Almost Autumn

by Marianne Kaurin

  Ellen had come in one evening and had sat on the edge of her bed. She gave Ilse a tender look, said nothing, just sat there with her hands in her lap. She breathed slowly and softly. She looked to be in her fifties, maybe even sixties. She had deep wrinkles around her eyes, a slight double chin, her hair pinned up as if she were going to a party.

  “We’re doing our best to arrange transportation,” she said. “It shouldn’t have taken as long as this, but we’re doing all that we can, just so you know.”

  She stood up and patted Ilse gently on the head. Go, Ilse thought, just go, close the door, get out, go now. First it was just a slight gasp, a faint exhale, but then, with Ellen’s hand still resting on her head, Ilse could feel it opening up within her, burning upward and through her.

  “It’ll be all right,” Ellen whispered. “It’ll be all right, my girl.”

  How could she say that? It was impossible to think that anything would ever be all right again, that she would ever smile or laugh; it couldn’t be. Days and nights, that’s what it was, everything that had passed and everything that was yet to come, just days and nights, everything, her, alone.

  She woke in the morning to find Ellen by her bed once again. Her eyes were narrow, her hair pinned up in a tight bun.

  “I need you to listen very carefully,” she said, sitting close to Ilse.

  Ilse walks along the street. It’s snowed since she was last outside, it’s wet; the snow creaks as she steps in it. She’s almost there. There, at the crossroad, that’s where she’s been told she should stop and wait. A black taxi, Ellen had said, it’ll be parked over by the large oak tree on Jacob Aalls gate. The engine will be off and the driver will be sitting and reading a book. She should open the back door and sit inside. She shouldn’t say anything about who she is or where she’s going.

  On the other side of the street by the bank of snow and the tree sits a black car. Ilse looks one way and then the other along the street, crosses at the pedestrian crossing, and walks up alongside the taxi.

  HE READS THE SAME SENTENCES OVER and over again as he waits, as if the words are the only things he has to cling on to, a string of letters suspended over a deep canyon he mustn’t tumble into. He has opened the book at a random page in the middle, words, so many words, he balances precariously on them, the book resting on the steering wheel.

  This is the third time he’s driven. His third assignment. It’s all gone well so far, he hasn’t had any difficulties, but the nausea, the sense of relief when he gets back home, he can sleep for hours. He hasn’t told Anna what he’s doing, doesn’t want to involve her in what he’s become a part of. But Ole Rustad has become a part of something. A network, silent agreements, codes. He didn’t hesitate for a moment that day he had stood up at Ekeberg; he made a decision. He’d given Anna the money he’d received after the operation that day. He felt sick every time he saw his daughters wearing their new dresses, sick to his core. But he smiled.

  He’s out again today. He’s been sent to fetch a “sack,” that was how they referred to things: “A sack of turnips.” So today someone would be fleeing alone. Last time he’d picked up four people, they’d had a baby with them, a little bundle swaddled in a wool blanket; luckily it had slept the whole way, sedated by sleeping medicine. Even after only two trips he’s become familiar with the dangers that can arise. Several of the other drivers have been doing it for a while; he’s just a new recruit, but even during his first trips he’d picked up a few tricks to make the process as smooth as possible. He keeps his end of the deal, transports his passengers from A to B, no questions, no conversation, just keeps his car on the road and does his best to make sure that they make it out of the city.

  In his mirror Ole Rustad can see someone crossing the road. She looks up and down the empty street and glances all around before fixing her gaze on his vehicle. He returns to his reading, burying his nose in his book while he waits for something to happen.

  He hears a click from the back door and she climbs into the car, the sound of hurried breathing from the backseat. He closes his book and sets it down on the passenger seat, turns the key, and hears the hum of the engine as it starts. He turns the wheel to the left, glances in his wing mirror, rolls the car out of the street, moves into second gear, and turns out onto Kirkeveien.

  He’s heading out of town, to the same place as last time. He knows the way, knows exactly which is the best route to take. The most difficult part is getting out of Oslo without being stopped at a checkpoint. Last time he’d had a close call. The car in front had been waved to the side of the road, there were several more policemen lining the route, but they had signaled to him that he should drive on. It might be different this time, it could be his car made to pull over at the side of the road, it could be him forced to explain who is sitting in the backseat of his vehicle and where they are going. And who is she, exactly? He can’t ask, doesn’t want to know too much, doesn’t want to form a bond with whoever it is in the back of his taxi.

  He glides into the outside lane, moves up a gear, and increases his speed. The traffic is moving smoothly today, there aren’t too many cars on the road. The whole thing will be over in a matter of hours. He’ll make it to bed early tonight.

  He can hear the passenger in the backseat moving around, a quiet sound, a slight cough. No, not a cough, a word.

  “Ole?” whispers the voice.

  He jumps, glances up at the mirror, and swerves into the next lane as if he’s never steered a car before. Bloody hell.

  He can’t turn around, can’t look her in the eye. It was hardly any time ago that he had driven the others to the quay, no, he can’t think about that, not now, he mustn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say, he’s not supposed to speak to the passengers, shouldn’t get involved, he’s only supposed to change gear and brake and drive, transport them from A to B.

  “Gosh, is that really you?” he says, but as soon as it slips out he realizes just how stupid he sounds. He doesn’t know what to say, and so he says nothing. Can’t force out any more than a grunt, rumbling sounds, doesn’t know what they mean or where they come from.

  Now he has to concentrate, he has to get a grip. She doesn’t say anything either, as if she knows that the situation doesn’t lend itself to conversation. There are a thousand things he could ask her, where has she been, does she know anything about her family, Hermann, in fact he could tell her something about Hermann, about how he had tried to warn him. His hands are clammy around the steering wheel, as if it’s the only fixed point of contact in his whole existence.

  They’re out of the city now. He puts his foot down and drives faster than usual, faster than is strictly legal. The car shakes, the steering wheel vibrates. They’re not even halfway and all he wishes is that the journey were over already, he just wants to get home and go to bed. He turns off the main route and takes a minor road, reduces his speed. For the first time he turns around to look at the backseat. Ilse is in the middle, curled up, as if she is making herself as small as she possibly can. They exchange a brief glance before he turns back around and looks out front at the road ahead.

  Is there someone there, in the middle of the lane? As he draws closer he sees three figures. Bloody hell. A checkpoint. There are no other cars on the road. He moves into second gear and slows down, as if it might allow him some time to think, might create the opportunity for an explanation to emerge. He can see one of the men signaling to him to stop with long, slow waves toward the side of the road. They’re only a few meters away. Down to first gear, the engine whistles, he puts his foot on the brake, the damned trembling in his right hand back once again.

  Then something happens. Behind him is a truck. It appears out of nowhere, driving fast. The three policemen stop both vehicles, then split up, with two heading to the truck and one to his taxi. Ole Rustad rolls down his window. The policeman walks toward him, stops a few meters away, turns to his colleagues by the truck, calls out to them, waves his arms, turns back to face t
he taxi, and continues to make his way over. Ole Rustad sits up straight in his seat, tenses his muscles until his whole body is rigid, stares out the front of his car. There was a name he was supposed to remember. He knows it. They have allies in the police force. He knows there are policemen out there who turn a blind eye where the illegal traffic is concerned. Why can’t he remember the name, what the hell was the name? Andersen? Andresen? Antonsen? It was something along those lines. An ordinary, unremarkable surname.

  In the mirror he can see the truck driver leaving his cab, walking up alongside his vehicle and undoing the tarpaulin covering the flatbed of the truck. Two of the policemen roll it back. The third continues to approach his car. Ole Rustad waits.

  The policeman is beside the taxi, pauses, takes a breath, looks at Ole, looks at Ilse, says nothing. Ole Rustad opens his mouth carefully and lets out a hoarse whisper.

  “Isn’t it … Arnesen?”

  The policeman says nothing.

  “Arnesen, is that you?”

  Ole Rustad tries once more, looking at the policeman.

  “Arnesen isn’t on duty today,” the policeman snaps. “Drive on. And make it quick!”

  He raises a hand, gesturing to the two other policemen behind him who have jumped down from the truck flatbed.

  Ole Rustad puts his foot on the pedal and the car roars out onto the road once again. In the mirror he sees the truck driver heaving some sacks down from the flatbed for closer inspection by the policemen, who lean over them. Arnesen! He mustn’t forget that again. If you are stopped, ask for Arnesen.

  They drive through a forest, the trees tall and white alongside the road that bends and snakes, snow falling lightly. Ole Rustad keeps his speed up, turning the steering wheel from side to side, the wipers creaking over the windshield, his foot steady on the accelerator; now he just wants to finish the job. He starts to recognize his surroundings. This was the same way he drove last time too. The road is narrow and icy, the snow piled up in large, heavy drifts. Around the corner he spots the house. Just above the road, it looks so peaceful, a white building that disappears almost entirely into the snowy backdrop.

  Ole Rustad reduces his speed and starts to brake. He turns to Ilse, who looks up at him, inquisitive. He knows no more than the fact that his job is done; he has successfully transported his cargo from A to B.

  He hears Ilse start to murmur. He looks down as she talks, can’t face her, can’t process her words. It’s not true what she says, there’s nothing to thank him for. The nausea returns, it swells deep within him; if only she knew how insincere he really is, sitting there with his hands on the wheel, asking after Arnesen. He can’t accept her thanks, but neither can he say anything to stop her. He sits and waits for her to finish, waits for the moment that he can drive back out into the winter’s day, shifting gear, steering, braking, stopping. That’s all he can do, that’s all he ever could do.

  A man walks out of the white house, trudging through the deep snow. Ole Rustad opens his mouth, his lips dry, there are words in there, clinging to him, stuck in his throat like a lump he can’t cough up. God bless you, God bless, he’s never believed a single word about God. He looks at Ilse, his mouth wide open, tongue-tied. Silent.

  The man opens the back door.

  “Come with me,” he says to Ilse.

  He watches her walk away. She doesn’t turn around. God bless. Ole Rustad spins the car around and back out onto the road, his foot hard on the accelerator.

  A WHITE HOUSE, THE MAN, HE’S WEARING a shabby blue set of overalls, his shoelaces untied. His back as he walks away, she just follows him, the snow is deep, where is she, what is happening, everything is so uncertain. The curtains are closed in all of the windows, the paint flaking off, the steps leading up to the front door, she stops on the first one as he grabs the front door handle—she can’t go inside, the door creaks.

  “Who are you?” Her voice is loud. “Where am I, can you tell me that at least?”

  He stares at her.

  “Shhh!” he hisses, glancing around, then placing his hand on her back and pushing her inside.

  A cramped hallway, work coveralls hanging from pegs, a pair of black rubber boots on the floor, then farther in, a larger room, a staircase, tools laid out on the first few steps; hammers, paint tins, a sledgehammer, garden shears. On the wall hangs a rifle.

  “Now listen up, missy.”

  His voice is low, resolute.

  “You can call me Håkon. Like the king. But that’s more than enough of your questions for now.”

  He removes his hat, runs his hands through his hair, loose curls, dark brown, a handsome head of hair that doesn’t suit his features.

  “You can go in and join the others,” he says, nodding toward a door farther on in the room.

  The others? He holds the door open, exposing a dimly lit room within. The sound of people breathing. She peers through the doorway and there, just inside, they sit poised, the others, crammed tight in the half-light.

  There are many of them, some with blankets wrapped around them, sitting on the floor, on rag rugs, none of them saying a word. A girl lies fast asleep under a blanket, still wearing her hat from which two scruffy braids stick out. A woman rocks a baby agitatedly, glancing around, a gray woolly sock dangling limply from one end of the bundle in her arms. No windows; the air is thick, cold, and yet warm somehow; Ilse sweats and shakes, pulls at the neck of her wool sweater. A single candle is all there is to illuminate the room, it flickers in a candleholder on a table, everything flashing in the light: eyes, blankets, people breathing, people waiting.

  “Are you coming to pick potatoes too?”

  It is the girl on the floor, she’s woken up, she looks up at Ilse, curious.

  “Mummy says that’s where we’re going. I’ve got a loose tooth, do you want to see?”

  She opens her mouth wide and wiggles a tooth in her upper jaw that only just remains attached.

  Her mother hushes her, you have to be quiet, she whispers at the floor, the bundle listless in her arms.

  Night in the room. Utter darkness. It’s not possible to sleep, the floor is hard, she’s freezing cold. In the darkness there is so much else that emerges. She stands opposite her mother. Just stands there. That day. She reaches out a hand, feels her mother’s cheekbone, hard against her palm, cold, like an egg. The light in the apartment is so soft, so warm, her mother takes her hand, holds it to her face, squeezes her fingers lightly; no one screams anymore, no one shouts, only silence, safe silence, Ilse and her mother.

  “But there’s snow, how are we supposed to find the potatoes?” The little girl speaks up once again. She’s lying just beside Ilse. Ilse can just make out the contours of her face, her mouth. Ilse rolls onto her side, her back to the girl; she doesn’t have the answers, not about potatoes or snow or anything at all, for that matter, she only wants to close her eyes, be there, in the apartment with her mother and the soft, warm light.

  Håkon walks into the room the following morning. He brings them bottles of milk and slices of bread, handing out a piece to each of them. The lukewarm milk tastes sour, the bread crumbles in her hands, breaking up, the crusts falling away; it tastes of nothing, she’s not even hungry.

  “My brother has a fever, so he’s sleeping.”

  The girl, she points at the baby, he’s lying on the floor now, wrapped up in a blanket, his mother by his side—she tears the bread into tiny pieces and puts them in his mouth.

  “Are you all by yourself? Where’s your mummy?”

  Ilse looks at the girl; she bites off a large chunk of bread, waits for an answer. It’s too crowded here, there are too many of them, not enough air, too many difficult questions, she needs to pee, there’s a lump in her stomach, she gets up.

  Håkon stands in the middle of the room speaking to one of the men. She doesn’t know what to ask, she has no voice, no trace of a sound in her entire body. “Sorry,” she stammers, looks up at him, at his hair, his eyes, they’re pale blue, “…
the toilet?”

  Håkon points at a door at the far side of the room.

  “The toilet is outside, behind the house and to the left.”

  There’s a pathway in the snow, deep hollows in the surrounding white. Snowflakes flutter all around, cold on her face, prickly.

  Every sound out here is so loud. The snow is wet, she can hear every step; a magpie sits in a tree and calls out before hopping from the branch and disappearing into the white sky. A new sound takes over. A car. Ilse looks to the road: The lights like two sharp eyes, it slows, stops, it’s just outside the house. Two men step out, the bang of the car doors as they close, they look at the house, one with a rifle in his hand.

  She runs, falls in the snow, runs again, along the path, up the back steps and inside.

  “Someone’s coming.” She shouts, far louder than she should. “They’re coming.”

  Håkon waves his arms, signaling to them all to follow him out of the room, through the hallway; nobody says a word, nobody makes a sound. He grabs his rifle from where it hangs on the wall and points at the stairs, frenzied; there’s a door there, in the wall, just under where the staircase curves up toward the next floor. A box room; they crowd inside, Ilse is pressed against the wall with the weight of all the bodies. Håkon closes the door. Jet-black darkness envelops them. He turns a key. He locks them inside.

  Breathing, through her nose, short and silent. Voices outside, she can hear them, not the words they’re saying, just muffled exchanges. Footsteps in the hallway. Nobody moves. Voices again. Shots. Somebody’s firing shots. More shooting. The baby starts to cry. His mother presses her hand over his mouth, forcing the sobs back inside his body.