The Courier

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  Ester looks down. When she lifts her head her voice is barely audible. ‘There were so many of us who had to make a sacrifice in those years, Gerhard.’

  A chilly smile lurks at the corner of his mouth. ‘Is this the moment to play the Jewish card? Come on. Let’s see if it works.’

  She swallows and remains quiet.

  ‘I can be nice now and go back to the start,’ he says. ‘Let’s do that, as an experiment. You know just as well as I do that my hell started when Åse’s heart stopped beating. So the question is quite simply: who would Åse have opened the door to? Who would she have let in? Who would she have sat drinking with – apart from you and me?’

  Ester looks away. She has no answer to this question; it’s one she has asked herself innumerable times.

  ‘The world’s different now,’ she says at length. ‘You’re different. We’re different.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Gerhard stands up in front of her. ‘Imagine me hearing you say that! The representative of a people who have sought revenge every single day since peace came. What did you say in May when Israel occupied East Jerusalem and the West Bank?’

  ‘Israel may have made a mistake there, but the fact is that the war started because Egypt blocked the bay of Aqaba and wanted to starve us out.’

  He grins. ‘Us? Aren’t you a Norwegian? Do you have a problem distinguishing between nations and causes?’

  ‘I have a son who risked his life in that war.’ Ester can feel she has had enough of this conversation. ‘If you want to talk Middle-East politics, then Sverre Fenstad’s your man. He’s on the board of the Israeli Committee of Norway. But since you asked: I discovered here in Norway during the war what it’s like to be Jewish, and that experience will stay with me forever. I don’t give a shit what you or anyone else thinks about that.’

  ‘And I have no illusions about you understanding this, Ester. And I don’t give a shit whether you do or you don’t, because I’ve waited for more than twenty years.’

  ‘What have you waited for?’

  Now he finally reveals the smile she remembers. But she views it with resignation; it is a smile filled with contempt. His smile has always been like this, she thinks. I just hadn’t noticed it until now. He turns his back on her and goes up the steps to the bridge.

  She watches him. When he is halfway up, she shouts: ‘Gerhard!’

  He stops and turns round.

  ‘You’ve thought a lot during these years, haven’t you?’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I came here to find out who died on that Friday,’ she says. ‘I wanted to meet you to find out where you went and why it ended between us the way it did. I can understand you’re bitter and don’t want to open up to me. That’s your business. But I could never fathom how anyone could state that the remains they found were yours. For me you’ve always been alive.’

  He eyes her frostily. Then throws up his arms as if he were on a stage. ‘And how do I compare with what you’ve imagined all these years?’

  She sighs and studies her shoes. Searching for the right words, but she says them inside her head: right now, not too well.

  She turns away, leans against the railing and watches the ducks swimming around in the pond below.

  The sound of footsteps tells her he has gone.

  Stockholm, December 1942

  1

  Ester hasn’t been asleep long when she opens her eyes. The first thing she notices is that she is alone in the bed.

  She can make out Gerhard’s silhouette against the window. He is smoking a cigarette. And looking out. When he inhales, the glow brightens and reveals the profile of his face against the glass.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘So you’re awake?’ he says without turning from the window.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  Now he turns to her. Smiles weakly, stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the window sill and comes over. He lies down. His body is still warm. They lie in a spoon position. She snuggles up against his back. Placing her knees in the back of his. She flops an arm over his waist and breathes into his neck.

  In her dream she is in the same room as her mother and Ada. The two of them are sitting at the table and are in conversation. Ester talks to her mother, and every time her mother sends back an affectionate look, then she turns to Ada so as not to miss what her neighbour has said. Ester can’t hold her mother’s attention; she becomes desperate. So desperate, she wakes up.

  As soon as she opens her eyes she sees that Gerhard has gone. The duvet has slipped onto the floor. She is lying there naked and she is cold. She pulls the duvet back over herself and tries to warm up again. Lies on her side, thinking about the dream and feeling that it was about Åse, even though she wasn’t present in it. Åse is dead. Life is now. What has happened is Gerhard, and it feels right.

  What happened in this room a few hours ago also seems like images from a dream. She lies looking at the door in the gloom as her mind moves in a different direction. Where is he? The green light from the sign on the wall outside casts a dim reflection of the window pane on the floor. One of her boots lies upturned in the pale light.

  Ester can’t get warm. She gets out of bed. Goes to the window. Looks out as she buttons up her blouse. The traffic below shows that a new day is well under way. She looks down at her finger. He forced a ring onto it. She tries to remove it. The ring is stuck. That, too becomes a kind of symbol that makes her smile.

  She glances over at the metal bed. Now she is wide awake. Going back to bed wouldn’t be right. She puts on her stockings. Then the rest of her clothes. Opens the door. Tiptoes to the bathroom in the corridor. It is free. She has a pee. Washes. She goes back to the room. Walks to the wardrobe with the clothes hangers. His coat has gone. Ditto his boots. Gerhard has gone out into the winter weather. Why? To meet whom? Why didn’t he say anything before leaving?

  Ester searches for her wristwatch. It has fallen under the bed. She winds it up and closes the link around her wrist. It is still early. The shops haven’t opened. But she has to go now if she is going to get to the training session with Markus before work.

  She takes a pen and some paper from her bag. Scribbles a note for him. Looks down at the words, which seem childish. She scrunches up the note. Puts it into her bag. Instead she takes out a lipstick. Goes over to the mirror above the little sink and, in red, draws a big smile and two eyes. Then she leaves Hotel Sirena. Wrapped up in her winter coat, long scarf and thick mittens. She takes the staircase down. She emerges and walks to the market square. It is freezing cold. She has to find a tram going to Östermalm.

  2

  The ladies’ cloakroom is empty and this early in the morning it is quite cold. Ester hangs up her things on one of the many free hooks, unlocks her cabinet and changes into the training kit hanging there. Ties up her hair with elastic bands and hairgrips.

  The gymnasium is as cold as the changing room. And here, too, there is a stench of stale sweat. She and Markus are alone, as usual this early. They train here three times a week. Run through the schedule Markus has drawn up and she thought initially she would never manage to complete. First off: warm-up with light jogging round the perimeter for ten minutes.

  As she runs into the gym she tries to get the ring off her finger again. It is still stuck.

  Markus is already there. He has laid out the mats and apparatus.

  He asks where she has been.

  She doesn’t answer.

  He says he dropped by hers on the way.

  She says she left earlier today. She starts jogging to avoid more questions.

  He follows her.

  But the atmosphere is strained and quiet now. He runs past her. In front of her now, he runs backwards and looks her in the eye. She looks down and keeps running. Hides the ring as well as she can in her fist.

  For the first time they go through their programme in silence. This is circuit training with apparatus. They do abdominal curls on the wall bars,
arm pulls on the beam, climbing on the ropes, two minutes’ skipping with a rope, arm pulls on the rings, back stretches over a box with their feet tucked under the lowest wall bar, then finish with a minute’s plank on the mat. The first time she did the programme she was close to throwing up afterwards. Today she manages five beam lifts; yesterday she managed only four.

  After they have finished, they are both sweaty and out of breath. Markus still isn’t talkative. However, the atmosphere feels a little lighter. She tells herself she has to do what she feels is correct. Markus has no right to know what she thinks and how she feels. No one has a right to know.

  When she goes to the changing rooms to shower, Markus asks if she wants to go along to the combat training.

  Ester hesitates. She is unsure whether this is for her.

  ‘Just to see,’ Markus says. ‘There’s a really good Englishman. Brian Pankhurst.’

  Ester looks at her watch.

  ‘You’ve got the time,’ Markus says.

  Ester says yes because it might lift his oppressive mood.

  They have to go down a long corridor to reach the right training room.

  Markus opens the door. They sneak in.

  ‘We just want to have a look,’ Markus whispers to the man at the door.

  They aren’t alone. A line of ten to fifteen men in training gear are sitting on low benches alongside the wall bars.

  The instructor is on the mat. Brian Pankhurst is the Englishman she has seen on the shooting range – and with Gerhard. He is wearing glasses and his hair is slicked back. He is not in a training outfit. But he is bare-legged. He is wearing a white singlet and dark shorts with a sharp crease. Right now he is holding a pointed knife in his hand. He speaks slowly in English. Tells them the dagger is the most effective murder weapon. ‘Never let the dagger rest even when you’re resting,’ he says, tossing it from one hand to the other while speaking.

  He wants a volunteer to come to the mat. A fair-haired man in his twenties gets up. The Englishman shakes his head. ‘Someone bigger, taller.’ He points to the man sitting next to him. This guy stands up slowly. He is a giant, almost two metres. He trudges onto the floor and smiles sheepishly at the others, who are cheering him on.

  ‘When you lunge try to come from behind,’ the Englishman says, and in one gliding step he is behind the giant. The giant doesn’t have time to turn. Pankhurst grabs the giant’s hair, yanks his head back, with the point of the dagger pressed into his spine. The giant’s body is arched backwards. He can’t move. All he thinks about is avoiding the dagger.

  Ester imagines what could happen next and feels nauseous.

  Pankhurst speaks again. In a dry, hoarse voice he says this move reduces any opponent to your height and weight.

  Markus and Ester exchange glances. Markus grins. She can see that Markus likes the Englishman’s self-assurance and authority. But most of all she is happy to see that Markus appears to have dropped the sulks about her not being at her flat this morning. And once again her thoughts are back with Gerhard. Where did he go? Where is he now? What is he doing? And what is he up to with the man on the mat?

  She fiddles with the ring. It slides off without a problem. Suddenly she sees this as a bad omen and goes cold all over.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Markus whispers.

  ‘Nothing.’ She hides the ring in the pocket of her track suit.

  She looks up. The next lesson is about unarmed combat. Pankhurst tells the giant to attack him. Now the guy has something to avenge. He rushes at Pankhurst. Seconds later he is on the mat writhing in pain.

  Markus grins again. Ester is still thinking about Gerhard and the eternal moment yesterday, then she shakes off the memory and concentrates on what is happening on the mat.

  Pankhurst pulls the giant to his feet and goes through his moves in slow motion. With gentle movements, no power behind the punches this time, though. Like ballet steps, Ester thinks.

  ‘First off,’ the Englishman says, ‘you hit the opponent’s forearm hard. Then, you raise your hand to strike again – and change the angle.’

  He shows how he chopped the side of his hand into the giant’s face.

  ‘To the throat or face,’ Pankhurst shouts, demonstrating again. ‘Practise on yourself,’ he says, showing how you can perform the punches on your own head and arm.

  Another lesson. Pankhurst wants another volunteer. No one moves. He points to the fair-haired man. ‘Your turn.’

  The fair-haired man hesitates. ‘Me?’

  Soon he is standing on the mat, facing Pankhurst. They eyeball each other. But it is the Englishman who takes the initiative. He stamps on the fair-haired man’s foot. The latter screams in pain and grabs hold of the Englishman, who keeps his hands down by his sides. But a second later he flings up his arms, spins round and he has the fair-haired man on his knees, then he delivers a chop to the throat.

  Brian Pankhurst carries on. Explaining the benefit of combining a kick in the opponent’s crotch with a punch. At first the opponent doubles up. The kick can then be followed up by a hard chop to the chin.

  Ester yawns. She is struggling to follow this.

  ‘Now you can practise on each other,’ Pankhurst says. The men in training gear around them stroll over to the mattresses. Ester becomes aware of the man’s gaze. ‘Come on,’ he says, pointing to Ester and Markus. ‘You, too.’

  Ester holds up both palms. She wants to go.

  ‘In an hour,’ Pankhurst says, looking at his watch. ‘The other girls are coming then. There’s a place for you too.’

  Fagernes, November 1967

  1

  The timbered house is coming towards her. A white Swiss-style house. Ester is fascinated once again by how concentrating on a limited part of the world gives you a false picture of what is actually happening. Soon the house is still. The train has stopped at Fagernes station. She waits until the passengers in the greatest hurry have left and there are no longer queues at the exits. Then she stands up. Grabs her shoulder bag from the seat and the wrapped bunch of flowers from the rack above the window. Gets off the train and makes a beeline for the taxis. Her shoulder bag bangs against her hip. The air seems more raw and chilly than in Oslo. On the opposite side of the station there are two taxis. The first is a black Mercedes. The driver is nowhere to be seen. She waits. A door in the station building opens and an elderly man rushes out. He opens the rear door for her. She slides in.

  She says she is going to Ulnes church.

  The driver looks at her in the rear-view mirror. Asks her if she has got the wrong day.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There are no funerals there today.’

  ‘I’m only going to lay flowers.’

  ‘I had to ask. I suppose you’d like to come back afterwards?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘If it’s convenient, I can wait.’

  She thanks him.

  They drive along Strande fjord. It is a clear day, but November has already cast a little shadow over the daylight. The mountains are reflected in the water. Autumn has advanced further here than in Oslo. Even though the trees have little foliage here in the lowlands, the colours across the mountainsides are still dark and solid.

  The church stands on a little mound by the water. The taxi drives into the car park and stops.

  Ulnes church is built of stone and has a central spire and a slate roof. Medieval, Ester thinks, getting out of the car. The annexes on the sides are of a more recent vintage and built of wood. The cemetery is surrounded by a low wall.

  She walks into the cemetery and starts searching systematically between the lines of graves. She follows the wall down the gentle slope to the water. Reading the names on every grave. Then she turns and takes in the next line of inscriptions.

  The shiny pate of the taxi driver is visible above the top of the wall. He is smoking a cigarette.

  She walks down the next line, reading the names on the gravestones. Turns at the wall and goes up the line after that.r />
  There are two heads over the wall now. The taxi driver is talking to a man.

  She walks down again, along the next line. On her way up this time she can no longer see the driver. The black Mercedes is returning to Fagernes. She stands for a few seconds, watching the car as it disappears around a bend, then she continues up towards the church, turns round again and goes down to the wall.

  At last.

  Åse Lajord 14.9.1919 – 30.10.1942. Much loved – deeply missed.

  It is a wide headstone, a family grave. Åse is at repose with her mother and father. Ester unpacks the roses and places the bouquet against the headstone. Stands up and folds the paper. Tucks it under her arm and reminisces. She can see her friend as a little girl. Running between the houses on the summer mountain farm in high boots far too big for her feet. The little girl turns and smiles, and at that moment Ester gives a start. A man has grabbed her arm.

  2

  Ester has to hold onto a gravestone to stop herself falling. She looks into Gerhard’s face.

  ‘How does it feel?’ he says.

  ‘How does what feel?’

  ‘Being spied on.’

  Gently, she frees her arm and tries to recapture the mood she was in.

  ‘The police came for me this morning at the hotel,’ he says.

  She gives up. ‘You’re here now, though,’ she says.

  ‘Two uniforms. One on each side. The whole stupid spectacle, down the corridor, into the lift and past the lobby and other hotel guests. Onto the back seat of a ridiculous VW Beetle with blue flashing lights on the roof. They wanted to see my passport and plane tickets. They could’ve examined them at the hotel, but they wanted to bully me. At the police station they spent two hours studying my papers. Afterwards, no apology, just a kick up the ass – out, no explanation. When I asked what I’d done wrong, they told me to shut my mouth.’