Almost Autumn

by Marianne Kaurin

  “Hermann?” she says, as they alight the tram. “Can you come in with me? Please?”

  Silence in the stairwell. Ilse opens the door down to the cellar, holds her skis under her arms, and makes her way down the steep staircase. She can see the benches in the half darkness; it’s cold down there, damp. Ilse props her skis up against a wall and removes her pitch-seam boots, then finds the shoes she had on yesterday. Time to get it over and done with, up to the third floor, into the apartment; time to explain, time to take what’s coming her way.

  They stand outside the apartment door for a moment in silence. Two closed doors leading to each of their apartments. Not a sound to be heard. Hermann has removed his hat, his hair falling across his forehead, tousled. Suddenly she feels the urge to lean in, to kiss him, he loves her, he had said it himself, that night up in the cabin; love, but it’s not the time, not here, not now. She grasps the handle, pushes it, leans her body weight against the door. The door is locked.

  She stands for a moment and looks at Hermann. Are they out looking for her? She can picture them, up and down the city streets, afraid, they might have been out all night. Poor Mum, she must have been out of her mind with worry; Ilse had never stayed out all night before, she’d come back late, yes, but she’d always come back. Her head throbs. She tries once more, pushing the door with all of her weight, knocking, hard, frantic, pressing her ear to the door and listening keenly. Silence.

  Then the door to Hermann’s apartment opens. Ingeborg sticks her head out. She fixes her gaze on them and quickly ushers them inside, her index finger to her lips, glancing around the stairwell.

  “Mum,” Hermann utters with surprise. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  Ingeborg shepherds them into the living room. She doesn’t say a word, just stands opposite them. Hesitates.

  “You can’t be here,” she says, looking at Ilse. “He could come back any minute.” She speaks in hushed tones, her voice shaking slightly.

  “Who are you talking about, Mum?”

  “The policeman,” Ingeborg whispers to Ilse. “He’s looking for you.”

  They stand in the living room, all three alert in a close circle. They know that they need to get moving, that time isn’t on their side, but it is as if they have frozen, unable to move any farther. Ingeborg has told them what she saw. She doesn’t know anything, she says, doesn’t know where they’re going or when they’re coming back, but she tells them exactly what she saw, exactly what she heard. Early this morning she’d been standing at the window as they had climbed inside a taxi. Ingeborg draws a deep breath.

  “There was a policeman here not long ago; he has the apartment keys. I heard him let himself in. I’d imagine it’s you he’s looking for.”

  Ilse says nothing, staring at Ingeborg. She can’t get her head around all that she’s heard, can’t make any sense of the words that have come out of Ingeborg’s mouth; just words, swirling around in the air between them, circling them like insects that she can’t catch.

  “You can’t be here,” Ingeborg repeats. “Do you have somewhere that you can go?”

  The cabin. There was a stove there, and they’d found wood and lit a fire, curled up on the floor, huddled together, last night had been so good, but now, suddenly, this.

  “I know what to do.” Hermann looks at Ingeborg. “I know someone.”

  Ingeborg looks at him, her eyebrows furrowing to form two straight lines.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says.

  “I won’t, Mum. You have to trust me. I know where we can go.”

  The cabin. Is that what he’s talking about, is he going to come with her? She can’t ask, can only hope.

  “Can you help me with something?” he asks his mother, continuing before she has the chance to respond. “Can you find some clothes? Wool stockings, a shawl, a coat if you have one, some food. And money. Do you have any lying around?”

  Ingeborg stands before him without saying a word, her mouth half open, her lips dry, then makes her way into the kitchen and opens a drawer.

  “Hermann,” she calls after a moment. He follows her into the kitchen.

  Ilse stays where she is, still and silent. Hermann and his mother converse in low voices in the next room.

  “I can’t tell you,” she hears Hermann tell his mother. “No, Mum. You just have to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  “What about you?” Ingeborg asks. “Are you coming back?”

  “Yes. I’ll be back. I promise.”

  The cabin, it can’t be the cabin, Hermann can’t leave her up there on her own, the lump in her stomach, it throbs, where have they gone, where are they going? Her heart thumps harder and harder within her rib cage, faster and faster; it is as if the sound drowns out all others, piercing the silence of the room, forcing its way into the kitchen, where Hermann assures his mother that he knows what he’s doing, it goes on and on and on, hammering and hammering. Then very suddenly a different sound. A rattling from the stairwell. Unmistakable. The sound of someone letting themselves into the neighboring apartment.

  Ingeborg stops in her tracks in the kitchen. She stands unflinching, bread knife in hand. She moves her index finger to her lips and stares into the living room, as if to make sure that Ilse understands; there is nobody at home. Ilse stands motionless, barely breathing. She hears someone moving around in the apartment next door, footsteps, a hacking cough, voices, the bang of the door once again, the click of the lock. Footsteps down the stairs. But Ilse knows those stairs so well. She can distinguish between the sound of footsteps going down and footsteps coming up. Somebody is making their way back up the stairs.

  There’s a knock at the door. Four short, decisive raps of a knuckle. They don’t move. Ingeborg has placed a hand on Hermann’s shoulder, gripping him tight, the bread knife in her other hand.

  More knocking.

  “Anyone home? This is the police.”

  A high-pitched voice, almost like that of a woman.

  A hand on the door handle. She hears it moving up and down several times. Ingeborg closes her eyes.

  Then footsteps, this time going down the stairs. The gate out onto the street closes with a loud clang.

  They remain in the same positions for a good while after the sound of the footsteps has faded, three statues sculpted at opposite ends of the apartment. Hermann is the first to move. He enters the living room, approaches Ilse, and strokes her hair quickly before creeping over to the windows. He walks sideways like a crab on the seabed, avoiding detection. He stands behind the curtain, leaning just far enough that he can see down onto the street below, then quickly pulls back and walks away from the windows.

  “They’re waiting outside,” he whispers.

  When they emerge again a few hours later, they are greeted by blinding white light. The snow has melted in the city, leaving behind nothing more than a fine layer of frost in the backyard, the branches of the lilac tree reaching upward, black against the white sky. Ilse can hear the sound of her own footsteps as she passes the rubbish bins and walks out of the front gate. Out on the street she turns around to look at the gray tenement building, the apartment windows, kitchen, living room, darkness within. It looks so quiet.

  She places one foot in front of the other, her shoes against the asphalt, turning away from the building, can’t think too much, just has to walk, to move on.

  They walk toward the Akerselva River, crossing Beier Bridge. The waterfall has frozen, with only a few trickles dripping from the large yellow-white mass of ice. They walk past the weaving mill, several factory workers on their breaks congregating in small groups out in the square where they smoke and laugh together.

  Over Iladalen and up Geitmyrsveien, Hermann takes her hand, onward through Bislett, he hasn’t told her where they’re going, who they’re going to see, she hasn’t asked either, they just walk. Josefines gate, over Hegdehaugsveien, Frogner, the large apartment buildings lined up in neat rows, soft facades and small front gardens, the wind b
lows, it’s so cold outside.

  HERMANN RINGS THE BELL, THREE SHARP trills, then leads Ilse into the expansive hallway and up the stairs. She hasn’t asked him where they’re going, where they are, she hasn’t uttered a single word since they left his apartment. Einar’s expression is grave when they reach the fourth floor, standing in the doorway, smoking, looking at them both. Hermann ushers Ilse in first, then closes the door behind them.

  “The young Miss Ilse Stern,” Einar says, a fleeting, hesitant smile crossing his lips, but stops himself, as if he already knows exactly why they’ve come.

  “Do you have spa—”

  Einar nods before Hermann has the chance to finish his question. “There’s space,” he says. “You can have the red room.”

  They walk down the long hallway, it is dark inside his apartment today; the door to the yellow room is closed. Einar opens the door to the red room and nods at Ilse, she stops, looks around her; the curtains are drawn, his glass from Tuesday night still sitting on the bedside table, a splash of dried brandy at the bottom.

  “You’ll have to stay here until further notice,” Einar says. “Keep away from the windows and be as quiet as you can. The neighbors are almost deaf, but you never know.” He smiles. “It can take some time, a few days maybe, but we’ll get you across.”

  Ilse looks at Einar, then at Hermann. He has to explain, she doesn’t understand, he can see it in her eyes, the way she stands there, speechless.

  Einar nods at Hermann, then asks him to join him in the kitchen.

  “I’ll be back soon,” Hermann says. Ilse stays where she is, motionless in the middle of the room, yet to remove her coat.

  “Why only Ilse?” Einar asks, pulling out a kitchen chair and sitting down.

  Hermann opens his mouth to explain.

  “An operation was carried out throughout the city today,” Einar continues. “I heard about it only an hour ago.”

  He stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray, ripples of smoke curling upward. “I expected there to be more of them.” Einar fixes Hermann with a scrutinizing gaze. What the hell is he supposed to say, squirming before Einar; he should have said something yesterday, last night, no, long before that. He can help Ilse across, but the others; he had chewed over the information he had for so long, he had been so quiet, what the hell was he thinking?

  Hermann turns and walks out of the kitchen. Ilse is sitting on the bed. He closes the door and sits down beside her. Her hair smells of smoke. The cabin, her face in the dim room, they’d huddled close to each other, he hasn’t slept all night. He could have managed to find his way back to the city, he hadn’t been quite as lost as he’d made out. It had been so good, a long break, a set of parentheses around all of his secrets, Ilse Stern and Hermann Rød. Let tomorrow come, he’d thought, feeling Ilse’s hair brush his cheek, let it come, as it is. The crackling from the stove, the cold, the peace he’d felt, those few hours they’d had together before everything would go back to how it had been; he couldn’t know what the hell tomorrow would bring.

  Ilse looks at him.

  “Where am I going?” she asks.

  “You have to go to Sweden.”

  He sees her swallow; the notion can’t have occurred to her before now, this is news to her, they obviously hadn’t discussed it at home, Sweden, he could have said anything, Siberia, the South Pole, she looks confused.

  “Can you come with me?”

  She whispers, looking away.

  He strokes her hand with his index finger, then cups her cheek with his palm.

  “You know that I can’t, Ilse.”

  She nods.

  “Ilse Stern,” he whispers softly in her ear.

  “Will I see you before I go? Can you come back here?”

  “I’ll try to come tomorrow,” Hermann says.

  He takes off his wool sweater, folds it, and places it on the bed.

  “It gets cold,” he says.

  Her cheek, her lips, the muscles in her arms, she holds him close. He has to go now, he has to leave, alone, he squeezes her tight. Stands up. Closes the door and walks away.

  BY THREE O’CLOCK OLE RUSTAD IS DONE for the day. Finally he can drive home, park his taxi, go up to his family, change his shirt, eat his dinner, play with Lilly and Karin and let Anna get some rest.

  But he doesn’t. Not straightaway.

  He revs the engine as it hums uphill, changes gear, brakes, steers, and turns. He doesn’t stop until he reaches Ekeberg Hill. He climbs out of the car. Draws the cold air deep into his lungs. He’s been here many times before; it’s a beautiful spot. The view over the city, the houses so small, like matchboxes, the cars, the traffic, like insects, all the way down below. He can see the ship just off Nesoddlandet. It glides out into the fjord.

  It’s so still out there. Everything looks so peaceful. The trees sigh. Yellow leaves are scattered over the frosty grass, dry and stiff. A pile of leaves rustles as he kicks it. When he turns to the right, he can see all the way home. Far off in the distance he can see the Ringnes brewery. He can see the tenement on Biermanns gate, squeezed in between the others on the block. It feels like an eternity has passed since he left that morning. Anna sits there waiting for him, and the new baby, it wouldn’t be long now, it could be a boy or a girl, it’s all the same, really.

  Bloody nausea. Bloody body odor. He looks at his hands, holds them in front of his face, the right hand still trembling.

  He thinks about all that he has heard, all that was said in the car. The policeman with the high-pitched voice who had been sitting in the passenger seat, speaking to one of the others, the one who had taken guard duty in the Sterns’ apartment.

  “I’ve got a name,” the man in the backseat had said.

  “A what?” The policeman turned and looked at his colleague, his seat creaking.

  “The madwoman,” the man in the back continued. “She came to me in the kitchen and gave me a name.”

  Ole Rustad stopped at a junction, his eyes lingering on the mirror.

  “Hermann Rød,” the man in the backseat said. “The old bag reckoned the girl might be with this Hermann Rød. He lives on the same floor.”

  The policeman took a note of the name on a piece of paper and smiled.

  “Is that so,” he mused.

  Ole Rustad looks out over the fjord, his stomach tight, grumbling furiously. He paces back and forth, can’t calm himself down, can’t get the day out of his system. He has a bitter taste in his mouth, spits, and then it rises up from within. He leans over behind a bush and lurches forward, his body tense. He vomits, letting it all spill out of him. It gushes onto the leaves and puddles at his feet. The odor is rank, intense. He continues to throw up until there’s nothing but liquid, sour bile from the pit of his stomach, the final dregs leaving his system with a bleating sound. He stands upright once again, wiping around his mouth with his coat sleeve. He sees the ship out in the Oslo fjord. It’s almost half past three. His breathing eases. He gathers his thoughts, collecting them like dry leaves, one by one. He had stood there the previous day, just outside their door. He could have knocked. No matter what. He should have knocked.

  As Ole Rustad sits in his car, he makes a decision. He starts the engine, the car rolls forward, his thoughts are clear.

  SHE SHOULD GET SOME SLEEP. LIE DOWN on the mattress she’s sitting on, move Miriam, who has fallen asleep on her lap, close her eyes, disappear. It’s nighttime, it must be, Sonja hasn’t slept for a whole day and night, she doesn’t even feel tired. Miriam lies with her arm wrapped around her doll, there’s vomit on the doll’s sweater; poor Miriam, her face is so pale, she hadn’t managed to say before she had suddenly been sick.

  They had been split up upon boarding, women and children toward the rear of the ship, men in the middle. Their father was gone. His face in a crowd, so many others, and then he vanished. The guards shouted. Los! Los! Schnell! They ran. They held on tight to their luggage, their mother with the string bag, Sonja with the sack pressing heavily
against her back; she felt the tips of a pair of boots she had packed digging into her spine with every step, Miriam’s hand in hers, she mustn’t lose her grip. Up the steep, slippery ladders, into the narrow corridors of the ship, never fast enough, the guards pushing them, hunting them. A woman stopped to get a better grasp of her suitcase and the guard shoved her to the ground, kicking her; she got up once again, running on without uttering a sound.

  They entered a large space where mattresses had been spread over the floor, firm and filthy, filled with wood shavings. No windows, no hatches, guards stationed all around, gloomy lighting. The roaring of the ship. The sounds in the hold, loud voices, yelling, names; many had lost track of their loved ones as they had hurried on board. A boy stood right beside them, a blue jacket and a runny nose; he called out for his mother, a loud, clear sob.