Almost Autumn

by Marianne Kaurin

  He takes a look inside the bread box. There’s half a loaf left; he removes it from its paper bag and holds it in his hands, bloody hell, it’s so dry. He takes the cheese from the cupboard, slices off a chunk, it smells strong, sour, but there’s nothing else. He stands in front of the mirror in the hallway with his bread and cheese in one hand and his coat in the other. Bloody hell, he looks exhausted, and it’s so bloody cold too, God, he’s looking forward to the day that all of this is over, once and for all.

  He rummages around inside the bowl on the shelf beneath the mirror, finds the house key, the car key, opens the door, and closes it behind him carefully. A window in the stairwell has been left open, the cold wind blows in, a bitter November gust. He passes the door to the Sterns’ apartment on the third floor, stops in his tracks, everything swirls around him for a moment all over again: the questions, the assurances he’s given himself. There’s not a sound to be heard. He carries on down the stairs.

  After receiving the message to be there at half past four in the morning, they hadn’t spoken much more about it. It was a message, no, more than that, it was an order, an order from the state police. Rolf was the only one who had said anything, though obviously not loud enough for anyone to hear, and not to the others, only to him when they had been alone for a few moments. Rolf had whispered, mumbled, just a few words, a snippet—Ole had only just managed to catch what he had said, and it was possible he hadn’t heard him right. They hadn’t been able to speak any more about it; the taxi chief had returned, nodded at them, and they had carried on with their work.

  It is pitch-black outside and silent, nobody out and about at this time of day, the streets empty, deserted, even in the very center of the city. The insides of his nostrils sting as he inhales; there might be more snow today, he thinks, maybe it’ll bring a little bit more light to the city streets, make it easier to get up in the mornings.

  The windshield is covered in a thin layer of ice that he needs to scrape away. The cold nips at his hands; why the hell did he come out without his gloves? He looks at the clock: quarter past four, he’s going to be late. Half past four, they’d said. Kirkeveien 23, he remembers the address.

  The car starts the first time. He takes a right at the first crossroad, drives up Vogts gate and then turns left, picking up speed and cruising along Griffenfeldts gate, past the hospital and church and down toward Marienlyst.

  He joins a swarm of other taxis, all on their way to the same address. Outside Kirkeveien 23 is a man in a police uniform, directing the vehicles here and there. He waves his arms and blows his whistle; short, sharp blasts paired with quick, staccato gestures. Ole Rustad is directed to a parking spot where he turns off the motor and sits still for a second, observing the action taking place outside his window; everyone leaves their cars and walks in the same direction, nobody saying a word. There’s something in the air, a friction, a certain nuance. They come creeping out of the night, trickling out of black cars and through alleyways; they can’t be seen and nobody is allowed to know about them. Ole Rustad feels something tighten in his stomach, pressing on his left side, beneath his ribs, almost as if something is grasping at him, God, he feels sick. Should he restart the engine, back out of his parking spot, hurtle past the policeman, and charge back home, tell taxi chief Jørgensen that he had felt unwell—a blood clot, palpitations, unfortunately he couldn’t make it after all? No, he can’t do it. The money, he won’t be paid, he’s promised Anna the money, and he could be punished; it was an order from the state police after all, his taxi had been requisitioned. Why the hell did it have to be his taxi?

  Ole Rustad had lingered in the stairwell when he had come home yesterday evening, overheard arguing from the Sterns’ apartment, Ilse’s voice, loud and filled with fury, Mrs. Stern. Should he knock at the door and tell them what Rolf had whispered to him? The Jews. But what if it wasn’t true; how could Rolf know? He had said he thought that’s what it was, suspected, but he didn’t know, not for certain. Rumors ran rife these days. It was never-ending. Rolf always tended to think the worst, always so melodramatic, liked to make life that little bit more interesting, liked to be the one in the know.

  Would it really be right to approach them with rumors, nothing but idle tittle-tattle, and to a family that was already in the midst of a crisis? Would that really be the right thing to do? And where would they go? If he were to knock at the door at this very moment in time, what then? He had no plan, but it wasn’t as if they could just roam the streets. And Miriam, he had thought about her too, she often played with Karin, the two girls would sit and draw at the kitchen table together; could he really scare a child like that, create drama when it wasn’t even necessary, kick up a lot of commotion for the whole family? What would they think if it turned out to be a false alarm; would they talk to him after something like that? He had stood in the stairwell and gone over all of it in his head as he had stared at their apartment door, contemplating his options, and then suddenly and without warning Ilse had come storming out. She had barely looked at him before running down the stairs, clearly upset about something. From inside the apartment he could hear Mrs. Stern crying and Sonja’s voice; he couldn’t make out the words, only a sense of anxiety, confusion.

  And then he’d gone. Up to his own apartment. He had closed the door behind him and convinced himself that he had done the right thing.

  But now, sitting in his car and looking out the window in the brief moment before he became one man to join a stream of others, Ole Rustad can’t help but ask himself one last time. He can sense his own unease, it thuds through him, blood, nausea. Someone knocks at his car window. There is a policeman outside. He leans down and looks inside, then makes a signal with his hand to indicate that Ole needs to get out of his car, something is beginning, something is already underway. Ole Rustad pulls the hand brake, opens his door, and steps out of the car. He is one of many now.

  Standing in front of the crowd of drivers is a man in a police uniform, a megaphone in one hand. He discusses something with a man standing by his side, also in uniform. Ole Rustad glances around him, looking for anyone he knows, colleagues, Rolf. There are so many men there, hundreds maybe, all huddled tightly together. He recognizes a few of them, grave looks on their faces, nobody says a word, nobody laughs, everyone is exhausted, everyone is on guard, their eyes flicker from side to side looking for anything that might tell them what’s going on, each of them looking for a sign. The air is sharp and cold, their faces shrouded by a frosty mist that lingers like a thick fog, emanating from silent mouths—a dense November haze escaping into the darkness of the night. Then the first sounds from the megaphone. Short commands. Clear instructions.

  It’s not long before Ole Rustad knows what the day will bring. Before long he’s back in his car once again, though this time not alone—there are three others with him, a policeman in the front seat and two plainclothes officers in the back. Before long he drives his car back out onto Kirkeveien, back the very same way he had driven not that long ago. There is a glimmer of something else in the breaking daylight, a different chill in the air, as if he’s driving around a foreign city, as if none of the streets are quite connected.

  Before long Ole Rustad says nothing more that day. Not a single sound. He shifts gear, brakes, stops, starts, stares stiffly out the front of the vehicle and to the road, gripping the steering wheel firmly in both hands, never once turning to look at the backseat. He is silent.

  SONJA IS WOKEN BY THE SOUND OF KNOCKING. She sits upright, taking a second to come to in the dark morning that envelops her. Can she have been the only one to hear it? Was she dreaming, or had she really heard a knock at the front door? The alarm clock on the bedside table reads ten to six. Miriam lies in bed facing the wall, the eiderdown pulled right up around her so that only a little tuft of her hair is showing. Their mother hasn’t woken either. Sonja can hear the sound of her mother’s breathing from where she lies in the living room.

  More knocking. Louder this time
. Three clear, insistent raps; this isn’t a dream.

  “Sonja,” her mother calls. “Sonja, did you hear that?”

  Sonja is already up and out of her bed. She enters the living room and lights the lamp on the wall by the bookshelf, a narrow strip of light illuminating the room, her mother’s gray face and bloodshot eyes.

  “It’s Ilse!” Miriam cries out from the bedroom. “I knew she’d come home, I knew it!”

  She leaps out of bed and scurries out of the bedroom and over to Sonja, lining up behind her in the hallway.

  Another bout of knocking, more persistent this time, booming. Sonja presses her face up against the door.

  “Ilse?”

  No answer. Sonja turns the latch and opens the door that leads to the stairwell.

  Three men are standing outside. One wears a police uniform, while the others are dressed in ordinary clothing, heavy winter coats, hats, scarves, sturdy boots. They stand huddled together, straight-faced, peering into the apartment.

  “Mrs. Stern?” the man in the uniform inquires.

  Sonja doesn’t have a chance to reply before they force their way into the apartment, pushing through the front door and closing it behind them, speaking in hushed tones.

  “Hell, it’s so dark,” the policeman grumbles. His voice is high-pitched, his features sharp; he quickly glances down at Miriam and strides into the living room. The other two follow him.

  Sonja’s mother is sitting up in bed. Her hair is disheveled, her mouth open, not a single muscle in her face moving. The man in the police uniform retrieves a handkerchief from inside his coat sleeve, blowing his nose and looking at the girls’ mother.

  “You need to leave,” he says. “By order of the state police.”

  He stoops slightly and coughs, a long, hard, rasping hack, then uses his handkerchief to wipe around his mouth. He clears his throat once again and pulls out a sheet of paper. A heavy droplet hangs from the tip of his nose. It drips onto the paper he holds in his hand.

  “Pack your things … the most essential items.”

  His voice is dry, the words whispered; he can barely speak. He hawks and splutters, his hacking cough resounding throughout the room. He passes the sheet of paper to the man by his side, points at it and makes his way into the kitchen, where he continues to cough. The man who remains is tall, dressed in a gray coat and large boots. He reads from the sheet of paper.

  “Detainees will bring provisions to last four days: work clothes, footwear, underwear, woolen blankets, cups, plates, knives, forks, spoons, toiletries, any necessary medication, plus ration cards and identification documents.”

  He reads quickly, the words flowing into one another. He momentarily glances at their mother, at Sonja, then back down at the sheet of paper. He draws breath and continues.

  “Use the best luggage you have, but nothing too large or bulky.”

  He stands for a moment, fiddling with the paper before folding it neatly. He doesn’t look up.

  It is quiet in the room. The policeman’s latest bout of coughing subsides and he appears in the doorway, crossing his arms. Sonja looks at her mother. She sits motionless, her hands limp in her lap, no resistance in her body, no muscles. She almost appears not to be breathing. She looks at the floorboards, her gaze fixed on one point.

  “Who needs to leave?” Miriam whispers to Sonja.

  “All of you,” the policeman replies in a thundering voice. “The whole family.”

  He wipes his nose again.

  “Wear your warm clothes,” he continues. “It’s cold outside.”

  “Below freezing,” mumbles the man in the gray coat.

  Silence. Nobody moves an inch. They’ve been told to pack their things, to wrap up against the cold, they’ve been told that they need to leave but nobody flinches, they all stand stock-still. Their mother on the bed, Sonja and Miriam over by the table, the men in the living room doorway, all speechless for a few long, drawn-out seconds. It’s so quiet that they can hear the ticking of the alarm clock in the bedroom, the sound of the crowded room, dense with bodies breathing in stale air; they can hear the tablecloth draped over the table, the books lining the shelves, the rug on the floor.

  But then they hear something else. Their mother. She’s laughing. She hunches her shoulders and opens her mouth. Loud laughter, a high-pitched bleating. They haven’t heard her laugh for so long, nothing but the briefest chuckle for weeks now. There’s been nothing to laugh about, nothing to smile about, for that matter. And now it rushes forth. Stockpiled sound.

  The policeman looks around. He turns to the man by his side, shaking his head.

  “Mrs. Stern?”

  Their mother hears nothing. She sits on the bed in her nightgown and chortles to herself, mumbling, her mouth a gaping hole from which laughter continues to unexpectedly emerge.

  The policeman looks at Sonja.

  “Can you explain to me what exactly your mother finds so amusing about all this?”

  Sonja looks at him, his eyes sharp with insistent questions, his pointed nose protruding from his face like a sharp beak. She walks over to her mother, sits beside her, and wraps her arm around her mother’s back.

  “Mum,” she murmurs.

  Her mother lies down, huddling beneath the eiderdown, turning her back to the room and falling silent once again.

  “Ilse,” mumbles Miriam, still standing by the table. “What about Ilse?”

  Sonja looks at Miriam, her gaze intense. Ilse. Should they tell the men that one of them is missing?

  The policeman pulls out a piece of paper, unfolds it, and places it on the table.

  “You are Sonja, yes?”

  He splutters her name, dabbing around his mouth with his handkerchief and penciling an X by it when she nods.

  “And you are Miriam Stern?”

  Miriam nods. Another X on the piece of paper.

  “And Hanna, over there.”

  He points his pencil in the direction of the body on the bed. Another hacking cough. He wipes his nose.

  “According to my records there is an Ilse Stern missing. Where is she?”

  A grunt from the bed, not laughter, not tears, just a grunt. Sonja ponders the right thing to say, how best she might explain the situation. She doesn’t have long to think.

  “Answer me!”

  He’s there again, his eyes boring a hole in her, a look of impatience on his face. Sonja hesitates. The policeman signals to the two men to check the bedroom. They disappear into the room, their boots tramping on the floor. Sonja can see them pulling open the wardrobe, dragging items out and dropping them on the floor; one lies down to look under the bed.

  “It is strictly forbidden to disobey an order from the state police,” the policeman says. His high-pitched voice becomes squeakier, almost as if he’s speaking in falsetto.

  “Ilse isn’t here,” Sonja says.

  “So where is she?”

  The policeman glances back down at his piece of paper.

  “She’s fifteen years old, according to the information I have here. Why isn’t she at home?”

  “She went out yesterday and didn’t come home.”

  It’s Miriam who speaks up this time. She isn’t looking at the policeman, but at Sonja.

  “And you have no idea where she was going?”

  “No.”

  The policeman jots something down. The pencil glides over the paper with speed and efficiency.

  “This matter will be reported,” he says. “I plan to follow this up personally. I’ll make sure that she’s found. I’ll make sure … ”

  The men in the bedroom call out to him; they’ve turned the room upside down, clothes all over the floor, the mattresses half wrenched from the bed frames, bedsheets and pillows and blankets carelessly tossed in a pile. Sonja overhears snippets of the conversation in the next room, the men standing directly beside her bed.

  “Shall we cross her off the list and say no more about it?” the man in the gray coat asks.

&nbs
p; “Absolutely not,” the policeman says. “Everything must be correct. Everyone on the list must be accounted for.”

  She can hear them discussing others they’re due to call on later that same day. An older couple living on Seilduksgata; they wouldn’t be much trouble, no madwoman there, no missing fifteen-year-old girls.

  “You need to start packing,” the policeman says as he emerges from the bedroom. “You don’t have much time.”

  He’s on his way out into the hallway, walking away from them when Miriam opens her mouth.

  “Where are we going?”

  He hesitates for a moment, wiping his nose and tucking his handkerchief back inside his coat sleeve.

  “I won’t discuss that further,” he says, coughing and making his way toward the front door.

  SONJA STANDS MOTIONLESS FOR A MOMENT after the door closes, bolt upright, silent, her gaze fixed on the tabletop, her arms hanging limp by her body, a rushing sensation filling her head. Ilse. Would she have to return to an empty apartment? What is going on? Where are they going? Her mother is still lying in bed, her face turned away from everything that is unfolding, no more than a backbone. She hasn’t given any indication of doing anything at all. She’s said nothing, made no move, failed to even look at either of them. She’s not laughing anymore. She’s not crying, whispering, making a single sound. Miriam has gone into the bedroom. The man in the gray coat and big boots is sitting in the kitchen keeping watch, making sure they don’t do anything they shouldn’t, making sure they don’t try to run away. He hasn’t said anything for a while either.

  Packing. That’s what she has to do. No matter what they’re heading for, they need to pack everything as instructed, and it’s down to Sonja to get on with it.