“You call them the American jihadists,” Schrøder continues, “but they haven’t actually converted—they’re the same infidels they’ve always been. They have no god. Their only god is themselves. Ask them why they came here. For excitement, they’ll say. To test themselves.” He sneers as he says the last few words, as if mocking each and every one of them.
“They haven’t made fools of anyone.”
The young judge’s voice has changed. The debate is over. He’s a judge again now, his face stiffening into the same mask of imperviousness it was when he sentenced me to lose my hand. Schrøder can see it, and his face stiffens, too. He’s preparing himself for what’s to come.
“The jihadists saw through you long before we did,” the judge continues. “You sold them to DarkSky, but they killed the men from DarkSky and freed the villagers from the arbakai. They are the true friends of the Afghan people, while you are nothing but a pathetic traitor who must suffer the punishment every blasphemer deserves.”
He hesitates for a moment, not because he has any doubts but merely to reinforce his words. “You should receive the law’s strongest punishment for your crimes against the Afghan people. You deserve to die.”
He stares into Schrøder’s eyes, but Schrøder doesn’t look down. I can’t read anything from his expression.
“You deserve to die a second time for betraying the American jihadists, but a person only dies once. We, the legal representatives of the Afghan people, could gather stones in the name of divine justice and stone you to death. Instead, we leave punishment to the brothers and sister sitting with us who, by their courage and martyrdom, deserve to be considered part of the Afghan people.”
He turns to me and orders me to translate. “They’re sentencing him to death,” I say. “By stoning.”
So far, everything has gone according to plan. What a thought! It’s laughable. Plan? Chaos has worked in my favor. Schrøder wound up right where I wanted him—in front of a Taliban court—and the Taliban have sentenced him to death, which I was banking on. I knew it would be death by stoning. I never had any hope of bringing Schrøder home. Once everything started going wrong for the Danes, the likelihood that they’d get the revenge they wanted was exactly nil. This is the only way Schrøder will ever receive any punishment. Once I explained my plan to her, Hannah accepted it. Steffensen and Møller will, too.
Maybe the morphine is starting to wear off. My arm is throbbing, though it’s not quite strong enough to call pain. Still, this portent of the return of my pain wakes me up, which is what I need to be right now. Awake.
The judge stares intently at the three Danes huddled together in consultation. “It’s your decision,” he says. “Should he die?”
Steffensen and Møller are perplexed. Steffensen looks down. Hannah, on the other hand, seems determined. Schrøder turns toward me. “You bastard!” he says in Danish.
The sound of his voice seems to free the Danes. “He should die,” says Steffensen, finally looking up.
“Brother, I can’t hear you,” says the judge.
Steffensen looks right at the judge and yells, “He should die!” I can tell he’s trying to sound convinced. Is he acting or merely steeling himself for what’s to come?
The judge exchanges glances with my father, who’s behind my line of vision. I’m sure this is all my father’s idea. I’m no lawyer, but I don’t think this has anything to do with Sharia law. It seems more like politics. Is this my father’s revenge on Denmark, where he never felt at home? I recall his last words from our conversation last night. That’s how the world is. He wants to show the Danes how the world really is.
And maybe how they really are?
I stare up at the peaks above us. Sulaiman’s Throne. Just for one moment, can’t the world be free of all these meanings we ascribe to it? Can’t it just be blank and meaningless, a stone no more than a stone, a mountain merely a mountain? Can’t dead men rest in peace without being called ancestors or prophets whose misdeeds and boring doctrines dictate lives for countless generations to come?
Three men walk over to Steffensen, Møller, and Hannah. They’re holding their kirtles, which they’ve filled with stones, up in front of them. They must have been collecting stones during the trial. They kneel down and distribute the artillery into three piles.
The judges stare silently at the two men and one woman still sitting there but no longer talking.
“We’re going to stone him?” asks Steffensen, shocked.
“Show us that you are true believers.”
Hannah, the first to stand up, looks at me. “Was this your idea?” she asks.
I shake my head. I wanted Schrøder to be stoned to death because it was the only way out, but I never wanted her or the other two to have to do the stoning.
The guards have kicked Schrøder’s legs out from under him, so he’s kneeling. They tie his calves to his thighs. He winces. They take a step back and point their Kalashnikovs at him.
Hannah bends down and picks up a stone. Her face is on fire. She’s seized by the rage bottled up inside her for so long. Steffensen follows suit, and then the chaplain. They pick up the smallest stones first.
Pain shoots up my arm, and my brain explodes as if a firebomb has gone off inside it. For a moment everything goes white and then my sight returns.
I watch the first stone fly through the air. Hannah strikes Schrøder in the temple, making him sway. With his hands tied behind his back, he can’t defend himself. Steffensen isn’t concentrating when he throws and misses the mark, as does Møller. Hannah’s turn again. She throws with great force. The stones are getting bigger. Steffensen and Møller are hitting their mark now. Because they want to get it over with—or are they energized by seeing Schrøder powerless?
Schrøder is still kneeling. Blood runs from his forehead, down the sides of his nose toward his mouth, where it turns his beard red. He’s leaning forward, trying to protect himself.
Hannah and Steffensen step closer, and the chaplain follows. There’s something mechanical about the fury in their movements.
And none of the stones are missing their mark.
Acknowledgments
The First Stone is a novel, and its plot and the people who appear in it are purely fictional. The war in Afghanistan is real, however, and to merge this fictional work’s equally indispensable ingredients, reality and fantasy, I’ve needed help.
My novel has had many midwives, patiently answering my questions or inspiring me in myriad ways.
During four decades of trips to Afghanistan, I’ve met women, children, and men who’ve offered insight into their world.
I would like to thank the soldiers, both officers and rank and file, along with Anne-Cathrine Riebnitzsky, the adviser to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, whom I spent fourteen days with in Camp Price, in Helmand, in January 2009.
I had the opportunity to observe training in Oksbøl Camp before a deployment to Afghanistan in 2010. In 2013, I spent a day at Aalborg Barracks, where I was introduced to the army’s paramedic training. I am grateful for all the help I received in both places.
I would also like to thank the Guardian, which in 2014 provided insight into the psychology of both the hostage and the hostage taker.
I would also like to thank Nils Wang, Niels Christiansen, Hans Jørgen Bonnichsen, Niels Vistisen, Lars R. Møller, Erik Bo Bruhn, Jørgen Ejbøl, Peter Thorsøe, Samie Lemmike Petersen, Mai Eriksen, Henrik Koldborg Jepsen, Jesper Hour, Janus Metz, Kristina Stolz, Nikolaj Venge, Henrik Saxgren, Jan Grarup, Eva Arnvig, Jakob Svendsen, Frank Ledwidge, Matthew E. Hoh, Ben Anderson, Christian Kirk Muff, Kim Krogh, Morten Krohn, Niels Ivar Larsen, John Ørsdahl, Jesper Dirks, Frans Albertsen, and Alma Freiesleben.
I owe special thanks to Nagieb Khaja, Denmark’s undisputed expert on all things Afghanistan and an insightful reader and tireless partner in conversation. Mads Silberg, who contributed his own expertise as a veteran of the war and a soldier for more than twenty years, provided invaluable insigh
t into the war’s costs. In 2013, Anders Sømme Hammer was my experienced traveling companion for two intense weeks on Afghanistan’s highways; his journalism and our shared experiences inspired many of the book’s scenes. Hamidullah—our fixer, interpreter, and chauffeur—was also our guardian angel, and without him a lot could have gone wrong.
Janne Breinholt Bak and Johannes Riis were my tireless and conscientious editors at Gyldendal. Thanks also to Anne Skov Thomsen and Henrik Okkels for their fine detective skills. My incomparable jill-of-all-trades, Nanaki Bonfils, my indispensable agent, Anneli Høier, and my loyal Norwegian publisher, Håkon Harket, have never wavered in their enthusiasm.
There aren’t enough words to thank Liz. Everything I know about the art of fiction I’ve learned from you. Without your sharp eye, this book would be so much less; without your love and support, it wouldn’t even exist.
My dear Laura. You’re almost the same age as many of the novel’s characters. If I can take any pride in knowing them, even just a little, I owe it to you—your empathy, your constant enthusiasm, your willingness to challenge me, and the faith with which you have so generously invited me into your and your generation’s world.
My thanks go out to all of you.
About the Author
Photo © 2015 Isak Hoffmeyer
A leading literary figure in his native Denmark, Carsten Jensen is the author of the international bestseller We, the Drowned, which has sold more than half a million copies in twenty languages. As well as being an acclaimed novelist, essayist, newspaper columnist, and political commentator, Jensen has reported from war zones in the Balkans and Afghanistan. He has been awarded many prizes for fiction and nonfiction, including Denmark’s coveted Golden Laurel for the travelogue I Have Seen the World Begin, and Sweden’s prestigious Olof Palme Prize for his “work, in words and deed, to defend the weak and vulnerable in his own country as well as around the world.”
About the Translator
Mark Mussari has his PhD in Scandinavian languages and literature from the University of Washington in Seattle. He has translated Danish novels, short stories, and nonfiction, including Dan Turèll’s seminal crime novel, Murder in the Dark. A scholar of Danish literature, art, and design, he is also the author of Danish Modern: Between Art and Design and numerous educational books on subjects including Haruki Murakami, Amy Tan, Shakespeare’s Othello and sonnets, and popular culture.
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