The Informer (Sabotage Group BB)

by Langstrup, Steen

  Listening, holding his big revolver in his hand, Jens is sitting on the bed. He doesn’t feel the cold, doesn’t see his own breath hanging around his face like fog. He listens to the sound of cautious steps on the frozen grass. Slowly, he cocks the hammer on his revolver.

  A shadow passes the window. A male figure. He can see that much. It is not a hungry fox looking for food; it’s a man. He listens carefully, but the hissing of his own breath is too loud and makes it impossible for him to hear anything else. He opens his mouth to dim the sound. The cold creeps in on him. He has a strange feeling…like falling.

  The sounds are now coming from the shed behind the allotment house. The clinking of bottles. The garbage! He has gathered all his waste inside the small shed. There is not really that much despite the fact that he has been living here for a couple of months.

  Living underground, you can’t leave your waste for the garbage collector, as he might become suspicious receiving trash from an unoccupied allotment house. You can’t leave it in a mess at your hideout or just dump a bag of waste around the neighborhood either. Someone would notice. The shed seemed as a reasonable solution to the garbage problem. Hide it there for Harald, the owner of the allotment, to burn it along with his own garden waste when he starts using the allotment again in the spring. Nobody will notice.

  However …

  Somebody is messing around with the trash in the shed right now.

  Probably the owner of one of the other allotments. He might be out here to get a bag of potatoes he had been storing in the cold for the winter. Something must have caught his attention.

  The sound of the shed door closing. Then steps. Branches scratching the sides of the house.

  Jens is as quiet as a mouse. He will need to find another place to stay. He can’t stay here. It is not safe anymore. Jens is following the sound of the man outside with his revolver. Indecisively, he points it down at the floor for a few seconds, only to raise it back at the sound again. Finally, he uncocks the hammer and lets the revolver slide back under his pillow.

  Holding his breath, he reaches out for the kitchen knife instead. His mouth all dry. A headache coming on. Damn hangovers. He badly needs a drink. The steps outside continue around the house. Maybe he can gain some time by killing the trespasser? A silent kill with the kitchen knife.

  The man is trying the door now. It is locked. Staring as the doorknob goes up and down, Jens throws a quick glance back at his pillow. Should he get the gun? He’s sweating. Feeling sick.

  The man outside is knocking at the door. Two hard strokes. Dong dong.

  Jens clutches the knife, making his knuckles turn white. Still holding his breath.

  “Jens?” A whisper. “Jens, are you there?”

  Putting the knife away he goes to unlock the door. “Come in.”

  Borge is quick to get in. Wearing a knitted hat, cheeks red from the cold.

  “What are you doing sneaking around like that?” Jens snarls as he finally grabs the bottle of schnapps. “You scared the shit out of me. You’re lucky you didn’t get shot!”

  “The fox,” Borge says, pausing as Jens drinks from the bottle. “You’re drinking too much.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “That’s right. The fox must have found your garbage last night. The place was a mess with cans and paper everywhere. I took it back inside the shed. You’ll have to find some way to lock up that shed.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We got to be extra careful now. We have got an informer right in the center of our group.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. It’s sure as hell is none of us, but you’re right about one thing, we got an informer on our necks. It’s just not one of us. I’m an old policeman. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Bullshit. Don’t waste my time. The fact is that nobody but the four of us and the new kid knew about our last two operations, and the Germans or the Hipo were waiting in ambush both places. They knew what was going to happen, and when it was going to happen.”

  “How did this boy know about the hit on Super?”

  “The garage? Well, you see, I told him.”

  Is that so? And, that’s my point, that’s what I’m saying. One of us trusts the wrong person. And it is this wrong person who’s the informer.”

  “The boy. Willy. It’s him.”

  “I’m not so sure. I’m told that he shot down two Hipo to save Alis K.”

  “I don’t buy it. He was too far away. It might be fake. It might be a set up, it might have been staged. Maybe he had blanks in the pistol.”

  “You acquired the pistol for him.”

  “Sure, but he could have changed the clip. It’s not impossible. The thing is, nobody can hit a target at that distance using such a shitty pistol. It’s not possible. This kid claims to never have had a gun in his hands before. It doesn’t smell right.”

  A new sip from the bottle. “You’re right about that. Do you want a sip?”

  “No.”

  “What do you have in mind? What should we do? Waste him? Might be a little premature. If he’s not lying, he’ll be just the kind of guy we need.”

  “Agreed. We could set a trap for him. See if he goes for it.”

  “How would we do that?”

  19

  The red lamp is hanging on a white cord from the ceiling. Lying on his back in the bed, BB is looking up at the lamp. The ceiling is stained.

  The heater is on. The room is warm. Alis K is playing with her fingers on his chest and stomach.

  “When all of this is in the past,” he says not looking at her, “the war, everything, then we’ll run away together, the two of us. Go to America and start over.”

  “Don’t.” She puts a finger on his lips. “I’ll just end up believing you. I don’t want to.”

  “But I’m serious. I mean it!” He turns to gently cradle her head. “I love you.”

  “You love the thrill of danger, BB. Nothing else. Without the cheating on your wife, I wouldn’t be exciting. I know you better than you think.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I’ve seen you in action, BB. You get turned on by danger. You are seeking danger. The only reason you’re with me is the risk of getting caught by your wife.”

  He rolls to his back again…frowning, he doesn’t say anymore. He listens to the rain against the window.

  20

  Drumming the privy roof, the rain drips through a small hole and onto the slippery floor. Poul-Erik is sitting in the dark, caressing the pistol. He can hear a baby crying somewhere in one of the apartments as water spills out from the broken downspouts by the backstairs.

  Touching the barrels, the crosshairs, the bulky magazine in front of the trigger and the grip, he thinks about his father. Imagines him stamping along in his big wooden shoes. You can tell his mood by listening to the clatter of the wooden shoes. Quick and hard steps are bad news—then you would be wise to make yourself invisible. That can be difficult being six kids on thirty-four square meters.

  He hits you in the head using an open hand, he prefers to hit you in the back of the head. He is a big man, a smith, a real smith, like he always says: ‘A blacksmith’. Swinging the hammer all day long, he doesn’t need to strain that much to send a ten-year-old child flying through the air.

  He lost his right index finger to a circular saw back in the day when he had to take another job. His teeth are black, the eyes watery. He roars as he speaks. The food is to be on the table when he enters the door. Or else. Punishment for the whole family. The potatoes can’t be over-cooked. Mother has no way of knowing when he will arrive, as he often stops for a drink on his way home from work.

  Poul-Erik hates him. Can’t even remember a time in his life where he didn’t hate his father. There are no extenuating circumstances at all. The man is a dictator, and even if his kingdom is nothing but a small, two-room apartment, he is as evil as any dictator the world has known. He accepts no disobedience of an
y kind. His wrath is unpredictable, the punishment random. You can get severely beaten for having the hiccups or for spilling some water on the floor. But then, you can break great-grandmother’s old china vase—the only thing of any value in their possession—and believe for sure you are going to die. But then it is just, ‘Never mind, my boy, it is just a thing.’ And for some reason, that just makes it worse. There is no justice in this family. There are only the whims of Karl Smith.

  He can’t spell his own name. Though he loves the name Smith. ‘I was named Smith, and a smith is what I am!’ he often shouts when he’s drunk. And a smith he is. If he catches you not listening when he is talking, he will swing his four-finger hand at you.

  You can’t reason with him. You can’t explain to him that he is making a mistake. His only answer is more beatings. If you don’t nod your head and say, ‘yes, Dad,‘ in all the right places, you will have to feel some pain. There are no rules to go by, no refuge anywhere. You can get beatings for doing something he told you to do himself, if he has forgotten it, or if it turned out to be a bad idea after all.

  Even mom used to get her share until she developed a habit of making herself disappear when trouble was brewing. She goes to the privy or something—she just disappears, only to return later and continue whatever she was doing as if nothing had ever happened.

  When Father is not home, she is the boss. And that is better. She only hits the little ones, and only if she gets really mad; but then she will use the coat hanger until her arm tires. She has ruined a few brackets that way. However, none of the children hate their mother. Maybe it is too tough to accept both your parents being mean brutes. Maybe it is the fact that she is not as bad as their father. Most of the time it is possible to understand what made her angry. There is some sense in her madness. She is no angel; there are very few angles in the slum. To be an angel requires some kind of surplus which most people in need do not have. But, place her next to Dad, and she will get the looks of an angel. Gray can seem very white next to black.

  Besides, she understands how to benefit from the situation. She is a victim of Karl’s whims herself. The children often get to feel more pity for her then for themselves or each other, even if she is really the only person who could save them from his terror. Her life is martyrdom. And as long as she stays put, she can hide inside the role of the martyr. A victim can get away with anything. It would be so much harder to get by on your own account.

  The best thing Poul-Erik’s dad ever did for him was losing his job. A resistance group blew up the smithy, and that was the end of that job. The next four weeks was a living hell for everyone in the family, but if he had not lost his job, he wouldn’t have been forced to take a job in Germany.

  It has been almost six months by now. He has only been back home for one weekend in all that time. The only person in the whole family who misses him is their mother. It is hard to stay a martyr without the abuse.

  Nobody seems to know exactly what kind of work Poul-Erik’s father is doing down in Germany. Poul-Erik was told something about a smithy in Berlin, but his dad was shouting something about Hamburg during the time he was back home for the weekend. He didn’t speak of any kind of forging whatsoever. Of course, he never writes any letters. He just sends an envelope with some money every other week.

  There will be a big surprise waiting for him when he eventually comes back home. The sissy he calls his son has been transformed into the saboteur, Willy. A hero who has killed two Hipo in close battle. Nobody is ever going to violate Willy again. The times have changed. Poul-Erik can feel it deep within, as he stands there holding the pistol. He is no longer the same boy.

  He puts the pistol inside his coat pocket and instantly feels so much better. He steps out of the outhouse, into the rain, and hurries over to the gateway where an ally cat hisses at him. He kicks the air near the cat’s head and it rushes out of the gateway.

  He pulls his cap down his forehead, turns up the collar, and moves out into the dark city. Running inside the shadows, making himself disappear in the darkness. Through backyards, over fences.

  Several hours pass by before he returns.

  21

  Rolling on to her stomach, the widow Mrs Skrab takes a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand, next to the framed photograph of her late husband. Johannes lights up his pipe, his glance lingering on the widow’s nice and round backside.

  “What are you looking at?” She smiles back over her shoulder, confident about the beauty of her ass—and she should be.

  “I am just enjoying the pleasant view,” Johannes says, taking a long pull on his pipe.

  She strikes a match and lights the cigarette. She stays that way, looking at the picture on the nightstand. Letting her fingers slide over the glass in the frame.

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Not really.” She takes the photograph and rolls back in the bed. Her breasts are firm and have the funniest little pink nipples. They are something special, not at all like other women’s breasts. “Well, sometimes I do miss him. The children miss him a lot, that’s for sure. He was a good father.”

  “He sure was.”

  “And a good husband. He never cheated on me. That’s just the way he was.”

  “Oh, well,” Johannes mumbles, looking at the silly display of porcelain figurines on the dresser. In his private theory, if a man can brag about being faithful to his wife, the odds are that the wife’s been cheating on him. He keeps this to himself for the moment.

  “But he was boring,” she says, throwing the picture back on the nightstand. “He was so fucking boring.” She rests her head on Johannes’s stomach. Stroking his chest. “Am I going to hell for my sins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Asshole.”

  They lie in silence, smoking for a while. She’s been his mistress for some years now. They met at the baptism preparations for her youngest child. Johannes knew right away that he needed to have this woman. And he got her. Frederiksberg is populated by respectable women; neglected and bored. Johannes can choose as he pleases. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, and a bag of chips. Frederiksberg has it all. Many women feel delighted by a visit from the reverend.

  Mrs Skrab’s late husband never suspected anything fishy about the reverend stopping by when he wasn’t around. He seemed to regard it as a special honor. He was the owner of a hotel in the heart of Copenhagen and regarded himself a significant and highly respected man. He had a strong faith in the Lord, always there in Johannes’s church for the Sunday service with his beautiful wife at his side, like he wanted to show off his success—like the walking stick, the shining polished shoes, and the tailor-made suit. It was all so perfect and neat. Who would have guessed that the doll at his side loved when the reverend came inside her mouth, making the semen drip from her lips?

  The hotel proprietor Skrab died in the first year of the war from a heart attack. The funeral was held five days later by Johannes. There he was shoveling dirt on the man he made a cuckold.

  From dust to dust…

  “Do you believe in God?” The widow kills her cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Sure.” He lets his hand slide down her back. “Who else could have created something as beautiful as you?”

  She chuckles. Caressing his balls. “No, I mean it. Do you believe that he’s sitting somewhere up in the sky, judging our actions?”

  “You are asking your reverend about that, Iris?”

  “You’re not like any other reverend, Johannes.”

  He places the pipe in the ashtray. “Maybe not.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “Why’s that so important to you?”

  “Just answer my question.”

  He rubs his face. Looks at his watch. “I think it is becoming increasingly difficult to believe that there is a God in control of everything, and at the same time believe this God to be good.”

  “Maybe we just don’t get the big picture?”

  “Maybe.”

&nb
sp; “I loved my husband. Isn’t that the strangest thing? I mean, it wouldn’t have been the same sin if he’d been an evil man, and I’d hated him, would it?”

  “I love my wife.”

  “Would you forgive her if she saw someone else?”

  Johannes blinks his eyes. “No, I do not think so.”

  “What’d you do if you came home one day and found her in bed with another man?”

  “I don’t know … I might do all kind of things.” He frowns. “What are you getting at?”

  “Just wondering. There’s so much deceit in this world. I’m trying to understand.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Did I upset you?” She takes his soft penis in her hand. Smiling. “Don’t be mad.” Her tongue feels good. He closes his eyes and gently holds her head. But he’s got a special reason for being here today, and he needs to be back at the church before long to teach a class of confirmation candidates.

  “Iris, stop,” he gasps, pushing her away.

  She looks at him all confused. Hurt too. “But you love that?”

  “I do. I love it. But we need to talk. It’s important.”

  “Talk?”

  “The third floor.”

  “The third floor?”

  “At the hotel. You know.”

  “I might start to wonder, Johannes. You ask a lot of questions about the third floor.”

  “I have a friend who is…afraid.”

  Less than a year ago, the Gestapo in all secrecy rented the whole third floor of the Daisy Hotel which Iris Skrab had inherited from her late husband. The place was used to house German and Danish agents who specialized in infiltrating the resistance, and controlling a spider web of informers in every corner of Denmark.

  “I don’t get to hear that much,” Iris says sulkily. “The maids have been told that they’ll execute them all if anything gets out.”

  “And you?”

  “I hardly ever visit the third floor. I let my employees handle that.”

  “So, you know nothing at all?”