by Jo Nesbo
Unlike her mother, Helena missed her father more than she missed the social status her family had enjoyed. She did not miss, for example, the banquets, the adolescent, superficial conversations and the continual attempts to marry her off to one of the spoiled rich boys.
She looked at her wristwatch and scurried along. A small bird had obviously flown in through one of the open windows and now it was calmly sitting on one of the globe lamps hanging from the high ceiling and singing. Some days Helena found it incomprehensible that a war was raging outside. Perhaps it was because the forest, the tight rows of spruce trees, closed out all the things they didn’t want to see. If you went into the wards, however, you soon knew that the peace was illusory. The wounded soldiers with their mutilated bodies and their battered psyches brought the war home to them. To begin with, she had listened to their stories, practically convinced that with her strength of mind and her faith she could help to lead them out of their misery. Yet they all seemed to tell more of the same nightmare story about how much man can and has to endure on earth, and about the degradation involved in simply wanting to live. Only the dead escape unscathed. So Helena stopped listening. She pretended she was listening as she changed bandages, checked temperatures and gave them medicine or food. And when they were asleep she tried not to look at them, as even then their faces continued to tell their stories. She could read suffering in the pale, boyish faces, brutality in the hardened, closed faces and a longing for death in the pain-contorted features of one man who had just found out that his foot would have to be amputated.
Nevertheless, she walked in today with quick, light steps. Perhaps it was because it was summer, perhaps it was because a doctor had told her how beautiful she was this morning, or perhaps it was because of the Norwegian patient in Ward 4 who would soon say ‘Guten Morgen’ in his funny German. Then he would eat breakfast while giving her lingering looks as she went from bed to bed, serving the other patients, saying a few encouraging words to each one. For every fifth or sixth bed she attended to she cast a glance back at him and, if he smiled at her, she would quickly return the smile and continue as if nothing had happened. Nothing. And yet it was everything. It was the thought of these small moments that got her through the days now; that allowed her to laugh when the badly burned Kapitän Hadler in the bed by the door jokingly asked if they would soon send him his genitals back from the Eastern Front.
She pushed open the door to Ward 4. The sunlight flooding into the room made everything white – the walls, the ceiling, the sheets – shine. That’s what it must be like when you enter paradise, she thought.
‘Guten Morgen, Helena.’
She smiled at him. He was sitting in a chair beside the bed and reading a book.
‘Did you sleep well, Uriah?’ she asked him cheerfully.
‘Like a bear,’ he said.
‘Bear?’
‘Yes.In ...what do you call it in German when they sleep all winter?’
‘Ah, hibernation.’
‘Yes, hibernation.’
They both laughed. Helena knew that the other patients were watching them. She mustn’t spend more time with him than the others.
‘And your head? It’s getting a little better every day now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes indeed, it’s getting better and better. One day I’ll be just as good-looking as I used to be, you’ll see.’
She remembered when they brought him in. It seemed to contravene the laws of nature that anyone could survive the hole he had in his forehead. She caught his teacup with the pot and it almost toppled over.
‘Whoa!’ he laughed. ‘Were you out dancing until the wee small hours last night?’
She looked up. He winked at her. ‘Mmm,’ she said, and became flustered because she was lying about such a silly thing.
‘What do you dance here in Vienna?’
‘I mean, no, I wasn’t dancing. I just went to bed late.’
‘You probably dance waltzes, don’t you? Viennese waltzes and so on.’
‘Yes, I suppose we do,’ she said, concentrating on the thermometer.
‘Like this,’ he said and stood up. Then he began to sing. The others looked up from their beds. The song was in an unfamiliar language, but he had such a warm, beautiful voice. The healthiest patients cheered and laughed as he pivoted round with small, careful waltz steps and the loose dressing gown cords swung with him.
‘Come back here, Uriah, or I’ll send you right back to the Eastern Front,’ she shouted sternly.
He went back obediently and sat down. His name was not Uriah, but it was the name he had insisted they use.
‘Do you know the Rhineland Polka?’ he asked. ‘Rhineland Polka?’
‘It’s a dance we’ve borrowed from the Rhineland. Shall I show you?’
‘You sit there nice and still until you’re well again.’
‘And then I’ll take you out in Vienna and teach you the Rhineland Polka.’
The hours he had spent in the summer sun on the veranda over the past days had given him a healthy complexion, and now his white teeth sparkled against his happy face.
‘I think you sound well enough to be sent back already,’ she countered, but was unable to stop the blush which had shot into her cheeks. She was standing ready to continue her round when she felt his hand against hers.
‘Say yes,’ he whispered.
She waved him away with a bright laugh and went on to the next bed with her heart singing like a little bird in her bosom.
‘Well?’ Dr Brockhard said, peering up from his papers when she came into his office, and as usual she didn’t know if this ‘well?’ was a question, an introduction to a longer question or simply his way of speaking. So she just stood by the door.
‘You asked to see me, Doctor?’
‘Why do you insist on being so formal with me, Helena?’ Brockhard sighed with a smile. ‘My goodness, we’ve known each other since we were children, haven’t we?’
‘What was it you wanted from me?’
‘I’ve decided to report the Norwegian in Ward 4 fit for duty.’
‘I see.’
She didn’t turn a hair. Why should she? Patients came here to become well again, then they left. The alternative was dying. That was life in a hospital.
‘I passed on the report to the Wehrmacht five days ago. We have already received his new posting.’
‘That was quick.’ Her voice was firm and calm. ‘Yes, they desperately need more men. We’re fighting a war, as you know.’
‘Yes,’ she said. But didn’t say what she was thinking: We’re fighting a war and you’re sitting here hundreds of kilometres from the front, twenty-two years old, doing the job a seventy-year-old could have done. Thanks to Herr Brockhard Senior.
‘I thought I would ask you to give him his orders since the two of you seem to get on so well.’
She could feel him scrutinising her reaction.
‘By the way, what is it that you like so much about him particularly, Helena? What distinguishes him from the four hundred other soldiers we have here at the hospital?’
She was about to protest, but he pre-empted her.
‘Sorry, Helena, this is none of my business of course. It’s just my curious nature. I . . .’ He picked up a pen in front of him between the tips of his two index fingers, turned and looked out of the window. ‘. . . simply wonder what you can see in a foreign fortune-hunter who betrays his own country in order to curry favour with the conquering army. If you understand what I mean. How’s your mother by the way?’
Helena swallowed before answering.
‘You don’t need to worry about my mother, Doctor. If you give me the orders, I’ll pass them on.’
Brockhard turned to face her. He picked up a letter from the desk. ‘He’s being sent to the 3rd Panzer Division in Hungary. You know what that means, I take it?’
She frowned. ‘The 3rd Panzer Division? He volunteered for the Waffen SS. Why should he be enlisted in the regular Wehrmacht?’
Brockhard shrugged his shoulders. ‘In these times we have to accomplish what we can and perform the tasks we are set to do. Or don’t you agree, Helena?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s in the infantry, isn’t he? In other words, he has to run behind combat vehicles, not sit in them. A friend of mine who was in the Ukraine tells me that every single day they shoot Russians until their machine guns run hot and the bodies are piled high, but they keep pouring in as if there were no end to them.’
She only just managed to restrain herself from snatching the letter off Brockhard and ripping it to pieces.
‘Perhaps a young woman like you should be a little realistic and not develop too strong an attachment to a man who, in all probability, you will never see again. Incidentally, that shawl really suits you, Helena. Is it a family heirloom?’
‘I am surprised and happy to hear your considerate words, Doctor, but I can assure you they are completely redundant. I have no special feelings for this patient. Meals have to be served now, so if you would excuse me, Doctor . . .’
‘Helena, Helena . . .’ Brockhard shook his head and smiled. ‘Do you really believe I am blind? Do you think I can watch the pain this is causing you with a light heart? The close friendship between our families makes me feel there are bonds which tie us together, Helena. Otherwise I would not talk to you in this confidential manner. Please forgive me, but you must have noticed that I bear warm feelings of affection for you, and —’
‘Stop!’
‘What?’
Helena had closed the door behind her and now she raised her voice.
‘I’m a volunteer here, Brockhard. I’m not one of your nurses whom you can play with as you will. Give me that letter and say what you have to. Otherwise, I’ll be on my way immediately.’
‘My dear Helena,’ Brockhard wore an expression of concern, ‘don’t you understand that this is up to you?’
‘Up to me?’
‘A full bill of health is an extremely subjective thing. Especially with regard to a head injury of that kind.’
‘I see.’
‘I could provide him with a medical certificate for another three months, and who knows if there will be any Eastern Front in three months’ time?’
She looked at Brockhard, puzzled.
‘You’re a keen reader of the Bible, Helena. You know the story of King David, don’t you? Who desires Bathsheba even though she is married to one of his soldiers? So he orders his generals to send the husband to the front line so that he will be killed. Then King David can woo Bathsheba unhindered.’
‘What’s that got to do with this?’
‘Nothing. Nothing, Helena. I wouldn’t dream of sending your heart’s desire to the front if he was not fit enough. Or anyone else for that matter. That’s exactly what I mean. And since you know this patient’s state of health at least as well as I, I thought I might consult you before I make a final decision. If you consider him not to be fit enough, I ought perhaps to send a further medical certificate to the Wehrmacht.’
Slowly the nature of the situation began to sink in.
‘Or what, Helena?’
She could hardly believe her ears: he wanted to use Uriah to force his way into her bed. How long had he spent working this one out? Had he been waiting for weeks for just the right moment? And how did he actually want her? As a wife or a lover?
‘Well?’ Brockhard asked.
Her head was racing as she tried to find a way out of the labyrinth. But all the exits were closed. Naturally. Brockhard wasn’t a stupid man. As long as he had a certificate for Uriah, as a favour to her, she would have to obey his every whim. The posting would be deferred, but only when Uriah was gone would Brockhard cease to have any power over her. Power? Goodness, she hardly knew the Norwegian man. And she had no idea how he felt about her.
‘I . . .’ she began.
‘Yes?’
He had leaned forward in his eagerness. She wanted to continue, wanted to say what she knew she had to say to break free, but something stopped her. It took her a second to understand what it was. It was the lies. It was a lie that she wanted to be free, a lie that she didn’t know what Uriah felt for her, a lie that we always had to submit and to degrade ourselves to survive, it was all lies. She bit her lower lip as she felt it begin to tremble.
24
Bislett. New Year’s Eve 1999.
IT WAS MIDDAY WHEN HARRY HOLE GOT OFF THE TRAM AT the Radisson SAS hotel in Holbergs gate and saw the low morning sun reflecting briefly on the residential block windows of the Rikshospital before disappearing back behind the clouds. He had been in his office for the last time. To clear up, to make sure he had collected everything, he had told himself. But the little that constituted his personal effects found enough room in the supermarket carrier bag he had taken from Kiwi the day before. Those who weren’t on duty were at home, preparing for the last party of the millennium. A paper streamer lay across the back of his chair as a reminder of yesterday’s little leaving party, under the direction of Ellen, of course. Bjarne Møller’s sober words of farewell hadn’t really been in keeping with her blue balloons and sponge cake decorated with candles, but the little speech had been nice enough anyway. Presumably the head of Crime Squad knew that Harry would never have forgiven him had he been verbose or sentimental. And Harry had to admit he had felt a tinge of pride when Møller congratulated him on being made an inspector and wished him luck in POT. Not even Tom Waaler’s sardonic smile and light shake of the head from the spectators’ ranks by the door at the back had destroyed the occasion.
The intention of the trip to the office had been to sit there one last time, in the creaking, broken office chair, in the room where he had spent almost seven years. Harry shivered. All this sentimentality, he wondered, wasn’t that another sign he was getting on?
Harry walked up Holbergs gate and turned left into Sofies gate. Most of the properties in this narrow street were workers’ flats dating back to the turn of the century and not in the best condition. But after the prices of flats had risen and young middle-class people who couldn’t afford to live in Majorstuen had moved in, the area had received something of a face-lift. Now there was only one property which had not had its façade done up recently: number 8, Harry’s. It didn’t bother Harry in the least.
He let himself in and opened the postbox in the hallway. An offer on pizzas and an envelope from Oslo City Treasurer which he immediately assumed contained a reminder to pay his parking fine from last month. He swore as he went up the stairs. He had bought a fifteen-year-old Ford Escort at a bargain price from an uncle whom, strictly speaking, he didn’t know. It was a bit rusty and the clutch was worn, it was true, but there was a neat sun roof. So far, however, there had been more parking fines and garage bills than hairs on your head. On top of that, the shit heap wouldn’t start, so he had to remember to park at the top of a hill to push-start it.
He unlocked his front door. It was a spartanly equipped two-room flat. Clean and tidy, no carpets on the polished wooden floor. The only decorations on the walls were a photograph of his mother and Sis, and a poster of The Godfather he had pinched from Symra cinema when he was sixteen. There were no plants, no candles or cute knick-knacks. He had once hung up a notice-board he had thought he might use for postcards, photographs or any words of wisdom he might come across. In other people’s homes he had seen boards like these. When he realised he never received postcards, and basically never took photos either, he cut out a quotation from Bjørneboe:
And this acceleration in the production of horsepower is again just one expression of acceleration in our understanding of the so-called laws of nature. This understanding = angst.
With a single glance Harry established that there were no messages on the answerphone (another unnecessary investment), unbuttoned his shirt, put it in the dirty-washing basket and took a clean one from the tidy pile in the cupboard.
Harry left the answering machine on (perhaps someone
would call from the Norwegian Gallup organisation), locked the door and left again.
Without a trace of sentimentality he bought the last papers of the millennium from Ali’s shop, then set off up Dovregata. In Waldemar Thranes gate people were hurrying home for the big night. Harry was shivering in his coat until he stepped into Schrøder’s and the moist warmth of humanity hit him in the face. It was fairly full, but he saw that his favourite table was about to become free and he steered towards it. The old man who had got up from the table put on his hat, gave Harry a quick once-over from under white bushy eyebrows, a taciturn nod, and left. The table was by the window and during the day it was one of the few in the dimly lit room to have enough light to read by. No sooner had he sat down than Maja was by his side.
‘Hi, Harry.’ She smacked the tablecloth with a grey duster. ‘Today’s special?’
‘If the cook’s sober.’
‘He is. Drink?’
‘Now we’re talking.’ He looked up. ‘What are you recommending today?’
‘Right.’ She placed one hand on her hip and proclaimed in a loud, clear voice, ‘Contrary to what people think, this city has in fact the purest drinking water in the country. And the least toxic pipes are to be found in the properties built around the turn of the century, such as this one.’
‘And who told you that, Maja?’
‘It was probably you, Harry.’ Her laughter was husky and heartfelt. ‘Being on the wagon suits you, by the way.’ She said this under her breath, made a note of his order and was off.
The other newspapers were full of the millennium, so Harry tackled Dagsavisen. On page six his eyes fell on a large photograph of a wooden road sign with a sun cross painted on. Oslo 2,611 km, it said on one arm, Leningrad 5 km on the other.
The article beneath was credited to Even Juul, Professor of History. The subheading was concise: The conditions for fascism seen in the light of increasing unemployment in Western Europe.
