“Or while I’m sleeping,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll dream of something sensible for a change.”
I miss Anthony but don’t let him sense any weakness. I miss him and Old Marshall, the poplar outside my bedroom window and dear Tina whom I was convinced I heard barking while I was still half asleep this morning. I suddenly feel as if she’s rubbing herself up against my legs.
“I’m fine,” I tell Anthony. “I’m not afraid.”
Or so I told Anthony. Yet I’m restless and counting the hours, so I sit down by the window and watch the rays of sunshine falling lazily on to the square, only to stand up again immediately and decide to go down to the restaurant.
I take a seat at a table in the corner, drink tea with lemon and nibble a slice of sponge cake. It’s tasteless but it doesn’t matter as I have no appetite anyway. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The cathedral clock across the street looks down at me with the arrogance of one who has the upper hand. Tick, tock. Time passes.
His parents have no doubt come to town to attend his graduation. I notice that I write his “parents” without hesitation. This pleases me. I remember how relieved I was when I met them. Remember how kind I found her eyes and the likable diffidence of her husband, that big man. He had just come ashore, putting on his best clothes and running a wet comb through his hair, before they came to fetch him. He stood at a little distance, alternately twining and loosening his fingers. His clothes were tight.
Tick, tock. What can I say to him? After all these years. Do I have anything to say?
I have managed to finish the slice of cake without noticing.
I got back to Reykjavik on the evening of December 30 after a blissfully uneventful journey by seaplane. The mistress came to meet me; I hadn’t expected that. She wore a determined expression, a look of resolve which I hadn’t been aware of before and her embrace was comforting. It seemed as if my blow had in some way strengthened her.
The Christmas lights were still in place and the scent of pine met us when Maria opened the front door. Dr. Bolli was in his office but came out as soon as he heard us. Ignoring my objections he demanded to be allowed to carry my suitcase upstairs for me. Although it wasn’t heavy he still had to put it down and rest twice on the way up. The second time he accidentally grasped a red light bulb in the row of Christmas lights we had wound round the banister intertwined with fir branches. He winced with pain but didn’t flinch. I asked him whether I should fetch a cold cloth for his finger but he declined it. I remember his saying: “It’ll pass, Asdis. Everything passes.”
The son of the house was nowhere to be seen and nobody mentioned him. I would hardly have thought of him if I hadn’t caught sight of his galoshes by the basement door. Not finding them very decorative, I shoved them into a cupboard.
On the way up to Fjolugata the mistress had asked me if I’d like to take the next few days off but I told her the truth, that I’d been looking forward to getting back to the kitchen. I explained: “There at least I can convince myself that I’m in charge.”
I slept a deep, dreamless sleep that night and woke early on New Year’s Eve. There were eighteen to dinner in the evening so there was no time to lose in embarking on the preparations. In the east I could see the first hint of dawn, and the stars were paling, while outside the kitchen window two thrushes hopped along the path, leaving a pale set of tracks. It’s a mystery to me why, when I followed their tracks with my eyes, the feeling should suddenly grip me—a virtual conviction—that another world existed which I knew nothing of, not even the shadow. It gripped me for a brief second before releasing me, but held me fast while it lasted. I didn’t feel bad afterward but was half distracted at first and didn’t come to until I caught sight of myself in my mirror above the stove. That shook me because the expression on my face was unrecognizable. I have never seen it since.
Eighteen to dinner, smoked salmon and duck. There was a good smell in the kitchen by noon when the mistress brought me a glass of port. I wasn’t used to alcohol when I cooked but on this occasion it was very welcome.
The rays of the afternoon sun, red-gold and soft, didn’t trouble the eyes, though the sun hung low in the sky beyond the trees in the garden, but strayed into the kitchen like curious passersby. The presence of the thrushes was also encouraging, and the calm which comes with the dusk soon arrived. I breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps I would succeed in directing my thoughts away from my journey north. Perhaps I would find a momentary peace.
Later in the day I heard Atli’s voice in the front room. He was talking loudly. I heard his father telling him to go and lie down until dinner.
“Some guests will be coming to see him at midnight,” the mistress had told me. “To see in the New Year. The rest of us are going to my brother-in-law’s after dinner to play cards.”
I ran a bath at five o’clock, changed and did my hair. Then I stood at the window in my room for a while, contemplating the thrushes’ tracks in the snow. In the faint glow from the streetlights it was as if they had no beginning and no end.
The mistress invited me to join them in a card game once we’d eaten. I had nothing else to do and felt comfortable with her brother-in-law, Gisli, and his wife, Margret, so I accepted her gratefully. The son of the house remained alone at home, waiting for his guests. His behavior had been strange all evening, though no more than usual. I ignored him, but sometimes found his stare uncomfortable. He had been feeling out of sorts when we sat down at the table but livened up as the evening went on and the whiskey started to take effect. No one could fail to notice that the partying of the last few days had affected him. His father twice quieted him down during the meal, but I was out in the kitchen both times and so didn’t hear their exchange of words. The reprimand had the desired effect, though an unreadable smirk remained hovering over his son’s lips. It should be pointed out, however, that these exchanges were minor and in no way spoiled the party mood of the dinner guests who showered praise on the food—with sincerity, I must say, rather than from politeness.
It was past ten when we set off to visit Margret and Gisli Haraldsson. I was given a warm welcome and the mistress even called me her foster daughter that evening. She soon took a seat before the piano. There were more people there than I’d anticipated but this didn’t bother me. At midnight we drank toasts in champagne and sang “Auld Lang Syne.”
“Don’t you want to ring Kopasker,” asked the mistress, “and wish your father a Happy New Year?”
“The telephone exchange isn’t open now,” I said.
“Oh, how stupid of me, Disa, how stupid of me.”
We women played whist while the men sat in another room with brandy and cigars. There was much laughter. The mistress was in high spirits, calling everyone “darling.”
By two o’clock I was tired. I got to my feet and said good night.
“We’ll be along shortly,” said the mistress.
On the way down to Fjolugata I saw the odd fireworks streaking up into the vault of the sky, only to fizzle away to nothing, but otherwise all was quiet. I entered by the back door, took off my coat and stopped in the kitchen to fetch a glass of milk before bed. There were still guests with the son of the house. The noise carried to me from the drawing room, lower than I’d expected. I recognized Hallur Steinsson’s voice immediately, though it was no louder than the others. He was obviously very excited and I moved instinctively closer to the door of the front room in order to listen.
“I’m going to publish the report. No one’s going to tell me I can’t.”
“Do you want to go to prison? How long do you think it would take before the damned British arrested you?”
“What can they do? Who invited them here, may I ask? No, I’ll publish Atli’s report. Whatever anyone says. Even though the old man has been throwing his weight around.”
“Do you want to go to prison too, Atli?”
Silence.
“Atli?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Do you want to go
to prison, too?”
“You don’t even know what I’ve written.”
“Well, read it to us, then.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Hallur . . .”
“Atli, I wouldn’t hesitate. You’re among friends.”
Atli opened the door of the front room. I darted into the kitchen. He went down to the basement, appearing shortly afterward with a sheaf of papers in his hands.
“He even went out to Thingvellir to seek inspiration,” said Hallur Steinsson when Atli returned. “I’ll publish it. No one’s going to tell me that I can’t publish it. If it’s the last thing I do! The last thing!”
“Read it, Atli.”
Four voices. Atli, Hallur, and two others I didn’t recognize. I was sure there were only four of them.
“I’m going to read about the trip Bjorn and I took to Dachau.”
“Bjorn had the sense to stay in Germany.”
“Did I have a choice, Hallur? Did I have a choice?”
“Don’t get excited. We know your father forced you to come home. Don’t get so excited. Just read it.”
He read slowly and clearly. I was surprised that he didn’t seem drunk. The others were silent. I moved closer.
“The sun was shining the day we went to Dachau,” he began.
Herr Himmler had organized a plane for us from Tempelhof airport and we arrived down south in Bavaria after more than an hour’s journey. I’ve hardly ever seen a man who was as full of energy in all his daily dealings as Herr Himmler. He was always laughing and on excellent terms with everyone. His interest in Iceland was obvious and he spoke very highly of Bjorn’s father and the prime minister. He mentioned how impressed he and the Fuehrer were with our history and culture, calling us the only pure, Nordic race left. He is of a very equable temperament and it is his unbreakable rule to treat everyone well . . .
The entrance gate to the prison camp was wide, with a sort of fretwork tower on either side, in my estimation three to four times the height of a man. On top of each tower was a platform fenced in by a grille where two soldiers sat with machine guns and megaphones. Within the fence the prisoners were on the move, apparently all on some sort of errand. Outside the compound were grassy fields and cabbage patches. There were a few sparse clumps of trees and the odd flower bed. In one place there was a pond with ducks on it, containing small fish and minnows . . . Some of the prisoners were from ordinary prisons, transferred to Dachau for their education. There was a shoe factory and weaving room, a carpenter’s shop and sewing room. Those who behaved well were permitted to make all kinds of souvenirs for their families and friends . . .
Wherever I went I came across the unique sense of order which characterizes the Germans. To cut a long story short, the prison camp was not unlike a small kingdom, well organized in every way, reflecting in microcosm all the business of life outside. I saw many hideously ugly faces there and admired the tolerance with which the criminals were treated. I mentioned to Commandant Gerlach that some of them looked as if they would hardly turn a hair even if they were roasted on a grid like Saint Laurence. He laughed because he knew what I meant. “What crime have you committed?” I asked one of them. “I murdered my wife,” he answered. “And?” prompted Gerlach. “And our four children,” the prisoner then admitted. “And my mother, my father and my brother . . .”
Hallur Steinsson burst out laughing. The others joined in.
No one seemed to be particularly badly treated. “It’s necessary to do things which may seem unpleasant,” I commented to my friend Bjorn, and he agreed. We had spent some time discussing the events of November 9th, Kristallnacht, with Herr Himmler as Bjorn is especially interested in the subject. After some thought Bjorn agreed with us that the measures had been unavoidable in the light of the murder of German embassy staff in Paris by the Polish Jew Herschel Grynszpan. He promised to share this information with his father, Ambassador Bjornsson. In connection with this, I pointed out that the first sterilization laws had been Icelandic. Herr Himmler was fascinated when I alluded to the Gragas medieval law code which states: “It is right to castrate vagrants and is not punishable by law, even if they are crippled or die as a result.” He asked me to repeat this quotation twice while he made a note of it, he found it so remarkable. He mentioned how the men of old had in many ways been far in advance of us modern men. When Bjorn and I took our leave, he said it meant a lot to him to have our support. He also asked me to remember Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop’s message to the Icelandic government, warning them not to be too well disposed toward the British.
“Because we feel friendship for the Icelanders,” he said. “We don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
I promised that my first job when I got home would be to deliver this message to the government.
We were both proud when we came away from our meeting with him.
“It’s important that this should be mentioned,” said Hallur Steinsson. “Very important. Go on! Now read about your trip to Buchenwald.”
With slow steps I climbed the stairs.
You must have guessed, a voice whispered to me during the night. “We know what’s going on,” he said to you. “You and I, Asdis.”
His hands move up under my blouse and my legs part. A moist tongue on my throat and breasts. Rapid, eager breathing.
Flowerbeds, blue in the evening light. And ducks swimming on the pond. “It’s necessary to do things which may seem unpleasant.”
He didn’t coerce you into anything, he didn’t use force, he never threatened you. You lay down, you didn’t say: “This is wrong, I don’t want to.” You didn’t walk away. You know you didn’t dislike it . . .
Spare me, I say, leave me in peace! Let me hide here in the corner, let me reach out my hand and touch warmth with my fingertips, gentle fingers which lead me away. Lead me away from myself.
I went downstairs at five o’clock. In the drawing room there were still glasses and half-empty bottles of wine on the table. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air. I thought I could hear the echo of his voice in the darkness: “The sun was shining the day we went to Dachau . . .”
In the pale glow from the streetlights I saw a bundle of papers on the dining room table. White papers lying in an untidy heap next to a whiskey bottle. Before I knew it I had them in my hands. Before I knew it I had packed them in my old suitcase along with my clothes and other bits and pieces.
At seven o’clock I walked out into the silent morning of New Year’s Day.
I think the waitress was grateful to me for my advice this morning. Admittedly, she seemed rather taken aback at first but soon realized that I was trying to help her.
She must have thought I was English because the couple at the next table had struck up a conversation with me as soon as I sat down. They said they were from Hastings and meant to spend the next ten days traveling around the country. I think they were called Brooks or Bracken or something like that. He said he had been stationed in Iceland during the war.
“Skyr,” he said to me, pronouncing the name of the Icelandic yogurt fairly accurately, as if to prove it.
We exchanged commonplaces until the girl came to my table.
“Do you like breakfast?” she asked me.
I gestured to her to come nearer because I didn’t want the others to hear.
“I’m Icelandic,” I told her, “but if I were English you should say: “Would you like some breakfast, madam?” or “Would you like to see the breakfast menu, madam?”
While we were on the subject, I decided to point out various other things which could be improved. For example, it would be appropriate, I told her, to offer fruit juice, tea or coffee before breakfast itself is served. I also advised her to move more slowly, though I knew she meant well by scurrying from one table to the next.
“You might disturb the guests,” I whispered to her.
She seemed to have paid attention and tried to memorize these hints. At least, she wasn�
��t in such a hurry for the remainder of the breakfast sitting and she reacted promptly, bringing me coffee and a glass of orange juice as soon as our conversation was over. Before I got up, I slipped her a note on which I’d written the name of a manual I thought might be of help to her. Five Hundred Useful Phrases for Waiters and Waitresses, it’s called, compiled by William P. F. Forsythe, the head waiter at the Connaught Hotel in London. Naturally, I wouldn’t mention this book to the staff at Ditton Hall, as there we expect polished language and manners to have been part of their upbringing. For foreigners, however, it is very useful.
She blushed slightly when I handed her the note, but thanked me. I told her that later on she should also try to get hold of Roberts’ Guide for Butlers and Household Sta f, though in fact I believed this book was hard to find.
“Don’t let the title put you off,” I told her, “because there are plenty of things which have remained unchanged even though the book was written in Boston in 1827.”
I was pleased to have been able to give this girl some guidance.
A gray wisp of cloud appeared over the hill and was carried swiftly toward me by the cold January blast. I shivered at the window and reached for my sweater on the chair, putting it on over my thin dressing gown. When I looked up, the cloud had dispersed into countless snow buntings, darting in different directions in the sharp gust of wind. A moment later they flocked together again as if their lives depended on it, then vanished from view below the small rise.
The doctor had stepped out of the room.
Grayness all around, gray floor and walls, gray sky, the Christmas lights dimmed. I had been living with Mrs. Olsen for about a week now. She gave me a kinder reception than I deserved when I knocked at her door on New Year’s morning. Without asking any questions, she urged me to go and see a doctor when the vomiting had lasted for five days. Through the window I glimpsed the roof of 56 Fjolugata and looked away.
The doctor came in. He smiled.
“Asdis,” he said. “I hope congratulations are in order.”
The Journey Home: A Novel Page 18