The Woman from Bratislava (26 page)

The keeper on our line’s outermost flank released his dog. It was a big Danish pointer with a beautiful shaded dark-brown coat. It sprang away, its stubby docked tail quivering with excitement. It bounded across the clayey stubble-field with great, powerful strides, running diagonal to the hare. The hare seemed to sense this new threat. It hopped even faster, but I could see that it was in pain from its wounded foot. It changed direction. Everything happened very fast, and yet so slowly. I kept my eyes on the dog, counting the seconds and praying inwardly to God to save the hare, to give it the strength to run faster than the wind. But the Lord was not listening to me then either. The pointer caught up with the hare, but did not manage to bring it down right off. The hare stumbled and fell, got up again, somewhat unsteadily; the dog wheeled around, so excited by the chase that it almost lost its footing. But before the grey hare had time to build up any speed the dog had it by the throat and bit down. Until that morning I had not known that hares had voices. But this one uttered a
heartrending
cry, like the squeal of a scalded baby. The scream faded to a whimpering sigh and then there was silence.

The keeper stood for a moment. Everyone stood for a moment. Possibly no more than a couple of seconds, but it felt like an
eternity
. Then the keeper put his whistle to his lips and called his dog back. When one thinks of the changes in our lives that were set in motion on that day, the incident with the hare is really neither here nor there. Since then, though, it has occurred to me that my twelve-year-old self might unconsciously have felt that the hare’s agony foreshadowed my own. I am a rationalist, but one should never underestimate the subconscious. In that scream lay the germ of my own outward and inner pain, as well as relief from them through the insight the years would bring.

Because I remember it as if it was yesterday. The low, grey
clouds, the withered grass on the dyke, the black, wet, cold earth, the raindrops mingling with the tears on my cheeks, the beaters and the guns, facing each other like two armies, and the echo of the hare’s plaintive, agonised, stricken squeal, hanging like a shrill false note in the bitter autumn air.

ON THE NEXT DRIVE
we were quieter. The hare’s scream was still in our ears. The dog alone seemed pleased and happy after the praise given to it by the keeper when it brought him the mangled quarry. Were the guns, too, a little rattled perhaps? At any rate they showed more patience, waited for the game to come closer before shooting. I did not want to appear soppy or girly so I stepped out again, clapping my hands, like the boys on either side of me, but a couple of the bigger teenage girls were struggling to hold back the tears. It was odd, really. I don’t know why the dog’s kill affected us more than those made by the men. Could it be that we, in fact, ascribe to animals a rationality and goodness – a sort of inverse humanity – which they do not possess?

The last beat yielded only a single pheasant and a hare, then came our sausages and soft drinks. It cheered us up to reach the end and see the two maids from the big house standing beside the cart with the huge, steaming soup pot and baskets full of little hot-dog rolls with big jars of mustard alongside, as well as
homemade
ketchup in old white milk bottles. The guns stood in their own little group, some way apart from us in a clearing in the forest, where they were served sandwiches and beer and coffee laced with schnapps. They missed out on the firm, red frankfurters and the golden orange squash, which tasted wonderful in the keen, grey autumn air. Everything looked and smelled of autumn. The odour of rotting leaves mingled with the salty scent of the sea beyond the dyke. The clouds drifted in two layers over those yellow leaves which still clung to the trees. The big hardwoods in the forest were only waiting now for the first proper autumn storm. It had been threatening to rain all day, but only a few drops had fallen. Then
suddenly the sun broke through the clouds, the thick layer parting as though the Almighty had sliced through it with a bread-knife. Dad came over to Fritz and me and asked how we were doing. Were we warm and dry? Then he gave my arm a little squeeze, as if he understood that I was upset but knew that
I
knew that I could not let him or anyone else see it. Fritz was the younger of us two, but his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were shining. He was as tall as me and it was easy to see that he took after Dad. The keepers came over to tell us to finish off and get back into the wagon: it would be good if we could get in a couple more drives before lunch at one. We climbed aboard and Niels Ejnar drove us out to our new positions. We were happy as larks again by now and sang all the songs we could remember from morning
assembly
at school as we trundled along the rutted country lane. And so things continued until lunch.

We were in the lofty barn, sitting or standing around, eating our sandwiches and drinking lemonade, when Peter’s father arrived with the guest from Copenhagen. The barn smelled of oil and hay; all of the farm machinery had been hauled out apart from the old combine harvester which sat in a corner swathed in cobwebs and looking as though it had been wrapped in silk by some storybook fairy. Peter suddenly drew himself up tall and it was all he could do not to point. He was just about bursting with pride when, as if on cue, we kids all dashed out of the barn to admire the car. It was a long, low blue Buick with huge tail fins and a sweeping bonnet. Peter’s father drove slowly past the barn and us pop-eyed kids and up to the big house. The big, broad white-walled tyres scrunched over the gravel as it glided past an ancient oak tree and pulled up in front of the broad steps leading up to the big front door. The Count came out together with his wife, a skinny woman with jingling bracelets and red hair. The Count’s face was flushed from schnapps and the indoor warmth. He had taken off his jacket and stood there in his shirtsleeves. Broad braces held his trousers up over his narrow hips and small backside. Out of Peter’s Dad’s car
stepped the guest. He was a middle-aged, dried-out husk of a man with grey hair and wrinkled cheeks. He was in hunting garb:
dark-green
plus-fours and boots, three-quarter-length jacket and cap. The Count walked down a couple of steps and met him halfway. They shook hands and although I could not hear what the Count said it was clear that the newcomer was being warmly welcomed. Peter’s father stood a step or two below them, looking like a
conjuror
who had magicked this grand guest out of thin air. We children stood there gawping, awestruck by the whole scenario. Because here was a genuine celebrity. We had seen pictures of him in the paper, read about him and heard him on the radio. He was one of our country’s true heroes, a member of the Danish Freedom Council who had fought valiantly throughout those five dark years. He was also said to have shot several traitors personally. The liquidation of informers they called it on the radio. He did not look like a hero. He looked more like a rather timid bank clerk, or a schoolteacher. The sort that taught bible studies or geography and could deliver the odd clip round the ear without it mattering too much, because he did not hit very hard. You could not have told from looking at him that he had actually killed people – in cold blood, at that. Somehow I had thought that this would leave a mark, physically too, on a person, that they would be surrounded by a special aura of death and mutilation, but that was not the case. And at that point, of course, I did not know that Dad had probably witnessed more death and misery than all of the others present put together, and in all likelihood had also taken more lives. A thought which I still find hard to come to terms with: he seemed so normal. A perfectly normal baker dressed in white and enveloped in the scent of flour and pipe smoke.

The three gentlemen and the lady disappeared into the big house, the white double doors were closed behind them and we went back for a last piece of rye bread, a last drink of lemonade and the tea that had now been poured for us. The Count took pride in always doing well by his servants and his beaters. There was to
be no scrimping on the first big shoot of the year, as he said. We finished eating. We girls were chattering and larking about and the boys, desperate to show off, had just started playing freedom fighters and Germans in the big barn, when I saw Dad come down the steps from the house. His face was white as a sheet and his hands were shaking. He marched straight into the barn, grabbed me roughly by the arm and, in a cold and distant voice, asked me where Fritz was.

‘He’s playing, Dad,’ I said.

‘Get him!’

‘What is it, Dad?’

‘Just get him.’

‘You’re squeezing my arm. It hurts, Dad,’ I said.

He let go of my arm. For a moment I saw a strange look of
confusion
in his eyes, then his face became a pallid grey mask again. I raced off to the far end of the barn, where Fritz, armed with a stick for a Sten gun, was fighting a bunch of Germans into
submission
. The boys were making rat-a-tat-tat machine-gun noises and yelling at their adversaries that they were dead and ought to fall down. The Germans were dug in behind the combine harvester, which was doing duty as a bunker like the ones we had seen on the west coast of Jutland.

‘Fritz, come here.’

He made some shooting noises, threw an imaginary hand grenade at the Germans, then emitted a nasal whistle to imitate the swoosh of the grenade’s flight, followed by a boom.

I grabbed hold of him.

‘Dad says you’ve got to come!’

‘But I’m playing.’

‘Right now, he said!’

He could tell from my expression that I was upset. He lowered his stick and slouched after me. Dad was standing at the barn door, paying no heed to the other men or the other children. His mind seemed to be somewhere else. Most of the kids noticed nothing,
but I could see the keepers giving him looks. What was one of the gentlemen doing in the barn in the middle of the shooting party lunch? That was not the done thing at all. And why was he so pale? It was a pallor against which the black stubble of his beard stood out sharp and clear, despite the fact that he had given himself an extra close shave that morning before we left. I knew, because I had been allowed to whip up his shaving foam in the little bowl he kept for this purpose, before he scraped the bristles off his face, using a brand-new razor in honour of the occasion.

‘Come on,’ was all he said when I came back with Fritz in tow. He walked off ahead of us, taking such long, quick strides that Fritz and I had to half run to keep up with him as he headed towards the bread van. We climbed in beside him. He reversed and drove away. I could see now that Fritz was as shaken up as I was. We knew that grown-ups could often be unpredictable and that they were liable to sudden swings in mood, but we were not used to seeing a father with such a blank, white face and trembling hands. He drew hard on his cigarette and drove far too fast down the narrow roads, and I felt the tears welling up.

‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ I asked in a small voice.

‘Nothing. Now shut up!’ he shouted, and my tears began to fall.

‘Stop that snivelling!’ he snapped, so roughly that Fritz began to cry too because he, like me, had no idea what was going on. One minute we were part of the gang, with food and lemonade in our stomachs, while Dad was having a rare old time with the shooting party. The next we had been dragged away without any
explanation
. Dad had gone into lunch windswept and rosy-cheeked, with a wink at us and a remark that made the other gentlemen laugh. He had emerged again white as a sheet, his hands shaking.

‘Stop that snivelling, both of you!’ he shouted again, with real anger in his voice. The anger we knew from the rows he gave us if we did something wrong, or didn’t do as we were told, or were driving Mum up the wall with our rough-and-tumble games. He had never hit us, but we were scared of his wrath, which could
be so icy and fierce once he was provoked. So Fritz and I fought back the tears. As well as we could. We wiped the tears from our eyes and the snot from our noses and tried not to sniff any more than we could help, but he didn’t even seem to be aware of us any more, as long we stayed quiet. He just kept driving, with his white, stony face, smoking one cigarette after another. He smelled of beer and schnapps and very faintly of shaving lotion, but he was not drunk. He was simply in another world. When we pulled up outside the bakery Mum came out of the house with Teddy by the hand. They stood at the top of the broad flight of steps leading up to the front door. It was lovely to sit on those steps in the summer with my dolls when the sun was blazing down on the bakery and the village. At first Mum merely stared at Dad in surprise, but then she too turned pale.

‘What is it, Jørgen? Has something happened to the children?’ Mum asked.

But then she caught sight of us and breathed more easily. She noticed our red eyes, though, and I could tell that she was relieved and yet troubled.

‘Go up to your rooms!’ Dad said. ‘And take Teddy with you.’

‘Jørgen …’ my mother said. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Do as I say, dammit!’

I took Fritz by one hand and a howling Teddy, who did not want to let go of Mum, by the other and dashed up the stairs and into my room on the first floor, with a huge lump in my throat. I plonked my little brother on the bed, found a book and proceeded to read aloud to him. Teddy’s sobs soon subsided: he was quick to cry, but just as quick to smile again. Even though I was reading out loud I could still hear my parents’ voices down in the living room. First quiet, then louder, then shouting angrily and, eventually, my mother’s weeping and my father’s voice, sounding both angry and confused. As if he could have cried too, but that was not what men did. I don’t think I have ever – before or since – been so afraid. I was convinced that one of my parents was about to die. I have no
idea why. But that is what I thought. I read and read, oblivious to the words and their content. The reading kept the tears at bay. Not the fear, though. Deep in the pit of my stomach it gnawed away at me like a poisonous parasite.

After a while my mother appeared. We could see that she had been crying, but she had put on more make-up in an attempt to conceal this. Her eyes were swollen. She looked at us for a moment from the doorway and I stopped reading. We were huddled together on the bed, all three. Fritz and I were still in our beaters’ clothes, thick jumpers and all, but we were not sweating. If
anything
I was freezing. The only things we had taken off,
automatically
in the hall, were our boots. Wordlessly my mother came over and put her arms around us. She gave way to tears again, they streamed quietly down her cheeks. This prompted Teddy to utter a loud wail and at long last Fritz and I could let go and cry on Mum’s shoulder and into her nice apron, clinging tightly to her.

‘What’s wrong with Dad?’ I hiccupped after some time.

‘Later, Irma dear. Later!’

‘But what is it?’

‘Later. Everything’s going to be alright, Irma pet,’ she said in a strangely watery voice. At that my weeping subsided. I was well aware that to the grown-ups I was still just a silly little girl who did not have eyes in her head. But I felt let down: neither my mother nor my father thought it necessary to tell me why our lives should suddenly be turned upside down. Not until years later did I hear the whole story from Mum. But in the days following the shoot, what with the veiled remarks made by my mother and father and the changes at the bakery I was able to piece together most of the puzzle and gain a pretty clear picture of what had happened before we moved.