I stood there staring.
“Hurry up!” Tone whispered by the door. “Jensen is coming! Jensen is coming!”
But I just stood there. It was as if the pictures nailed me to the spot. Jensen was on his way, the door opened in the front hall downstairs, and soon I heard his clumsy footsteps coming up the stairs, but I just stood there, unable to move. The pictures burned themselves into me. I couldn’t get rid of them. The faces, the devils, the angels. They swirled around me in the dark after we went to bed that night. Tone was asleep, I felt her even breathing on the back of my neck, but the pictures from the magazine did not let go. They never let go. The dancing devils. The dirty angels. I still see them.
10.
March came, April came. The frozen tower of feces and newspaper melted and collapsed in the outhouse. The ground was bare from the front steps all the way to the ash tree. Snowdrops sprouted by the hay barn and crocuses bloomed next to the house. Tone and I soon grew used to our new life with the crazies from Stavanger, as Josef called them. Mama hummed softly as she ran up and down the stairs with trays of food for Jensen and Matiassen, but we never heard her sing, not properly, not the way she had perhaps once dreamed of singing. Mama hummed while she sat on the milk stool in the cattle barn, her cheek against the cow’s belly as streams of milk trickled into the pail; Papa hitched the horse to the wagon, slapped the reins, and the wagon rolled across the yard and disappeared down the road as he whistled a tune that had neither beginning nor end.
Each morning Tone and I walked two kilometers to the schoolhouse in Hønemyr. We started very early, before anyone upstairs was awake, except sometimes Josef, who would stand at the window watching us. Tone often went to school with me that winter, even though she was not yet five years old. We walked down to the milk platform, turned right and passed Jon and Tilla Båsland’s house, and when we got a little beyond their hayloft we could glimpse Lake Djupesland lying white and still among the trees.
“Just think—when summer comes,” said Tone, “we can go swimming!”
In the schoolroom we sat together at the very back by the window, and Nils Apesland stood in front by his desk as he directed our singing. He never sang himself, but he helped us keep time. Nils Apesland was a strange man. When spring came he walked across frozen lakes, even if the ice was melting, and if he met people he always said good-bye in case he broke through the ice and drowned. People had seen him in a white coat out in the fields at night performing some sort of religious ritual. They had heard him sing. Or perhaps it was a prayer. I sometimes thought that Nils Apesland could have lived upstairs with Josef, that he and Josef could have been brothers, were it not that Nils Apesland was so educated. He had gone to the teachers college in Notodden, where he was at the top of his class. Moreover, one Sunday he slid down Gaustatoppen Mountain on the soles of his shoes. He was extremely learned, and also wrote poetry, just as Jensen did before he lost his mind. The poems had been published in Sennepskornet magazine in Oslo, and when he finished teacher training Nils Apesland had walked all the way home to southern Norway. Almost no one had read the poems in Sennepskornet, but they were said to be about building your house on solid ground, and Nils Apesland had done that. His house stood next to an enormous scree, where he found grass snakes that he kept sort of as pets. The snakes came when he whistled, according to people who had seen it; he just squatted down and whistled a sad tune, and the snakes came wriggling out from the stones and ate butter from his hand.
The snakes liked butter. That wasn’t just rumor. I saw the snakes myself. Nils Apesland stood at his desk; we had just sung a hymn, which he had directed as usual, when suddenly he pulled two grass snakes out of his jacket pocket.
“Don’t believe people who say Satan looks like a snake,” he said, holding up the snakes by their tails. “Those who say snakes are evil don’t know the nature of snakes. Nothing is as kind and good and faithful as snakes.”
He walked calmly among the students’ desks with the two grass snakes so we could all see what he meant. The snakes wriggled up the front of his shirt and along his arms like flowing hat ribbons. They crawled up to the neckband of his shirt, then in and out of his beard, and when he went past our desk I saw the little tongues flicking against his throat.
Nils Apesland taught me to read, and during the spring Tone also began learning the alphabet. We sat on the firewood box in Josef’s room in the afternoons while I helped her spell her way through the first pages in the reader. The flames in the small cast iron stove hissed and crackled; in the reader we saw pencil drawings of Henrik Wergeland’s little horse, Veslebrunen, and of Wergeland on his deathbed. Tone thought he looked like Christian Jensen. I under stood what she meant and had to laugh, but not loud enough to disturb Josef. He always had a tall stack of books on his night table; the Tower of Babel, he called it. Josef loved to read. Every Wednesday afternoon he rode to Brandsvoll on an old bicycle he had borrowed from Hans, or perhaps simply appropriated. He whizzed down the hill so fast the bicycle bell shook, past the milk platform and Sløgedal’s house, across the Djupåna River, and on to the public library, which was in Dr. Rosenvold’s waiting room. The entire book collection fit in two cabinets in one corner, and Josef began with A. He stood by the cabinet in the waiting room with his head cocked to the side, always on the lookout for new books, novels mostly. Afterward he rode home unsteadily with his string bag on the handlebars. He said he had read everything in the entire library; he had started from the beginning the fall he came to live with us. First Tryggve Andersen, then Bjørnson, then Dickens, then Dostoyevsky. But by the time he neared the end of the alphabet he had forgotten so much from the first books that he could just as well start from the beginning again.
11.
One day early in May Papa took all the children down to the roadside milk platform. Josef put on his uniform jacket and came with us. Nils walked in front with Josef and Papa, Tone held Ingrid’s hand, Lilly carried Sverre in her arms, and I brought up the rear with Erling. When we got to the milk platform we waited there until the bus arrived. Josef drew himself up and saluted like an officer, his hand to his forehead. Erling and Ingrid moved closer to Lilly, Nils stood with his hands in his pockets, and Erling laughed and laughed at the big vehicle that had appeared from nowhere and stopped right in front of us.
The door opened and the driver shouted:
“So you’re out giving them some fresh air! You should put them on a leash so they don’t run away.”
The passengers laughed. I didn’t see who they were, I just heard the laughter. A few young people pounded on the windows, waved and shouted, and flattened their noses against the panes.
Papa’s face hardened. He did not reply. Ingrid howled, and the driver shut the door again. The young people hammered on the windows even harder, but we all stood there without moving until the bus had driven away and everything was quiet. Then we walked home.
It was the second time they were compared to animals.
Shortly afterward we heard that the Germans had surrendered. Josef immediately got on his bicycle and rode to the Brandsvoll store, where others from the parish had gathered to hear the latest news from the outside world. There were rumors that Hitler had been arrested in Berlin, there were rumors that the Parliament building and the Royal Palace in Oslo had been set on fire. Joseph rode home, his lapels fluttering, as he shouted over his shoulder and tiny grains of sand pricked the bicycle’s front fender.
A few days later there was a meeting in the Hønemyr schoolhouse, and we all went. That is to say: Jensen and Matiassen stayed home with Lilly and Sverre, but the rest of us left in the afternoon. The maps hanging in the schoolroom were unevenly rolled up, as usual. A ragged corner of North Africa, the mustard-yellow desert, the deep-orange Atlas Mountains. The blue Mediterranean, which became darker blue farther away from shore. Nils Apesland stood by the teacher’s desk. Everything was as usual, except that the room was crowded with people. We barely found places at the very back by the win
dow. More and more people came looking for information; they gathered outside, and finally the windows were opened so everyone could hear what was said. Nils Apesland related what he knew. It was true. Germany had surrendered. Adolf Hitler was dead in Berlin, Reich Commissar Terboven had blown himself up, Quisling had been arrested and was in jail at 19 Møllergata in Oslo. It was really true. At the end of his report, Nils Apesland said a short prayer. Sunlight fell obliquely through the windows, the dust sparkled, his face was brightly illuminated on one side, and I thought about the two wriggling snakes I had seen slipping in and out of his beard.
When Nils Apesland was finished, Josef suddenly rose from his chair.
“Since Germany has surrendered, would it perhaps be appropriate for me to sing a little song?” he asked.
All eyes turned toward him.
There wasn’t a sound.
“Go ahead and sing, Josef!” someone shouted.
And that’s what happened. Josef sang. Afterward he made a deep bow as the applause flowed over him.
Josef sang that evening too, at home in our living room. Everyone was there. Hans and Anna had come, Tone and I shared space on the bench at the end of the table, Jensen sat in a chair by the window looking very pale, his arms twitching nervously; Matiassen had placed his stool near the stove, Ingrid and her siblings had brought their chairs from upstairs and sat with us. It was the only time we were all gathered in the same room. Papa brought out bottles of mineral water, Mama served veal and salted kidney beans and steaming potatoes that had grown in a field with Virginia tobacco plants the past summer. Then we ate, and when everyone was finished, Josef stood up and tapped his fork against his glass.
“Snuff all the candles, and turn off the lamps,” he said solemnly.
So Mama had to go around turning off the lamps and blowing out the candles she had just lit. Josef ordered that only one lamp be left on—the piano lamp. I sat on the floor next to Papa’s chair and looked up at Uncle Josef expectantly.
“I’m going to sing some verses of a song,” he began. “A song from the time I saw the midnight sun shining above the city of Trondheim. A song called ‘Silver.’ ”
He straightened his uniform jacket and cleared his throat; the room was completely quiet, aside from the creaking of Matiassen’s stool. Then Josef struck a key on the piano. It resounded deeply for a long time before Josef began to sing, and as always, he began at the opposite end of the scale. Josef sang with fine articulation, his voice was steady and confident, as though it had broken away from the rest of the strange, tall man. Usually he sang only during the worship service in church and on the Big Day—namely, his birthday, November 16—but he made an exception that day in May when freedom came. Josef sang, and I glanced at Tone, who sat with her eyes closed and her hands folded, as if she were praying.
12.
One morning Mama carried the kitchen chairs out to the yard and said we had to sit there in a row—Erling, Nils, Matiassen, Jensen, Sverre, and I—while Papa gave each of us a haircut. Papa had been the barber at Dikemark, he had cut hair for the mentally disabled and the insane, so he knew what he was doing. I sat there waiting for my turn while dry wisps of Erling’s hair sprinkled onto his shoulders and drifted into my lap; Matiassen’s tufts of hair fell heavily right to the ground, and when it was Jensen’s turn, Mama had to hold his arms and upper body while Papa hurried to clip around his ears. Afterward we walked around with closely cropped heads, and I felt the cool breeze all the way to my skull. Then it was the girls’ turn. Papa trimmed Ingrid’s straight bangs, while Mama tied a red ribbon in Tone’s hair and braided Lilly’s. The only one who didn’t want his hair cut was Josef.
“Remember Samson,” he said. “Samson’s strength lay in his hair!”
Josef went over to Tone, grasped her under her arms, lifted her onto his shoulders as she squealed with pleasure, and walked away with her.
“I refuse to give up my strength!” he shouted.
Ingrid and I followed him at once, and the four of us walked into the woods together. When I was younger Josef did the same with me: lifted me onto his shoulders and wandered away, often while talking to himself. Josef headed up a steep path with Tone enthroned on his shoulders. She laughed and sang and snatched at the lowest branches. It was easy to walk there, the path was firm and dry, and even if Josef didn’t say anything, I knew where he was planning to go. Soon I saw the lake shimmering among the pine trees. I had been there many times before, sometimes alone, other times with Tone or Josef, but this was the first time Ingrid saw Lake Djupesland. The lake was surrounded by tall, dark pine trees on the northern side and broad, marshy areas on the southern side. During the summer, smooth water lily leaves grew up from the muddy bottom, and elusive white flowers opened on the water’s surface. Twenty or thirty meters from shore a sandbar just barely emerged from the water, and sometimes in the summer a solitary bird perched there. I saw it myself once when I was with Josef. I was sitting on his shoulders, he paused abruptly, and the bird stood there motionless on one leg. I thought it knew something terrible that enabled it to stand like that. Something that was going to happen, or had happened. The bird knew it. Josef knew that the bird knew, and I understood that we needed to be quiet so it didn’t become frightened and fly away.
Today there was no bird on the sandbar. Today only Tone’s joyful shouts were heard in the forest. We trudged through marshland still frozen solid beneath our feet, then across rocky knolls, until the lake was in front of us. Chunks of milky ice lay close to shore, above us the wind sighed in the tall pines, and out on the lake, ripples suddenly appeared, and then disappeared just as quickly, as if someone had brushed a huge feather across the water’s surface.
That was when I saw the dark spot spreading down Josef’s back. Tone sat quietly on his shoulders, clearly afraid of what Josef would say. At first he seemed not to have noticed anything, he just looked out across the water; I said nothing either, I just stood behind him and saw what happened.
It would be the last time Josef dared to have any of us on his shoulders. Not even Samson’s strength could have prevented Tone from piddling down his back while we stood gazing out at Lake Djupesland. Mama had to wash Josef’s shirt and uniform jacket and Tone’s pink dress. The clothes hung on the line when we went to bed that night, while Josef sat brooding in his room, and I lay for a long time listening to Tone’s even breathing.
She would be the last.
13.
Everything happened at once. First five siblings from Stavanger arrived, then peace came, the birch leaves turned green, and we reached May 17, Constitution Day. The entire parish gathered to celebrate in the Brandsvoll meetinghouse, but despite their new haircuts, Jensen and Matiassen and all the siblings had to stay at home. The rest of us went to Brandsvoll—Josef on his bicycle, the others on foot or in the back of Hans’s cart. At the meetinghouse, all the radios and grain sacks the Germans had confiscated were cleared away, and the speaker’s podium was pushed back to its place in front of the painting of the angel and the man with a hoe. There was room for nearly everyone in the building, and those who did not find space gathered outside. The windows were wide open, and people stood very quietly in order to hear everything that was said from the rostrum.
The pastor, Knud Tjomsland, who had been arrested the year before and had returned from Grini concentration camp, gave a short devotion. He was thinner, his voice was deeper, and he spoke more slowly than I remembered. When he finished speaking, he calmly stepped down from the rostrum and sat with the rest of us.
It was Tjomsland who had baptized Tone.
Mama sat with Tone on her lap, Josef sat beside her, erect as a soldier, and I gazed up at the painting of the man with a hoe. The poor fellow wore almost no clothes, just a cloth hung loosely around his waist; his face had a firm, determined expression, and one would think the simple hoe in his hands was all he owned in this world. I sat there looking at the man’s anguished, heavenward gaze, his withdrawn yet gentle expressi
on, and the angel, whom the man could not see. The angel was neither dirty nor damaged, but soft and shining like the light from Matiassen’s lantern, and it hovered with open hands, as if holding an invisible child.
First the siblings from Stavanger, then the peace; Tone piddled down Josef’s back, Tjomsland returned, and at the end of May both Lilly and Nils were sent to Kristiansand to be sterilized.
We understood that an important event was going to occur, but once the word was mentioned, it wasn’t explained or discussed further. Lilly and Nils were taking an important trip to Kristiansand, and they would be away for several days. Lilly borrowed Mama’s suitcase, which she packed for herself and Nils, and the day before their departure it stood in the front hall. When they were about to leave, we gathered in the yard—all the siblings, Josef, Tone, and I. Lilly said a few admonishing words to Erling and Sverre, Erling’s head wobbled vigorously, Sverre clung to her skirt. The two younger brothers did not let her out of their sight, while Nils just stood with his hands in his pockets and grinned as if he owned the whole world.
“We’re going away,” Lilly said to the others. “And then we’ll come back. And you mustn’t cry.”
Not a word from the younger siblings. No sound but the wind in the ash tree.
“You mustn’t cry,” Lilly repeated.
“No,” said Nils firmly. “It’s important.” He stood next to Lilly and crossed his arms. “You mustn’t cry.”
Across the China Sea Page 4
