The Half Brother: A Novel

by Christensen, Lars Saabye

  Boletta sighed, threw a shawl over her shoulders, hurried through the apartment and began to climb the steep staircase.

  The Dove

  The door into the loft is open. It’s so still. Boletta can hear neither voices nor music from the town and the streets, nor even the wind that always makes the walls tremble, as if the whole block is shifting just a little each time it gusts. “Vera?” she calls. But no one answers. She goes along the corridor, past all the storerooms, drawing the shawls tighter around her. It’s drafty, but the wind is soundless. Bright dust shimmers down from the high beams under the roof. “Vera?” she calls again.

  Why isn’t she answering? Perhaps she’s sneaked off to Majorstuen. Impossible. Boletta laughs. As if Vera would sneak off! She’s probably just far away in dreamland again. And today of all days there’s no law against dreaming. Today one can forget and tomorrow remember exactly what one wants. Today one can do anything. Suddenly Boletta freezes. A stroller full of logs for the fire lies tipped over in front of her.

  She stops. “Vera?” Even the doves aren’t cooing. The quiet is twice as intense. The door to our drying loft is still trembling in its frame. And then she does hear a sound — a constant chafing sound, a buzzing, like a swarm of insects that is coming closer all the time but that is impossible to see. It’s this sound that she’ll never be able to forget. Boletta shoves the stroller to one side and runs the last part of the way to stop out of breath in the doorway. That’s how she finds her own daughter. Vera is squatting beside the clothes basket. In her lap she’s holding the newly washed dress, and she strokes it, over and over again, humming softly to herself all the time, as if some distorted tune has stuck fast inside her. Slowly Boletta goes over to her. Vera doesn’t look up. She stares at her own hands as they smooth the thin material, faster and ever faster. “What is it, Vera?”

  Vera just turns away, rubs her fingers over the blue dress. Boletta kneels in front of her daughter and presses her hand in Vera’s lap to make her stop what she’s doing. She was almost becoming annoyed and felt like shaking Vera, but this day of all days was not fit for being cross or for scolding. Instead she tries to laugh. “The Old One has found a bottle of Malaga behind all the Hamsuns, but she won’t drink it before she’s wearing her dress. Are you coming?” Vera turns slowly toward her mother and smiles. Her lips and whole face are twisted, her left cheek is all swollen. She has a cut on her temple, under her hair. But it’s her eyes that are worst. They are huge and clear, and they focus on nothing and nowhere.

  Boletta almost screams. “My dearest love. What on earth has happened?” Vera just hums. She tilts her head to one side and keeps humming. “Have you fallen? Did you fall on the stairs? My love, say something, Vera!” Vera closes her eyes and smiles. “Remember to let the dove out,” she says. Then Boletta realizes that the new dress is damp and sticky. She lifts her hand. Her fingers are dark with blood. “The dove? Which dove?”

  But Vera makes no answer. Vera, our mother, has withdrawn into silence and utters not another word for eight months and thirteen days. Remember to let the dove out, those are the last words she speaks. Boletta gazes up as the blood drips from her hand. The sun has long gone from the attic window. Instead shadow, like a pillar of dark dust, falls jagged through the room. And on the clothesline right above them the gray bird sits motionless.

  Boletta shakes her hand. “Good Lord! What have you done with all this blood!” Vera leans against her mother, who lifts her carefully and carries her through the corridor and down the stairs. Sheer terror has made Boletta, small soul that she is, strong and frantic. One of them is crying, or perhaps they both are, and Vera will not let go of the blood-drenched dress. The clothespins spill from her apron pocket with every step that her mother takes, and they lie strewn behind them. But it doesn’t bother Boletta; she can pick them up again when she goes to fetch the clothes basket, which is still in the drying loft. And I remember the bird we found inside the storeroom one night, Fred and I; a hard and dried-up dove, like a mummy with feathers, that time when Fred had bought himself a coffin and wanted to practice dying. But all that’s still far away.

  The Ring

  The Old One stood by the white sideboard in the pantry and poured equal measures — to the last drop — into three wide glasses, for Vera was old enough now to drink Malaga, indeed all those who had survived a world war deserved at least one Malaga. The smell of the dark, flowing flower of 1936 made her dream of Copenhagen’s harbors — decks of ships, sails, hawsers and cobbles — it was as if the mere scent of it could conjure up each image from her shadowy memories. The Old One thumped the table and wept a little for sheer joy This was a sorrowful joy! Underwear notwithstanding, she proposed three toasts — one to him who had been lost in the ice, one that she might never forget him, and one, finally, to peace and to the sun that shone upon it. Oh yes, it was a sorrowful joy! But sorrow was seldom joyful. Life wasn’t just top hats and slow waltzes. Life was also about waiting for those who never came back. And she drank that sorrowful joy and emptied her glass, then filled it exactly as before, and only then became aware of scuffling in the kitchen. She put the cork back in the bottle and saw Boletta coming toward her with Vera, who had fallen asleep in her arms like a little child. She could look like that too, on first glance. “Boil some water!” Boletta shouted. “Get vinegar and bandages!” The Old One lifted her glass and put it down again. “What on earth has happened?” “She’s bleeding! She won’t say anything!”

  Boletta carried her daughter into the bedroom and laid her down on the double bed. The Old One immediately got ready the largest pan with water and hurried after them. Vera lay with her eyes shut and her arms clasped tightly about the blood-stained dress. Her face looked more twisted than before. A blue shadow covered one cheek. Boletta sat by the edge of the bed and didn’t know what to do with her own hands. “I found her like this,” she breathed. “And she won’t speak! Not a single word!” “Hasn’t she said anything at all?” “The only thing she said was that I should let the dove out.” “What dove?” “The dove on the clothesline. There was a dove on it. What do you think she meant?” “She just meant you should let it out. The dove.”

  The Old One sat on the other side of the bed. She passed her hand carefully over Vera’s forehead and felt the warmth and dryness of her skin. Then she put two fingers against the girls thin, pale throat and felt, barely, the rhythm of her heart, slow and even. And the same sound came from far back in her mouth: a low, dark intoning that made her lips vibrate. Boletta could stand it no more. She pressed her hands over her ears. “She’s hummed like that ever since I found her.” “She isn’t humming. She’s cooing. Oh, Lord.” The Old One tried to take the dress from Vera but couldn’t manage. The girl’s hands were white, with three of the nails broken. “Shall we call the doctor?” Boletta whispered. “The doctor is bound to be here, there and everywhere today. Do you think it’s her monthly?” “So much blood isn’t possible!” The Old One looked at Boletta sharply. “Oh, don’t be so certain of that. We have more than enough blood.”

  They heard the water boiling in the kitchen, and while Boletta fetched the pan, the Old One rummaged for vinegar, camphor, cloths, iodine and towels. Carefully they lifted Vera, undid the knot of the apron on her back and softly laid her down once more. They took off her shoes and stockings, and unbuttoned her blouse, but when they once more attempted to wrest the dress from her grasp they found it as impossible as before. They had to use force; they had to pull away finger after finger, and even then they didn’t manage it. In the end the Old One took the scissors and cut the whole garment loose from the hem of the skirt right through the bloodied fabric, up to the collar and down the length of both arms. Now and again Vera opened her eyes almost as if trying to find out where she was, or to see what it was they were doing around her. But that lasted only a short while; thereafter she sank cooing into her own blue shadow. They pulled up her clothes and saw that her panties were bloody too. They removed everything,
and she no longer resisted at all. Boletta cried the more when she saw her own daughter like this on the huge bed; she was almost see-through in the dull glow from the chandelier above, and her hands kept searching for something, her fingers kept twisting into hard fists, as if they were still holding on to a blue dress that would never now be worn.

  After that they washed Vera with a sponge, pumice and brush — always using the mildest of soaps. They dried her then with the softest towels, changed the bedclothes, laid a greased poultice and a cloth sprinkled in vinegar on her cheek, and gave her three layers of towels just for safety’s sake. She was given hot tea and they let her wear the Old Ones Chinese nightdress. Vera wasn’t humming any more. Vera slept soundlessly, and even her hands finally let go of their hold and found their rest in silk.

  Then the Old One fetched her bottle of Malaga and two glasses, and sat down with Boletta. “Well celebrate peace indoors,” she whispered. They could still hear the rejoicing from Majorstuen to Jessenl0kken, from Tortberg to Bislet, St. Hans’ Hill and Blåsen. Now and again someone would fire off shots and windows were broken. But Vera never woke from her sleep.

  The Old One poured another round. Boletta drained her glass immediately. “I should never have let her go up there alone,” she mumbled. “What do you mean?” “I should have gone with her.” The Old One leaned closer so that her gray hair fell down over her face. She slowly pushed it away. “There weren’t any others up there? With her?” Boletta shook her head. “With her? What do you mean?” “You know perfectly well what I mean!” Boletta was on the point of shouting, but she stopped herself. “She was alone,” she said quietly. “But there could have been someone there before you arrived?” Boletta glanced at her mother. “Tomorrow we’re going to the hairdresser’s,” she suddenly announced. “All three of us.” The Old One giggled. “Speak for yourself. The two of you can go to the hairdresser’s if you want. But I’m not coming.” Boletta sighed. “Your hair is far too long. But just go on looking like a tramp. If that’s what you really want.” The Old One got worked up now. “I refuse to be dressed up like a dog’s dinner just because it’s the end of the war.” “And you’re shedding like a cat!” “Vera can put up my hair. When King Haakon comes home!”

  A thump against the window made them start yet again. The two of them were brittle and jumpy. Someone was standing outside throwing stones at the window. The Old One put down her glass on the bedside table, went over and opened the window a fraction. It was just some boys from the block. They had boutonnieres and Norwegian flags in their hands. They were cocky and friendly and invulnerable. They were looking for Vera. But the Old One had already raised a cautionary hand. “Vera isn’t too well,” she told them. “Besides, you’ve chosen the wrong window. Unless it’s me you want to go out with.”

  The boys down below laughed, and then ran on to other windows, other girls. Here and there between the tenements across the road bonfires burned — bonfires of blackout blinds. People came with them in their arms and threw them into the flames; the black smoke rose into the chill skies and stood like pillars to the left and to the right, and the smell was luscious, almost sweet, filled as it was with the heavy scent of new-flowering lilac. The evening sun made the asphalt glow, as if the whole town had been hammered from soft copper. And along Church Road there marched a battalion of young men in sportswear; they had guns over their shoulders and they were singing. Where had all these people come from? The Old One wondered at it all. And she thought to herself, War is silent, peace is loud.

  She shut the window and sat down by the bed again. “This is my second world war,” she sighed. “And it can be the last.” The Old One knocked three times on the wood of the bedpost. Boletta changed the cloth on Vera’s breast and gingerly lifted the nightgown to see if more blood had appeared, but the towels were still white and dry. “I just don’t understand how she hurt herself like this,” the Old One breathed. “She must have fallen,” Boletta said quickly. “Yes. You’re right in what you say. That she’s fallen.” Boletta leaned close, and when she spoke her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “Do you really think there could have been someone else there?” The Old One drank in the scent of the bottle and then looked away. “No, for who would it have been? It was you who said she was alone.”

  They talked thus, their voices low and anxious, back and forth, our great-grandmother and our grandmother, each with their glass of Malaga. And I somehow believe they never quite managed to get rid of the odor of that dark, sweet wine, and that when many years later I was allowed to lie there, either because I’d had a nightmare or else was pretending that I wasn’t well, I always breathed as deeply as I could and at once my head began swimming. Malaga was a memory that floated into my blood, and I dreamed tipsy dreams, and I loved those dreams, which washed through me in my tipsy sleep. But for now it was Vera, our mother, who lay there in vinegar and silk, as peace reigned outside. And sometimes I’m gripped by the thought of what would have happened it she had spoken then, if she had recounted what had taken place up in the drying loft — the rape? Then our story would have been otherwise. Perhaps it might never have been told at all; instead it would have gone down other roads that we would never, ever learn of. Vera’s silence is the beginning of our story just as all stories must begin with silence.

  Boletta moistens her lips with water. “Little Vera,” she whispers. “Has someone been bad to you?” But Vera makes no reply she only turns away and Boletta looks at the Old One instead. “I just can’t comprehend where all that blood has come from,’ she breathes. “Never has she bled like that. Such a tiny body!” The Old One is bent over and holds her empty glass with both hands. “When I heard that Wilhelm was to go to Greenland, I bled continuously for two days.” Boletta sighs. “I know, Mother.” The Old One smiles suddenly as if she has been reminded of something she’s almost forgotten. “And then he came to me the night before and stopped the bleeding. He was a sorcerer, Boletta.”

  Vera turned slowly in her sleep and they removed the poultice on her cheek. They saw that the swelling had gone down. She almost looked herself again. The Old One gently combed her hair with a wooden comb. “You’re right,” Boletta admitted. “It was all too much for her. Everything that’s happened. She hasn’t been able to cope with it.” “And little Rakel who’s gone,” whispered the Old One. “Imagine how Vera must miss her.” “Maybe she’ll still come back,” Boletta said quietly. “No. Don’t believe that. Don’t say that. May we not have any others to wait for here in this house.”

  And I still haven’t managed to tell you anything of Rakel’s story that began before this and is already over. Mom’s best friend, the dark Rakel, is dead in a mass grave in Ravensbrück, and no one will ever find or recognize her again, for she is lost in the anonymity of death. She has been wiped out by matter-of-fact executioners, genteel murderers who kiss their wives and children each morning before leaving for the offices of annihilation. Little Rakel, fifteen years of age, from the corner apartment on Jonas Rein Street, a threat to the Third Reich. They came for her and her parents in October 1942, but they were magnanimous and generous-hearted, and let her run across the yard in the rain and come up to say goodbye to Mom. “I’ll be back soon,” Rakel told her. “Don’t be afraid, Vera. I’ll be back soon.” Two girls, two best friends, in the midst of war: the one our mother, the other her best friend who has to leave. How much do they know? How much does she know? A raindrop runs down Rakel’s nose and Vera wipes it away and laughs, and for an instant its almost an ordinary goodbye. Rakel is wearing a brown coat her mother used to wear, which is far too big for her, and she has gray mittens that she hasn’t had a chance to remove. She doesn’t have time. They’re waiting for her, her parents and the police. She has a long journey ahead of her. The ship is called Donau. They hug each other and Vera thinks, as she says the words inside herself, Shell be back soon, that’s what she said, don’t be afraid. “Be careful,” Rakel whispers. “Say goodbye from me to Boletta and the Old One.�
�� “They’re out trying to find potatoes,” Vera smiles, and both of them laugh again. But suddenly Rakel lets go of her, takes off the mitten on her right hand, and tugs loose the ring on her middle finger to give to Vera. “You can borrow it until I come home again.” “Can I?” But Rakel changes her mind, just as suddenly. “No. You keep it!” “I don’t want to,” Vera replies at once. “Yes, you keep it!” “No,” Vera insists, stubbornly and almost angrily. “I don’t want to keep it.” Rakel takes hold of her hand and pushes the ring into place. “At least you can look after it for me then!” After that Rakel kisses her on the cheek and starts running back because there’s no time to lose; she’s off on a long journey and she mustn’t be late. And Vera stands in the kitchen wishing Rakel hadn’t given her the ring. She hears her quick feet going down the stairs, those small brown shoes taking step after step, and Rakel will never return. I remember something Mom said, and she repeated it often: It’s those footsteps I hear disappearing out of my life. I made those words my own. And sometimes I like to believe that Rakel is there at the edge of this story, or at the very core of my mother’s silence, watching us, sorrowful and merciful.

  The Old One put the cork back in the bottle. “So you think I look like a tramp, do you,” she said. Boletta was packing the ruined clothes in paper and tying the parcel with string to banish it to the back of the closet. “I only said that all three of us could go to the hairdresser’s,” she sighed. “You said that I looked like a tramp!” “Vera and I can go ourselves. If you don’t want to.” “Oh, go to the hairdresser’s then, and tart yourselves up now the war’s over.”