This meant nothing to Alfred, but he stayed silent, while his mother pushed a pin in here, and a pin in there, and told him how one hundred years ago, the island began to grow increasingly cold, and when there had been three hard winters in succession, so hard that no plants could grow and no animals reproduce, Valdís Jónsdóttir, Alfred’s grandmother, had travelled to Germany. It was here, thirty-six years ago, that Freyja was born.
Freyja had been Emil’s age when she first heard the voices. ‘I was frightened, of course. My mother hadn’t told me of them, because nobody knows beforehand who will be chosen. But one day, she heard me talking to them, and she explained to me what I am now telling you.’ She paused to restock the pincushion she wore strapped to her wrist. ‘One of the sisters, the youngest, can be a bit silly,’ she continued. ‘Excitable. But I think you will like her. The eldest, well, she’s never silly. But if you treat her with respect, she will guide you. You can – and you should, Alfred – rely on the advice she gives you. She knows much about the future, and what is owed to the past.’
She stopped talking for a moment and stepped back to align the legs of Alfred’s shorts.
‘And the middle sister. Hmm. Clever, I’d say. A little impatient. She’s never wrong. But she may get quite angry if – ’
Only ever for good reason, Freyja.
Freyja put hands on her hips. Her eyes darted to the left. ‘Yes, if you would please let me finish.’ Then she looked back at Alfred. ‘You may find them distracting or inconvenient at times, but you must never resist them or be afraid of them. They will protect you, if you let them. If not . . . ’ she lowered her voice, ‘well, let’s just say I’ve heard stories. That the spirits of those killed in the mists rise up, angry and vengeful.’ She paused and shook her head slightly. ‘But those are just stories.’
Alfred ignored the worried undertone in her voice. Although there was much he didn’t understand, her stories were like a fairy tale in which he himself was a prince of sorts. He imagined riding across the country on one of von Markstein’s fine horses, the reins in his left hand and a raised sword in his right, fighting chieftains and their savage warriors.
‘There,’ Freyja said as she slid the final pin into place. ‘You can take them off now.’
Alfred climbed off the chair reluctantly. He would have liked to listen to his mother’s stories all day. But instead, she took the shorts off him and sat down.
‘Alfred,’ she said, taking his hand in hers. ‘Listen to me now. Carefully. You are so very, very young to be hearing them. It is best not to tell anyone else about the voices, do you hear? Many people will not understand; they will think you are mad, or bad, or both. Tell only those you know you can trust.’
‘Like Papa?’
‘Yes. But – ’ Freyja shot a glance towards the door. ‘Papa knows that I can hear the voices, and he understands. But perhaps it’s best if you don’t tell him that you can hear them too.’ She tried to smile, but Alfred could tell it was an effort. ‘So he doesn’t have to worry.’
She got up, smoothed her apron down and went over to check on Marie, who was now making kitten-like mewing noises. She turned to Alfred who was still standing next to the chair: ‘Go on, outside. Maybe you can help Johanna beat the rugs. They’re absolutely filthy, you know.’
Alfred crossed the kitchen, but paused as he reached the back door.
‘Mama?’ he asked.
‘Yes?’
‘Can I tell God?’
Freyja sighed; it was a weary, heavy sigh. ‘By all means,’ she said, lifting Marie out of the cradle. ‘Tell your god. If you ever meet him.’
Alfred went through the rest of the day as though he were hovering several inches off the ground. His head was filled with a stream of excited chatter – the youngest of the voice-sisters, Alfred surmised – and because his daily chores inevitably involved being around one or other of his family members, he had to take some care not to answer back or tell her to be quiet. But as he wasn’t a particularly loquacious boy at the best of times, this he managed fairly well. In fact, the hovering feeling lasted well into his first weeks and months at the village school, where he – in contrast to Johanna and Emil – very much enjoyed going every day. It was perhaps Alfred’s good fortune that the previous schoolteacher – a man with a lust for humiliating and beating his pupils – had suffered a minor stroke during the summer holidays, and had now reduced his workload to teaching (and torturing) only the older children. Unfortunately for Emil and Johanna, they were now in grades four and five, and thus among the older pupils at the school. They were to suffer another two years of Herr Münzenstätter’s cruelty.
But Alfred’s teacher, Fräulein Walter, was kind and warm-hearted, and readily quenched her pupils’ thirst for knowledge, including Alfred’s. He loved school, loved the sound of chalk on blackboard, the smell of Fräulein Walter’s soap when she leaned over to check his homework, the praise he garnered almost daily as a result of his good, quiet behaviour. And when the voices came to him every now and again, their sound was by now so familiar to Alfred that he no longer responded with a surprised ‘What?’ when one of them called his name. He had incorporated their existence into his life quite comfortably, and even came to rely on their advice when it came to choosing the best nooks and crannies in the schoolyard when he played hide-and-seek, or waiting until exactly the right moment for Fräulein Walter to turn her back so that he could perform addition using his fingers, rather than mentally. Occasionally, the voice-women used words or phrases he didn’t understand, but these he merely ignored with a shrug, intuitively aware that he would grow into understanding more and more.
Sadly, this life that Alfred would gladly have lived forever wasn’t to last. Over the course of the next two years, many things happened very quickly: the people elected a new leader, this leader declared himself omnipotent and proceeded to lead his people on a course of action so heinous as to shame them for many decades to come. Fritz von Markstein, Karl Werner’s employer and landlord, had for a long time deplored the impotence that had characterised his country for the past fifteen years – a weakness that, in von Markstein’s opinion, resulted directly and unequivocally from the forces of democracy and socialism. Naturally, he adored and applauded this new, strong, ruthless leader who promised to create the empire to end all empires, and readily signed up – like a million other Germans – for membership of the National Socialist Party. He quickly rose to Ortsgruppenleiter, giving him a range of powers that included the assessment of the racial and political reliability of the citizens living within his municipality.
Although she had held German citizenship since her marriage to Karl, Freyja Werner had foreign roots and was thus subject to such an assessment. One day in October 1934, she received a letter summoning her to attend a formal interview and physician’s examination to ascertain her racial purity.
‘This is preposterous,’ Karl said, stamping his mud-caked boots at the kitchen door before entering. The children were already assembled at the table, waiting for their father to sit down to supper. ‘Von Markstein knows very well who you are.’
Freyja spooned a ladleful of vegetable stew onto each child’s plate and then wiped her hands on her apron. Her belly was ever so slightly swollen; none of the children had guessed yet, and Freyja and Karl had planned to tell them at Christmas. ‘He’s just a big bully, that’s all,’ she said, and winked at the children. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
But her cheerfulness was obviously a pretence. Alfred could tell from the crease between her eyebrows, and he sat there, spoon in hand, waiting for his voice-women to speak some words of comfort, as they so often did when he was feeling anxious or confused. However, unusually, none came.
‘He’s more than a bully,’ Karl said darkly and took his seat at the head of the table. ‘It’s just not right. I’ve never liked the man, that’s true, but I’ve always shown him respect and courtesy. So how dare he – ’
‘Shush now, Karl. I do no
t wish to discuss this at the dinner table.’ Freyja sat down with Marie on her lap and turned to her oldest daughter. ‘Johanna,’ she said, passing her a loaf of bread, ‘please cut the bread. And make sure your father’s is a big slice; he’s been mending fences all day. On his own. He’ll have quite an appetite.’
Karl took a slice from Johanna and dipped it into his stew. ‘And you know why I’m working alone, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Because he made me get rid of Friedberg and Kaminski. Without notice, just like that. It’s a disgrace.’ He ripped a chunk of bread off with his teeth, chewed noisily and swallowed. ‘I don’t like it, Freyja.’
‘But they’re Jews,’ Emil said brightly, as though in sudden possession of a unique insight. ‘They were probably stealing. Fritz says his mother caught their maid Elli stealing bread from the pantry. And she’s a Jew. Herr Münzenstätter says you can’t trust them further than you can – ’
Before he could finish, Karl stood up, reached across the table and struck his son across the face. Fortunately for Emil, the table was fairly wide, which reduced the strength of Karl’s blow.
‘Karl!’ Freyja exclaimed.
Karl had never struck any of his children before. He stood white and shaking, gripping the edge of the table. Emil held his hand to his cheek where his father had hit him. His lips were tightly pressed together, and from the way his mouth curved downwards, it was clear that he was trying very hard not to cry.
When Karl spoke, his voice was trembling. ‘You will not speak that way ever again in this house, do you hear me?’
Emil nodded, but held his father’s eye.
Karl looked around the table. ‘None of you will ever speak that way.’
Alfred and Johanna immediately shook their heads.
‘No, Papa,’ Johanna said.
Alfred looked at his mother. She was staring at the left hand corner of the ceiling. From her unfocused gaze, though, Alfred realised that she was, in fact, listening. He then also opened his hearing, but there was nothing. After a few moments, Freyja looked back down at her plate and shook her head. It appeared to Alfred as though she too had waited in vain to hear the voices.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence.
A week later, early in the morning, Freyja – uncharacteristically melancholic, hugging her children every few minutes and releasing a waterfall of pet names – wrapped bread and butter sandwiches for Alfred and Emil and sent them off to school. Johanna was to remain at home to look after two-year-old Marie, while Freyja and Karl cycled to the nearby town of Löwenberg, where the interview was to take place. The route from the estate to the town was arduous: their trip took them through the forest, across fields and along ditches. It was hard cycling, but they had travelled this way many times before, dismounting to cross streams and stiles, pushing bicycles up muddy inclines, until they reached the main road. Here they were able to pick up some speed, Karl ahead of Freyja, and the strong headwind they were cycling into was also clearing the sky of clouds, so that after a few minutes of reaching the road, a plump yolk of a sun was warming their faces. Karl slowed down a little to let Freyja catch up and held out his hand.
‘D’you remember?’ he called out as she reached out and grabbed his hand.
‘How could I forget?’ she answered. It was the way they had cycled, hand-in-hand, thirteen years ago to inform Freyja’s parents that Karl had proposed marriage and she had accepted.
They cycled on in silence. It was the first time they had been out alone since Marie was born two years ago, and Freyja was almost grateful for this opportunity, imposed by von Markstein, for her and Karl to feel like young lovers again. Just this once more, before the end. As they reached a curve in the road, Karl squeezed her hand to indicate that they should decelerate. They both softly engaged their pedal brakes, still holding hands. Freyja smiled at Karl, and at that very moment heard a chorus of wails inside her head so despairing it made her skin crawl, at that moment looked ahead and saw a truck coming around the bend at high speed towards them, at that moment felt the love for her children and her husband rise up to cover her like a blanket, and she died on impact with the truck, feeling blissfully happy and profoundly sad at once. Karl survived, unconscious, until his arrival at hospital, where he was pronounced dead on the grounds of severe internal bleeding and a fractured skull.
Day One
It was early evening when we arrived at the hospital, some three hours after I’d first met Alfred at the train station. After a very agitated neighbour had informed us, three flights up on the way to Brynja’s flat, that there had been a terrible, tragic accident and that the ‘poor, poor young woman had been scraped off the pavement and taken to the nearby Vivantes Clinic’, it suddenly hit me that I was momentarily responsible for a helpless, possibly confused elderly gentleman.
The taxi was still warm and waiting downstairs. We reached the hospital less than five minutes later; it was indeed just a few streets away. There was a brief moment of awkwardness between Alfred and me when I handed the driver a fifty euro note – more than enough to get me home and back – exposing my earlier statement about a lack of funds for the lie it was, but neither of us dwelled on it.
We entered the accident and emergency department though a set of sliding glass doors and were immediately beset by the visual and auditory (not to mention olfactory) disarray that is typical of any urban A&E at this time of year. But I quickly focused on the task in hand and looked around to see if there was someone who might be able to provide some information as to Brynja’s whereabouts. A few hospital staff were buzzing around the place, but they were stubbornly avoiding eye contact with anyone.
Then Alfred spoke. ‘I know. I heard you the first time.’
‘Pardon me?’ I said.
‘Yes, that’s quite obvious, even to an aged fool like me,’ he continued.
I looked at Alfred; there were people milling about either side of him, but he didn’t seem to be addressing any of them, nor me. Instead, he was gazing, slightly unfocused, into the middle distance.
‘Are you all right, Alfred?’ I asked.
He blinked rapidly. ‘What? Yes, quite.’ Then he seemed to notice my expression. ‘Oh goodness, have I been talking out loud?’
I laid a hand on his arm. The place seemed to be getting noisier by the minute. ‘Listen, would you like to sit down for a moment? I can try and find out about your granddaughter’s whereabouts and then come and fetch you.’
Alfred placed his hand on top of mine, gave it a gentle squeeze and shook his head. ‘No, I am perfectly fine,’ he said. ‘But this is not where we will find Brynja. She is on the second floor, in the intensive care unit.’
I paused, trying to recall the conversation with Brynja’s neighbour, thinking I had perhaps missed this piece of information, but drew a blank. The neighbour had only mentioned the hospital, not any specific department.
‘Well, perhaps I should ask someone anyway,’ I said and set off towards the long queue at the admissions desk. But Alfred didn’t follow me.
‘No, no. She’s upstairs,’ he said, and then turned and walked off towards the lifts. I had no choice but to go after him. The lift door opened onto a corridor leading to the ICU. A nurse was sitting on guard behind a counter, stapling small piles of paper together in a very self-important manner.
‘Yes?’ she asked without looking up from her stapling as Alfred and I approached.
‘We’re looking for a young woman,’ I said. ‘She was brought here after an accident. Brynja . . . ’ I looked to Alfred, realising that I didn’t know her last name.
‘Warner,’ Alfred said. ‘Same as mine.’
The nurse looked up at me. ‘And are you a relative?’
I shot a glance at Alfred. ‘No. I . . . I’m a friend of the family.’
‘Yes, Julia is a friend of the family,’ Alfred repeated. ‘I’m Brynja’s grandfather, Alfred Warner. We would like to see Brynja, please.’
It was the first time I’d heard Alfred speaking
more than a single word in German (the conversation with Brynja’s neighbour had been pretty much a one-sided outburst on her part), and I was surprised by his fluency. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might be German.
‘Very well,’ the nurse said, ‘please wait here. I’ll have to call ahead. They can’t just be letting random people into ICU.’
She typed something into her computer and then picked up the telephone.
‘Come on, Alfred,’ I said as she began a muted conversation, which I wasn’t sure was actually related to Alfred and me wanting to visit a patient on the ICU. ‘Let’s take a seat over there.’
I pointed to a row of chairs lined up against a wall. The old man looked exhausted. I checked my watch. It was quarter to seven.
‘Shall I get us something to eat?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps a snack from the vending machine?’
Alfred sat down and seemed to collapse into himself; his head sunk into his neck and his upper body appeared to shrink. He looked very young and very old all at once. With his head down, he glanced from side to side as though scanning the floor for an answer.
‘Wait here,’ I said, before he had found one. ‘I’ll be back in no time.’
It took me less than ten minutes to find the canteen, buy us a couple of sandwiches and two bottles of water and get back to the ICU waiting area. Alfred was sitting as I had left him, staring down at the linoleum. It struck me that perhaps he hadn’t even noticed my absence.
I took a seat next to him. ‘Here,’ I said, handing him a sandwich.
Alfred took it from me and unwrapped it silently. He held it in his lap for a minute or two and then said, ‘I’ve never even met her.’
His voice was soft and apologetic, and he looked sorely in need of a hug. But suddenly, the guardian of the ICU was upon us to admonish us for eating in an area that was labelled ‘NO FOOD OR DRINK. NO SMOKING. NO USE OF MOBILE PHONES’ somewhere at the far end of the corridor, and also to tell us that we may enter ICU once we had disposed of said food and drink.
The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days Page 5
