her white hat, breathing in the scent of her. Should he really tell her now; concerns, questions, thoughts that would niggle at her, open the wound, was it the right thing to do?
“Ilse Stern,” he said, stroking her head. “Kind, beautiful Ilse.”
She lifted her head and gazed up at him. Her eyes were puffy, her skin dry, snot running from her nose.
“Beautiful?” she said, her voice thick.
“Yes, beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful Ilse Stern.”
She smiled at him, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her jacket.
“Do you know something, Hermann?” she said after a moment’s silence. “I waited a long time for you that day.”
“Really?” he said, smiling. “How long?”
“A long time. A very long time, actually.”
No, he hadn’t said anything, they had simply sat there together for a good long while, talking, looking at each other. Ilse had perked up, and it was so good to see her happy again. He couldn’t just blurt out everything that he had on his mind without warning, you might all have to leave behind everything that you have, no, he didn’t want to ruin the mood. Maybe it was selfish, maybe it was cowardly, but he hadn’t said a word.
Now he’s standing outside her door. He lifts a hand and knocks three, four times. From within the apartment he hears a shuffling on the other side of the door. It opens and Mrs. Stern cautiously peers out at him. Hermann hasn’t seen her since Isak was arrested, and what he sees in that moment shocks him. Her blouse is stained, not properly buttoned up, and she’s wearing only an underskirt and a pair of large gray wool socks.
“The girls are out,” she says, her voice weak, then closes the door before he can say anything else.
He stands where he is for a moment and wonders if he should knock again, ask when they might be back, if there’s anything he can do for her. He hears her shuffling farther and farther away from the door and decides not to bother her anymore; maybe she needs some time on her own.
Ole Rustad walks up the stairs, smiling.
“It’ll be snowing before long,” he declares gleefully, vanishing from sight as he bounds up the stairs two at a time.
People are making such a fuss about this impending snow, Hermann thinks; why does everyone keep rattling on about it? As if the snow could change anything, make anything simpler, conceal anything at all. But then he pauses and remembers that he and Ilse agreed to go skiing when the snow begins to fall. She hasn’t said yes, but he is sure he can persuade her. Maybe he could talk to her then? It would be a good opportunity, far away from the city, far away from everything, the two of them out in the snow, Ilse Stern and Hermann Rød. Them and only them.
ENOUGH NOW. ILSE CAN FEEL IT IN HER stomach, radiating upward. Her mother, the cramped apartment, the mess, the dust, all the things that fill every corner, in drawers and c
upboards, everything here and everything not here, everything that pours out, traps her, eats away at her, gnawing, stinging, like insects. Her mother is up and about, standing in the middle of the living room in her nightdress; it’s the middle of the day, a Wednesday, her stockings have rolled down and gathered around her ankles, her veins snake up and around her arms, a greenish hue about them beneath her yellow skin. What had her mother just said? What had she just screeched? Her voice is loud and piercing, her expression drained. What had Ilse screamed back?
They stand glaring at each other. The whole room shakes. The words cling to the walls around them, wallowing on the floors beneath their feet, beneath the chairs, in the light that shines through the window. They’ve been said out loud, there is no escaping them. Ilse opens her mouth.
“Out!”
Her mother points at the door, her arm outstretched, her eyes flashing black, blurred, her lips pursed. Sonja and Miriam are in the kitchen, neither moves a muscle; Ilse can hear them, breathing, a creak from a kitchen chair. Ilse grabs her brown coat from the peg and throws it over her shoulders, can’t be bothered to button it up, she can do it outside. She reaches out for the white woolly hat on the shelf beside the others, steps into her dark brown lace-ups, hears her mother in the living room. She’s crying. Wailing. But it was her mother who had asked her to leave, it was her mother who had screamed at her.
Ilse opens the door in one swift movement and as it slams closed behind her, she once again becomes aware of a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, a sense of unease, as if her internal organs had all switched places, large intestine, small intestine, kidneys, bladder, everything displaced.
Ole Rustad is standing in the stairwell, leaning against the railing. Has he been standing there, listening in, spying on her? She gives him a small nod as she dashes down the stairs. He doesn’t have the chance to say a word; she can’t face his jokes, not today, his banal humor. He just stands there, like an extension of the railing, mute.
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