Opperman put his hands on his stomach: “Yes, that war, it cost many young lives, Frederik. That is certain.”
Opperman had tears in his eyes. He pushed a glass across to Frederik and filled it. His voice was forced: “We must accept it with patience, Frederik,” he said. “We must gather strength to bear our suffering, like all other people in this war. Think of people hit in air raids everywhere, no homes, cold, hungry, dreadful.”
Opperman loosened his tie and opened his shirt. He was sweating. “Oh, dreadful,” he repeated. “And naturally I not sleep this night. Just lie thinking of that ship, of Ivar dead, dreadful.”
He seated himself and took a great gulp from his glass, then sat staring at the floor for a moment. The delicate wrinkles on his forehead made him look like a melancholy old woman.
But suddenly he got up. A smile was dawning around his eyes. He raised his head, suddenly adopted an upright, almost manly, stance, and held out his hand to Frederik. Frederik could scarcely refuse to shake hands with him.
“Well. He died for his native land, Frederik,” said Opperman, in a voice as though addressing an auditorium. “All you who sail go to war for native land like real soldiers. And we who own ships, we risk everything and lose much money for common good. Yes, this is how men die and suffer throughout all world, in blood and sweat and tears … for victory of justice.”
He looked deep into Frederik’s eyes and repeated: “Yes, for victory of justice in this dreadful war. In time. In time, Frederik. Through suffering to victory.”
They emptied their glasses. Frederik felt that it was time to go. Opperman showed him to the door, and he shook hands with him once more.
It was not yet three o’clock. Frederik drifted haphazardly out into the moonlit night; he hung around the hospital for a long time, peering into the deserted courtyard, and finally going into it and taking up position in a corner until either a nurse or Benedikt Isaksen the porter turned up. Yes, there was Benedikt. His scrawny figure was a strange sight in the moonlight; he was bare-headed and bald like Death himself. He drew the back of his hand across his nose and wiped away a drop.
Frederik went across to speak to him. Benedikt was not a talkative person, but he said what had to be said. The wounded man was in bad shape, but he was expected to recover, for he was young and strong. Nothing had been done with Ivar’s body as yet. It was still in the morgue together with the body of a girl who had died of diphtheria.
“I’ll take you in, if you like,” Benedikt suggested.
Frederik followed him like a sleepwalker. The mortuary was bathed in subdued moonlight. There was a strong smell of carbolic. He saw the two stretchers, both covered with sheets. Benedikt drew aside the sheet covering Ivar so that the face became visible. Frederik stared at the silvery features which were completely unrecognisable; he could not understand why he should be standing here looking at them; there was no sense in it. The porter said nothing; he took an empty stretcher that was leaning up against the wall, and put it over his shoulder, and then they went out into the moonlight again, and Frederik took his leave.
He felt drained and sick, and he remembered the old seamen’s song: “All flesh, it is but grass”. He thought of his childhood spent in the little house by the shore, of his mother, whom he could dimly remember, and his father who lay ill with consumption for many years before he finally passed away, and his brother Anton, who died in the same year as his father. Frederik was fourteen then and had just left elementary school. He remembered the empty house, and how it was pulled down because of the danger of infection. The timber was used for a new bridge over the river, and for a long time he thought he could recognise the familiar old smell of his home whenever he walked across the bridge.
Then he lived for a year up in Angelica Cottage before going to sea as a ship’s boy on the cutter, the Spurn, together with his old playmate Ivar. After that he and Ivar had stayed together and been inseparable friends. It was Ivar who had urged him to study at the home trade college. And when, two years ago, Ivar was made skipper of Opperman’s ship, Frederik had gone with him as leading seaman. It had been a difficult time, but a good time. He always felt he was standing in the midst of events when at Ivar’s side. Things happened there, that was where things went on. Nothing could hold Ivar back when he had made up his mind to do something, and he kowtowed to no one. Frederik proudly remembered how Ivar had once put his foot down with an Icelandic fisher dealer; at first he said he would take him to court, but then he threatened him with his bare fists, because the Icelander had tried to foist a badly frozen cargo of fish on them.
Frederik had reached the cemetery and stopped at the gate, peering up through a stunted avenue disappearing in the withered grass. There was a forlorn and desolate smell; most of the leaves had fallen from the trees and lay in piles along the side of the avenue and between the graves. He bared his head and opened the gate, but once inside he changed his mind and went out again. He would be here soon enough to attend Ivar’s funeral. He hurried on.
“All flesh, it is but grass.” Again the words rang in his ears.
Frederik followed the hillside until he reached the path leading up to Angelica Cottage. It was still only just turned three. He would not waken anyone yet. He glanced up at the little outlying cottage under the Wall, asleep and unsuspecting in the uneasy moonlight.
Frederik strolled back to the town. He felt drawn to return to the hospital. Not that there was anything he could do there. But it was simply that he had grown accustomed to being near Ivar. If only he could have talked things over with Ivar tonight.
There was a light in the boiler room in the cellar. Frederik went across and looked through a crack in the black-out curtain. Benedikt was sitting on a packing case in the middle of the room; the light caught his shining cranium and bony face, and his deep eye sockets almost seemed to be empty. He was deep in thought.
Frederik went into the boiler room, feeling a desperate need to talk to someone. Benedikt gave him a mournful, understanding look.
“Ivar was a fine young man,” he said. “He could be a bit hasty, like when he beat up Bergthor and the Inspector, but that was only when he was drunk. He was all right otherwise. And he was a good son to his father, and a good brother to his sisters, and a good friend to you, Frederik.”
Frederik nodded. “Yes, indeed he was, Benedikt.”
The porter gave a long sigh and cleared his voice. Then he slowly raised his head, and, seeking to catch Frederik’s eye, said: “But how was it between Ivar and Jesus? You must know, Frederik, because you were always together with him. Had he received grace and redemption through Jesus Christ? Was he a believer, Frederik?”
“Yes, he certainly was,” replied Frederik, and repeated: “He most certainly was. He just never talked about it.”
“But you did have prayers or prayer meetings on board?” continued Benedikt.
“No, not really,” Frederik hesitated a little. “I would sometimes read a prayer aloud on Sundays and holy days, and then a few of us would sing a hymn. Ivar didn’t mind.”
“Didn’t mind?” asked the porter, looking up cautiously. “Could he have anything against your worshipping your God and Saviour?”
“No, he didn’t mind. That’s exactly what I said.”
“No, I should think not, having anything against the one thing needful.” The porter shook his bone-white head in silent wonderment.
“He didn’t mind it at all,” Frederik repeated.
“No, because if he had had anything against it,” continued Benedikt obstinately, “he would have been no better than one who offends one of these little ones. And then it would be better for him that a millstone…”
Benedikt swallowed the rest of his sentence and backed away like one who realises that it is better to be silent. Frederik felt a kind of resentment on Ivar’s behalf and asked: “That a millstone what…”
“Were hanged about his neck!” Benedikt exploded.
“Why should it be hanged ab
out his neck?” asked Frederik, affecting not to understand in order to take his revenge on Benedikt. The porter was a member of Simon the baker’s sect. The bun sect as it was called.
Benedikt got up, and with averted gaze and the voice of a preacher said: “Were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea. Don’t you know the Scriptures, Frederik?”
Turning towards Frederik he added: “My words were not aimed purely at Ivar; they were meant to apply in general to all those who scorn their fellow men for worshipping their God.”
“He never scorned them for it,” said Frederik.
“That’s good, Frederik,” said Benedikt. “That’s good. But it’s not enough. He in whom the spirit does not reside is dead even though he be alive.”
“Where do those words come from?” asked Frederik.
“They were my own words. Or they were inspired in me. And he who has the light of the spirit burning within him, he continues to live, even though he be dead. They were my own words, too, Frederik.”
“And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased?” said Frederik. “They weren’t my words; they were from the Bible itself.”
“I’m not exalting myself, if that’s what you mean,” said Benedikt, in a wavering tone. “Far be it from me, poor sinner that I am, to want to exalt myself. On the contrary, I try to abase myself as best I can and with the beneficient help of Christ. No, there aren’t many who really make an effort to abase themselves as much as I do. Here I go, Frederik, emptying spitoons and cleaning bedpans and washing corpses; my job’s degrading in every respect. But that’s only because I know He has said: ’He that is greatest among you, let him be as the younger; and he that is chief, as he that doth serve.’ “
“So you really do want to be great in one way or another?” asked Frederik. He could not get away from the porter’s arrogance in doubting Ivar’s faith.
Benedikt flared up again. Once more he was standing in such a position that his eye sockets looked as though they were empty. His voice took on an urgent, harsh tone: “I want to be great in Jesus. That’s what I want, Frederik. And that’s what you ought to make an effort to become, too. For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”
Frederik looked at his watch. “No, I only meant that even if Ivar didn’t wear his faith on his jersey like a medal for heroism, he was in that respect as good a man as both you and I.”
Benedikt uttered a long sigh, and his watery eyes suddenly became visible in their sockets.
The thought struck Frederik that the porter was a sorely tried man, left alone in the world after tuberculosis ravaged his home and robbed him of his entire family. Was it to be wondered at if this cruel fate had turned his head a little?
“Goodbye, Benedikt,” he said gently. “And thank you for letting me stay here while I waited.”
“Goodbye,” came the answer. “And may Jesus Christ Himself fill your lamp with oil so that you be not lost in the darkness of damnation.”
It was five o’clock by now. The moon was low in the western sky and in the east there were the first signs of dawn. Frederik had sat down on a corner-post by the road leading to the hospital; he had been rapt in thought, and the prospect of going up to Angelica Cottage with the news of Ivar’s death suddenly seemed an almost insuperable task. He felt there was something perfidious in his being safe and sound, while Ivar was obliterated for ever, no longer of use as anything but food for the worms under the ground. He was reminded of the words: O my Father, if it be possible, take this cup from me. But at this he became even more ashamed of himself … was he sitting here and thoughtlessly actually comparing himself with Him in the Garden of Gethsemane? Alas, had he but been a man of the spirit and able to say a word of comfort to those left behind. But that was not his nature; pious words would sound ridiculous coming from his lips; he could not suddenly appear as anything other than the old, familiar Frederik, Ivar’s leading seaman and companion. It was no use playing the pastor or evangelist.
But of course, he could go up to the pastor and get him to accompany him. Fancy not thinking of that before. Pastor Fleisch would surely do him that service with pleasure; he was an amenable chap.
Frederik went up to the parsonage and knocked at the door. Yes, Pastor Fleisch told the maid to ask Frederik to wait a moment, and he would come.
The pastor’s sitting room reminded Frederik of a shop, with countless shelves and display cabinets tightly packed with all kinds of trinkets, watches, photographs and rare stones and crystals. On the walls there were pictures from Jutland, Pastor Fleisch’s home. Two enlarged photographs of the pastor himself and his late wife hung over the sofa. Pastor Fleisch was an elderly man, white haired and round, and with a Vandyke beard. His eyes were perhaps a little ferrety. He was said to be a very wealthy man, but he also had a certain reputation for his charitable works. On the other hand it offended some people that he was never averse to striking a good bargain. During the course of the war he had bought two houses which he had then sold again at a good profit. And he had made money out of the contents of one of them, too.
But perhaps it was not really for the sake of personal gain that he struck these bargains; at all events, a good deal of the profit went to charity. Not only did Pastor Fleisch lend a helping hand to the poor; he also loaned young people money for their education, and it was well known that he had helped Mr. Lillevig, the grocer in Sandefjord, to get his business on a firm basis by investing money in his ship. They had both profited from this, for it was a lucky ship and it did well.
Pastor Fleisch came down from the attic and shook hands with Frederik. His face was still puffed with sleep, and he was without a collar. His white hair stood up like a brush. He stroked his beard and looked into a corner while Frederik told him his errand. There was no emotion to be seen on his flushed face; he looked at his watch and said: “All right, Frederik Poulsen, but then we had better get off at once so that no one else gets there before us.”
He disappeared for a moment and returned wearing a clean collar, a black overcoat and a bowler hat. They set off. Portly as he was, he was a good walker, and the climb up to the cottage was no problem to him – he had a good pair of lungs. He discussed markets and fish prices with Frederik as they walked along, and he was as well informed as a proper merchant. It struck Frederik that it almost seemed not to have dawned on the pastor how distressing their errand was, and he was not far from regretting that he had not decided to come alone after all.
It was almost six o’clock by the time they reached Angelica Cottage. Smoke was rising from the chimney, so someone was up. As they drew nearer, they could hear voices. It seemed to Frederik that some of them belonged to outsiders. And suddenly he thought he could hear Opperman’s voice.
“That can’t be right,” he thought. But yes, it was Opperman. He was standing in the hall with his hat in his hand and was just about to go. Frederik felt embarrassed that Opperman had got there before him, but at the same time it was almost a relief to him.
“Oh, Pastor Fleisch,” said Opperman, holding out a gloved hand. Pastor Fleisch shook hands with him and drew him aside. The two men spoke together in low voices. Frederik could hear that it was something about insurance. He went out into the kitchen. Liva and Magdalena, both half dressed, were weeping profusely; they took Frederik’s hand as though in their sleep. Elias was sitting over by the fire; he was not weeping, but he was staring vacantly before him, and there was a glazed, numb look in his eyes. He took Frederik’s hand in both his and held it for a long time, and it was as though this despairing grip released something in Frederik’s breast; he could no longer keep the tears back; wave after wave of hopeless grief surged through him; he withdrew to the hall and stood there with his forehead against the wall, doing his best to suppress a paroxysm of weeping. He heard Pastor Fleisch speaking as though reading aloud from a book. Yes, he was indeed reading; Frederik could hear him turning a page. It took a long time. It was a
s though Pastor Fleisch was keen to demonstrate that he was with them heart and soul. And the sermon was followed by a long prayer. Then, at last, it was over. The pastor shook hands with all present and wished God’s comfort and blessing on them. Frederik, too, was shaken by the hand. He was not able to collect his thoughts sufficiently to thank Pastor Fleisch for his trouble. He stayed behind in the hall, drained of all thought, completely numbed, staring at a knot in the unpainted wall.
2
The news of the Manuela’s and Ivar’s death spread quickly through the town and across the fjord, and it was not long before flags were to be seen flying at half mast everywhere.
Mr. Nikodemus Skælling, the editor of the local newspaper, quickly set about writing a few words to mark the sombre event; from a purely technical point of view it came at the right time, sad as it was, for he was short of material; in the last issue he had had to fill a whole page with a translation, an article from the Reader’s Digest on the famine in Russia resulting from the ridiculous revolution of 1918 and Nansen’s magnificent efforts to secure international aid. But his readers had not been interested, and Heimdal, the bookseller, had asked him sarcastically in the club yesterday evening whether the paper would not soon be publishing the latest on Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. “Oh, come now,” came the reply, and Mr. Skælling explained to Heimdal the real reason for his printing the American article on the Russian famine. The great defeat inflicted on the Germans on the Eastern Front was filling everyone with enthusiasm for the Russians, so it was only reasonable to remind them that the objects of their adulation were still a horde of bolsheviks, unquestioning devotees of those two Asians Lenin and Stalin.
Mr. Skælling was somewhat at a loss as to how to refer to the dead skipper. Only recently, Ivar Berghammer had attracted unfavourable attention to himself as a rowdy, and he had been a somewhat troublesome type in general. However, the fact that he came of a poor family and had worked his way up was actually rather commendable. Mr. Skælling was not one of those who kowtowed to the plutocracy; on the contrary, as the son of an intelligent and honest, but, financially speaking, anything but affluent police inspector, he had worked his way up – not to material riches, good Lord no, but at least to a social position that was not entirely insignificant. In a few months’ time, when old Verlandsen, the headmaster, reached retiring age, Mr. Skælling, who was his deputy, would replace him, assuming there was any justice in the world. Moreover, he was Chairman of the Conservative Association, Deputy Chairman of the Town Council, a member of the Price Control Commision, Secretary of the Employers’ and Shipowners’ Association, and an honorary member of the Serpent Fjord Sports Association, and it was purely and simply on account of the war that he had not been knighted – he had the Governor’s own word for that.
The Black Cauldron Page 11
