The First Stone

by Carsten Jensen

  Møller can picture the altarpiece. In the right corner, Gestas is already on his way to hell, a pale body in the claws of the Devil, whose head is decorated with a whole battery of horns. Gestas is the most exposed, vulnerable person in the entire altarpiece. That’s where our compassion should be focused; instead, he’s being sentenced to hell.

  A stone lands not far from Møller, who perceives it only as a disturbance in his line of vision.

  Why does Jesus tell the thief to his right that on this day you are with me in paradise? Because this thief sucks up to him. And why does he send Gestas straight to hell? Because in his ignorance, he makes fun of him. Gestas hangs with his head down on the cross and is going to die. He’s desperate and despondent, yet he has enough energy left to poke a little fun at all of it! Is that enough to deserve being sent to hell?

  Doesn’t it mean that Jesus is, just like his father, a vengeful god, and that he let himself be born in vain, that he has suffered and died in vain, and, yes, that he was resurrected in vain? Why isn’t there a religion for those whom even Jesus turns his back on?

  A chaplain who renounces his faith? Isn’t he even worse than Gestas, who in his ignorance mocks the savior?

  This time the stone falls a little closer. It bounces into the air and lands right at his feet. He ignores it. He doesn’t even search the crowd to see who threw it.

  The dilemma he’s facing now has never occurred to him.

  Death?

  Yes, he could step on a land mine out here, drive over a roadside bomb, be cut down by a bullet. But death because he values his faith more than his own life? Should he sacrifice these young men, his flock, his congregation? He’d happily die for them if that were possible. But sacrifice them to confirm his faith? Should they die for his sake? Such an unsolvable dilemma seems crafted in the Devil’s workshop rather than God’s heaven. Renounce his faith or let others die for it. An evil ultimatum.

  Standing there on the stage, he hesitates. He can feel his young countrymen’s eyes on him. He sees the Afghans’ dark, heavy faces watching him carefully. Beneath those turbans, they look both ravaged and hardened at the same time. The desert, the mountains, and the war have all left their mark on them.

  He thinks again about the altarpiece in Bregninge. Now he’s the one in the middle of the worldwide turmoil beneath the cross, and the Savior’s face lies in shadow.

  The first stone hits him. It’s not a large rock. It hits him in the chest, although it’s not enough to make him stagger. Several people in the gathering have stood up and are yelling at him. He doesn’t understand a word. Are they cursing him as the infidel he is in their eyes? Are they calling him a dog? What does he read in the wild eyes of these angry men? Is it faith or mercy? Is this how their faith looks? Does his own look this way?

  The next stone passes right by his head. He has to control himself so he doesn’t hold his hands up to protect his face. He has to hold on to some dignity. He mustn’t be afraid.

  A stone hits his thigh.

  New voices rise amid those of the bellowing crowd now standing in front of the stage. It’s his own congregation yelling at him: “Come on, Møller!”

  A question suddenly surfaces. Would these young Danish soldiers, whom he claims to know so well, be capable of wiping out all these Afghans gathered here? If they could call for air support at this very moment, would they turn the square into a slaughterhouse, with torn-off limbs scattered all over the place?

  He knows the answer. He’s always known it, from the moment he chose to become a chaplain and take a deployment in Afghanistan. He read it in Luther’s writing about soldiers and God’s mercy; the founder of the very church he belongs to blesses the soldier as God’s instrument, even when he hangs, maims, decapitates, and murders freely.

  So, yes, they would.

  Would they do it in the name of the greater good, thinking about the cause they’re fighting for? Or now that they’ve renounced their faith, would they do it solely in the name of physical survival?

  He realizes how meaningless the answer is. The result would be the same. No one in this square, neither the hostage takers nor their hostages, would hesitate to take the other’s life. He must sacrifice himself. He must sacrifice his faith. He must sacrifice his relationship with God to save a handful of lives.

  Has he hesitated too long? Is it too late? The stones pound against the boards of the stage. He spreads out his arms in a wide embracing gesture, as if to bless the gathering.

  More and more hands rise into the air, all of them clenching stones.

  14

  “Ash-hadu ala ilâha illal-Lahu wahdahu, la Sharîka lahu, wa-ash-hadu anna Muhammadan abduhu wa rasûluhu.”

  In a voice filled with desperation, the chaplain screams out the declaration of faith. He hasn’t sacrificed his life for his faith, as he should have. He’s no martyr. Instead, he has sacrificed his faith so that others can live.

  Is there a word for that?

  A spontaneous smile, one reflecting both relief and gratitude, spreads across the soldiers’ faces. Møller knows he will always hate that smile. At this moment they believe he has once again fulfilled his duty, although he doesn’t think so. He is no longer their shepherd. He hasn’t prepared them for death. He’s only helped them cling to life a little bit longer—and he’s no better, either. He’s no longer a chaplain. He’s one of them now, a refugee on Earth for as long as he lives.

  The crowd has broken into cheers. Everyone is standing, though none are still holding stones. A few raise up their Kalashnikovs and fire away, their bearded faces beaming up at him.

  His face is distorted. Møller has no idea what he should do, other than follow the natural course of events toward what he knows will be the inevitable end, their death. He doubts it will take very long.

  They’re still alive, however, and they say where there’s life, there’s hope—but not for him. All that remains is the stubbornness of living, the cells’ hunger for more and more time, for an eternity that exists only in fermenting bacteria.

  A word comes to him suddenly. He searches for it in Danish. He already knows it in Greek and Latin. Epieikeia, aequitas. He must be able to remember it in Danish, too. Then it pops into his head: “equity.” It also comes from Luther. It means the possibility of being fair and just. Luther writes that forgiveness is possible, even for those who’ve joined the rebels, if the lapsed peasants have done so because of coercion or good intentions. A door then opens and one can act with equity.

  It’s a loophole. Does the same door exist for someone who’s renounced his faith? The renounced faith on one side of the scales and the desire to save lives on the other? Which weighs more?

  Lukas Møller only knows that every time the peasants surrendered or suffered another defeat, no one showed any equity to the survivors. They were never asked about their motives, nor were they allowed to explain themselves. Thomas Müntzer’s followers, the Anabaptists, were brutally massacred by the thousands, chopped into small pieces and tortured to death with hot irons.

  Equity? In war there is no equity.

  15

  Hannah is sitting in the courtyard of the qalat right next to the square where the conversions are happening. Although she doesn’t recognize the names when they’re announced, she knows the voices. Noise from the excited crowd grows louder, but onstage there’s a sudden silence. Is it over? she wonders. No, she still hasn’t heard the chaplain’s voice. Is he putting their lives at risk? She doesn’t want anything bad to happen to the others. Herself? She can’t say.

  Once the ceremony is over, she hears elated voices outside the gate.

  “I could use a cold beer right now!”

  “A tight pussy for me—that’s all I need!”

  The gate opens, and the men enter, surrounded by their guards.

  “Sorry,” says Viktor, nodding at Hannah. “We’re just celebrating our conversion!”

  “Damn—I believe in miracles!” Sørensen pats his stomach, which like
his sunken face has shrunk significantly since they fell into Schrøder’s hands. “I’ve had the runs for four days, but now I’m hungry!”

  Viktor raises an invisible beer bottle and makes gulping sounds, causing his Adam’s apple to bob up and down. “I miss Årslev.” The others nod in agreement.

  “The way he could talk about beer,” says Simon. “Aromas and the taste index!”

  “Could he really taste all that in a beer?” Viktor contemplates his invisible beer bottle.

  “A cold beer on a summer day,” says Simon, “right after it rains and you can smell the wet asphalt.”

  Viktor turns to the chaplain. “You certainly know how to keep us in suspense, Chaplain, but next time get it done a little faster, okay!”

  “Leave him alone. He did his best.” Simon acts as if he’s toasting with Møller. “Thanks for the effort, Chaplain!”

  The others also toast him. Møller turns away, walks over to one of the qalat’s walls, and sits down in the shade. Staring at the ground, he runs his hands through his hair as if lice have invaded his scalp.

  They toast again with their imaginary beers. “It’s a great day for all of us,” says Dennis. “Hurray for Islam! Hurray for the fucking Prophet and his dirty beard! If we can’t get beers, what about a little hashish? They were all high on something out there. Anyone could see it!”

  “Give Møller a little time to recover,” says Steffensen. “We owe him a proper thank-you. This was much harder on him than we can imagine. Faith is a serious matter for the chaplain. Nobody here doubts that, right?”

  For a moment they all stare, embarrassed, at the ground. Suddenly Dennis laughs loudly. “Hashish!” he repeats. “Let’s get some hashish!”

  Steffensen walks over to the chaplain and places a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t pay any attention to them,” he says. “Deep inside, they all realize the sacrifice you’ve made. They’re grateful. Right now they just need to let off a little steam.”

  Møller doesn’t look up. “Leave me alone! Get lost!”

  Surprised, Steffensen stares at him. He’s never heard the chaplain speak that way; he stands up and walks back to the others.

  With his drooping shoulders and bent head, the chaplain looks like a man deep in prayer—but he’s not. His hands aren’t folded, nor will they ever be again. They’re just two hands, running through his hair and then grasping his knees as if he has nothing else to hold on to. He has abandoned his faith and denied the Lord. The disgusting conversion ceremony meant nothing to the others, just random words in a random order, but for him, the words belonged to either the Lord or the Devil. And he swore his allegiance to the Devil. For the good of his congregation. He had no other choice. It’s not bitterness or regret he feels, only an incurable hopelessness. The cock has crowed twice, but he’s no Peter. The apostle got a second chance. And then another. Peter may have denied the Lord, but he didn’t swear allegiance to another.

  Leave me alone! Get lost! From now on, this is Møller’s gospel, the sum of all his sermons.

  Should he replace the cross with the rifle? Yet, without God, he has no ammunition. You can’t slay dragons without faith. So you slay people instead.

  Steffensen asks the others for their attention. “There’s something we need to consider,” he says. “I take it all of you saw those cell phones pointed at us while we were onstage?”

  “In about five minutes, we’ll be famous.” Andreas smiles as if the thought pleases him. “We’ll be all over the internet. Then they’ll know we’re alive back in Denmark. We’ve probably been reported missing. Our families must be beside themselves.”

  “Yeah, that’s the question—just how happy will our families be to see us standing on that stage? And it’s definitely not certain we’ve been reported MIA. Maybe Army Operational Command has said we’re on some secret mission that requires radio silence,” says Steffensen. “And if we were reported MIA, these tapes will only prove that we’re hostages—and conversion videos are usually just a prelude to executions.”

  “Do you really need to remind us of that right now?” Andreas glares at him.

  “Yes, sorry, but actually that’s the least of our worries. You can bet your ass that the Americans are already on their way. Drones, bombers, Special Forces—whatever. They’ll come for us with everything they’ve got. And we need to be ready.”

  “Schrøder must have anticipated that. What the hell was he thinking when he put us on display like that?” Viktor looks inquisitively at the others.

  Ensconced in their discussion, they don’t notice the gate to the qalat open as Schrøder, along with a group of his men, steps into the courtyard. Holding a cell phone in one of his hands, he heads directly toward them.

  “Anyone want to call home and tell Mom you’re doing okay?” He smiles cheerfully at them.

  They stare at him. No one moves. Right now none of them can handle hearing a girlfriend, mother, or father on the other end of the receiver. What would they say? I’m doing fine? But I’m not doing fine at all. I’ll probably be dead in five minutes. I’m calling just to say goodbye.

  Shaking his head with feigned disappointment, Schrøder looks from one to the other. “No one? You’re a strange group.”

  “Give me that.”

  “So the commander wants to call home. Here you go!”

  Steffensen takes the phone and quickly enters a number in Defense Command. He knows the call will enable them to trace their exact location. He doesn’t care about the consequences. What other chance do they have?

  The phone hums encouragingly as his fingers touch the screen. Then he holds it up to his ear. He’s never tried to make a call from a cell phone in Afghanistan, so he has no idea how long it takes to get connected. Nothing happens. The others stare intently at him. He lifts his hand in the air to indicate that they need to be patient. Eventually he gives up and lowers the phone. He looks down at the screen. There are no bars in the top left corner, indicating that the phone is not connected to the internet. Though he can’t read the Arabic letters, he already knows what it says: “No Service.”

  Schrøder laughs as he takes back the phone. “You know how it is,” he says. “You know it from camp. Every evening at six o’clock, the Taliban shuts down the internet and doesn’t open it again until the next morning. That’s how it is here, too. But on the occasion of your visit, we’ve decided to extend closing time. Surely you all saw the crowd filming you as you delivered your declaration of faith—but that was just for the family album. No one will be sending anything in the next few days.”

  Schrøder spreads out his hands and shrugs. “Sorry. You won’t become world-famous today.” He winks at Steffensen. “Oh, and today’s not the day the Americans will be flying in, either.”

  16

  The silence is oppressive as they sit down to eat the meal laid out for them in the middle of the courtyard. A water jug is passed around so they can wash their hands before eating. There are no spoons or forks. They have to serve themselves with their hands, so they use the flat naan to grab pieces of lamb and rice mixed with raisins and grated carrots. There are pancakes stuffed with spinach, also. The food is the best they’ve had since they fell into Schrøder’s hands. Camper looks satisfied, and Sørensen, who just announced the return of his appetite, eats heartily.

  Schrøder sits down next to them. He’s surrounded by two bodyguards, as if he’s not certain the soldiers won’t suddenly attack him. Neither he nor the guards eat anything while the rest concentrate on the food. Grabbing a piece of bread, Hannah moves away from the group. She can’t handle Schrøder’s closeness. She has her uniform back now, even though she didn’t participate in the conversion ceremony. She holds the naan but doesn’t sit down. No one has seen her eat anything in the two days since Adam’s death. Hesitantly, she takes one bite and then another. Although she’s hungry, she views her hunger as an enemy forcing her to cling to the life she now finds meaningless. Self-preservation wins. The others watch her. It’s a g
ood sign.

  Just as they’re about to finish their meal, Schrøder looks up as if he’s expecting something.

  A colossal force suddenly throws them to the ground and all over the square. A fountain of dirt rises from the neighboring compound, followed by a glowing burst of flames. Gravel and rubble rain down upon them as a thick cloud of dust rolls across the courtyard.

  Steffensen grabs his ears as if to make sure they’re still there. His hearing is gone. Curled up, they lie all over the courtyard trying to protect themselves from the next explosion, which—if it strikes any closer—will tear them apart. In the middle of the cloud of dust, he can barely make out a figure standing a little ways off. Suddenly it sprints out of view. He’s not sure, but he thinks it’s Hannah.

  Trying to stand up, Steffensen presses his hands against the ground, but his elbows collapse beneath him and he sinks back down. The force of another shock wave suddenly hits, and his mouth fills with gravel. The dust all around him becomes even thicker. He sees shiny spots everywhere, and he can feel his heart pounding. He stares at his hands. They’re lit up by a pulsing glow, as if his heart were a strobe light flashing on and off. His hands turn neon white, then icy blue, and then red. “Are they mine?” he asks himself. It’s as if he’s never seen his hands before, and he realizes with sudden insight that this is the key. “This is the key,” he says and then starts giggling uncontrollably.

  Hannah storms forward. She can see Afghans lying on the ground, but she assumes they’ve only been knocked out by the force of the explosion and aren’t seriously wounded. In a moment they’ll be back on their feet again. She doesn’t have much time.

  She has already noticed that the gate isn’t as high as the surrounding walls; she’s hoping that its top edge isn’t protected by nails or sharp pieces of metal or glass. Earlier she thought the most important thing was staying with the others, but now her only thought is to escape. She’s seized by a desperate, uncontrollable restlessness.