The Second Winter, page 19
Oskar waited.
“Okay.” Rahbek’s head sagged onto his chest. “For your father, then —” He took an old lead pencil, picked up a leather-bound book, scrawled a name and an address on the first page. “Okay,” he said again. “Okay.” And then he ripped the page from the book and handed it to Oskar.
Oskar was all the way downstairs in the lobby of the building before he noticed the book’s title engraved on the page. Captain Blood, by Rafael Sabatini. He read the address, then set off across Copenhagen to the Nazi quarter. The satchel felt even heavier now. He had to tighten his grip to keep the oily handle from sliding through his fingers. The wind blew off the water, his knuckles turned red.
It was snowing by the time Oskar reached Hermann Schmidt’s apartment building. The sky was low. The temperature was dropping. The road was icy, and within minutes it was covered with a thin white blanket. Oskar ducked into a doorway across the street, stared up at the bank of steel-frame windows that comprised the façade of the building’s upper floors. This was his opportunity to prove himself to his father, and Oskar knew it. Fredrik hadn’t expected any of this. He had imagined that Oskar would sell the jewelry to Rahbek and return straight home with his pockets full of crowns. Approaching this German wasn’t a simple wrinkle in the plan, and it wasn’t something a child would do. He was walking into a lion’s den. He lingered in the doorway, thinking about his next steps.
Noticing a deep fissure in the wall, a sudden thought occurred to him. First giving the pocket of his trousers a tap to check that the pendant was safe, Oskar knelt, grabbed a handful of the jewelry from the satchel, shoved it into his jacket pocket. Then he worked the soft leather case into the cavity and covered it with a loose brick. When he stood back up, he felt elated, as if he had solved a difficult puzzle.
Across the street, shadows moved inside the apartment on the second floor. Someone was there. He leaned out from the doorway, made certain that the coast was clear. People were working in the bakery on the ground floor of the building. Otherwise, the neighborhood was quiet. If he was actually going to go through with this, the time was now. He screwed up his courage, took a step into the street. As he reached the center of the road, though, a face appeared in the window upstairs that stopped him in his tracks. His heel slipped on the ice, and he nearly lost his balance. His first thought was that he must be imagining it. But there was no mistake. It was her — it was the girl whom he had seen the night before at Fru Gregersen’s. Her face was no longer made up. But Oskar would have recognized her in his sleep.
Polina looked down at him, and their eyes met.
The wind gusted, and snowflakes as soft and papery as ash swirled against his face. At the end of the street, a car emerged from the mist, led by headlights that flickered in the blizzard like candles. For a few beats, Oskar remained frozen. Then he continued deliberately to the entrance of the building. When he reached the door, his hands were shaking. He found the intercom, read Hermann’s name next to a buzzer. The car rumbled toward him, its tires slipping on the slick cobblestones. Oskar pressed the button, listened to the faint buzz inside as the car plowed past. The intercom beeped, then a male voice sounded over the speaker. “Bitte?”
Oskar spoke no German. “Mika Rahbek sent me.”
“Who?”
“Mika Rahbek.”
There was a long pause. “Identify yourself.” Hermann’s Danish was so clipped that Oskar barely understood him.
“I’m sorry,” Oskar replied. “I can’t do that.”
There was another pause. At the end of the street, the car’s engine faded into the wind. Next door, the bakery’s machinery whined and clanged. The aroma of baking bread charged the air. Then the latch clicked, and Oskar gave the door a shove.
The lobby was unadorned, grim, tiled in green porcelain. A metal staircase led upstairs. As Oskar approached the second story, a door swung open at the landing, and he was greeted by the barrel of a German pistol. His grip tightened on the banister. Behind the precise shape of the gun, Hermann hovered in the dim light. His spectacles glinted. His face — familiar from the night before — was a delicate nose, a thin mouth, a weak chin. His cheeks were slick, backlit by the windows behind him. As Oskar reached the top step, the floor began to spin. He hung on to the banister, met the smaller man’s gaze.
“What do you want?” Hermann demanded.
“Mika Rahbek sent me,” Oskar repeated.
“That is what you have already told me.”
“I have something. Rahbek told me you might be able to help me sell it.”
The German lieutenant glanced down the length of the narrow, unlit corridor. “Perhaps we should discuss this inside.” He took half a step backward, gave the pistol a shake.
Oskar followed him into the apartment. He couldn’t help himself — the moment he entered the barren room, he scanned it for the girl. She was seated at a small metal desk, facing the windows. Oskar recognized every contour of her face. As if, somehow, he had known her for years. He became aware of the rest of the apartment gradually — the uncomfortable bed pushed against a wall, the two or three light-bulbs dangling from wires tacked to the ceiling, the oversize wardrobe, tilting on its feet. The mirror hanging on the wardrobe’s door cast a cool reflection onto the industrial floor. On a nightstand next to the bed, a red-white-and-black band of ribbon caught the light, drawing Oskar’s eye to a small medal suspended beneath it — the previous year, Hermann had been awarded a War Merit Cross, and this was where he kept it, on display in a polished leather case beside an old, battered clock. Behind Oskar, the front door closed with a clank. The pistol emerged from the shadows. Its burnished steel absorbed the light like a chunk of coal. Beneath him, once again the floor began to spin, and his legs felt weak. Still, Oskar couldn’t help himself — despite the danger, despite his apprehension, his eyes returned to the girl.
“Now, what is it that you want?”
Oskar couldn’t find his voice to answer. The hollow tip of the Luger was aimed at his heart. The German’s finger was steady on the trigger. The sweet smell of machine oil, the faint odor of gunpowder, wafted from the weapon.
The lieutenant’s lips whitened against his teeth. Who was this standing in his apartment? My god, he was nothing more than a boy. “What do you want?” he repeated. He was going to have to coax it out of him. The boy, he realized, was frightened. “You said you have something for me. What is it?”
Oskar struggled for his voice. “Yes.”
“Show me.”
Oskar reached into his jacket pocket. The lieutenant’s grip tightened on the pistol. Oskar’s fingers clasped the jewelry he had grabbed from the satchel. He hoped that he had been lucky enough to take some of the better pieces — he should have paid more attention at Rahbek’s apartment. His hand unfolded to reveal the shimmering loot. A gold bracelet. A chain. A single earring studded with small red stones. A diamond ring.
Behind his spectacles, the German’s eyes widened. He pointed the pistol toward the desk where Polina was seated. “There,” he directed Oskar. “Set it down in the light.”
Oskar felt out of sync. The closer he got to the girl, the more dizzy he became. He watched his hand place the jewelry on the battered desk as if these fingers belonged to someone else. The chain tangled with the earring. He couldn’t separate the two pieces.
“Let me do that. Step away.”
Oskar took a step backward. Hermann was mesmerized. Forgetting himself for a few seconds, he set the pistol on the desk, gently pulled the chain from the earring, laid the pieces out. Then he picked the pistol back up, nudged Polina on her shoulder, pointed with his chin at the narrow bed. She stood without a word and crossed the stark room. Oskar watched her, unable to focus on anything else. When she passed him, their eyes met for a split second. His heart leaped. She had smiled.
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it,” Oskar said. The lie thrilled him. He had been thinking about it after his meeting with Rahbek — it was the perfect answer.
“You found it. I see.” The German sneered. “And only this?”
“What is it worth to you?” Oskar asked.
“I asked you a question, boy — Only this?”
“And I will answer —” Oskar’s voice emerged in a crushed whisper. “— when you tell me what it’s worth to you.” He was already certain that the German was going to want the rest. The hollow tip of the pistol traced a circle across his chest. It had been wise of him to hide the satchel.
“You have a big mouth for such a young boy.”
“If you’re not interested, then —” Oskar took a faltering step back toward the desk.
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
“What will you pay me for it? How much?”
“How much I pay will depend upon how much there is.”
“A thousand crowns,” Oskar said. His father had told him five hundred.
“A thousand?” The German was incredulous.
“Do you have it?” Out the corner of his eye, Oskar was aware that Polina had turned her head. She was appraising him.
The German’s mouth mimicked a tight-lipped smile. “Are you trying to play me, boy?”
“Play you?” Oskar wasn’t certain what the lieutenant meant.
“You come in here with a few pieces of jewelry, you shake me down, find out how much money I’m holding, then you try to rob me.”
If Oskar hadn’t been so nervous, he would have smiled. The German’s guess was so far off the mark. He held his hands out, palms up. “I came to sell you what I found.”
Hermann’s eyes narrowed. “Are you armed?”
Oskar shook his head.
Hermann turned toward Polina. “Come here,” he commanded. He kept the pistol trained on Oskar as she stood from the bed. “Search him.”
Polina didn’t speak. She motioned for Oskar to raise his arms, then carefully began to pat him down. Her hands caressed the tops of his shoulders, then slid softly down his ribs. When she reached his pocket, her fingers fumbled with the sapphire pendant through the material of his trousers. Their eyes connected, but she moved on. Beneath the inseam of his trousers, her fingers grazed his testicles, and Oskar understood that this was intentional. She was teasing him. When she was finished, she shook her head.
“Nothing?” the German asked her.
“No,” she said, speaking at last. “Nothing at all.” And Oskar was struck by her strong Polish accent.
The German’s hand relaxed on the pistol. He tucked it back into its holster, then directed Polina to the bed again with a nod of his head. “A thousand crowns,” he repeated. “A thousand.” He examined the jewelry, picked up the earring, set it back down. “You have the mate to this?”
“Yes.”
“So you do have more?”
“Much more,” Oskar said.
“Much more.” The German straightened his spectacles on his nose.
Out the corner of his eye, Oskar was watching Polina. On the edge of the bed, she had dropped her chin onto her chest and was staring at her hands clasped in her lap. “Perhaps she would like this ring.” The words were uttered before he realized that he would speak them.
The German turned to face him. “What’s that?”
In his peripheral vision, Oskar saw that Polina had raised her eyes, too. “This ring,” he said. He took a step to the desk, picked up the ring that still belonged to him. It was a diamond of five or six carats at least, set in an antique platinum setting. “It must be worth a thousand crowns by itself.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. I do.” Oskar wondered where this sudden courage was coming from. “And I think maybe she would like to wear it.”
“As far as you’re concerned, boy,” the German said, “she isn’t even here. Is that understood?” Hermann’s fingers strayed once again to his pistol.
Oskar shrugged. He gathered the other jewelry into his hands, together with the ring. “A thousand crowns,” he said. “Do you have it?”
“Yes,” the German said. “I have it.”
Oskar continued to look at the jewelry, but his attention remained fixed on the girl. “Then pay it to me, and I will give you the rest.”
The German’s mouth curled. “You don’t expect me to hand you the money without seeing the rest of the jewelry first, do you?”
Oskar held his ground. “I do.” Polina was gazing at him.
“Bring me the rest,” Hermann said, “and then we will talk about payment. Not before.”
Oskar was aware of the slightest movement from Polina. She had given her head a quick shake. No. “No,” Oskar said, as if his voice was an echo. “If you want the rest, you will pay me now.” Polina showed him the hint of a nod. “Otherwise I will walk away from here, and you will never see me again.” He collected the jewelry into a single hand, then shoved it back into his jacket pocket.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
When Oskar faced the German, the gun was drawn from the holster again. The hollow point stared back at him like a dilated pupil. “Pay me first, and I will give you the rest.”
The German gripped the pistol’s hammer with his free hand, ratcheted it backward. A bullet clicked into the chamber with oiled precision. “Place the jewelry back on the table.”
“The ring I just put into my pocket,” Oskar said, “alone is worth a thousand crowns, isn’t it? I am not a fool. I can see that it is. I can see it in your eyes. And this isn’t the best of it. I only grabbed a handful. I have ten times more than this.”
The German’s jaw muscles worked beneath his cheeks. Then the tip of the pistol dropped. “You’re telling the truth,” he said simply. He nodded to himself, finally slipped the pistol back into the holster. This boy was speaking the truth. Oskar watched him cross the room and open the wardrobe. When the door stopped moving, Polina was framed in the mirror. The German pulled a small safe from the upper shelf, then carried the black metal box to the table, opened it with a key from his pocket. Oskar’s eyes remained fixed on Polina’s reflection while the German removed a packet of bills and counted them out onto the table. “There. One thousand.”
Oskar’s hands shook as he took the money from the German. Though he had no way of knowing it, this was some of the profit that Hermann had made from the sale of the Gregersens’ paintings. He began to count the bills, but almost immediately lost track.
“It’s all there,” Hermann said. “A thousand crowns — some of it in reichsmarks.”
Oskar continued flipping through the bills anyway. He had no idea how much he was holding, but he didn’t stop until he had touched every note. He shoved the money into his pocket on top of the pendant. “Okay. Here is what I will do. I will leave now, and when I get downstairs, I will ring the intercom, understand?”
Hermann nodded.
“You will answer yourself — not the girl. I will tell you where to find the rest.”
“Agreed.”
As much as he wanted to be gone from this strange apartment, Oskar didn’t want to leave the girl alone here. He took an awkward step toward the door.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Oskar kept walking.
“In your pocket,” Hermann said, raising his voice.
Oskar stopped, fumbled with the jewelry. Now that his business was almost concluded, his nerves were frayed. His palms were sweaty. He lay the jewelry onto the table again in a heap — the bracelet, the chain, the earring, the diamond ring — then at last left the room. The stairwell was a blur. His shoes slipped on the treads. He clasped the metal railing, kept himself from tumbling down the stairs. The clatter of his heavy footfalls followed him into the bare lobby. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he leaned against the wall. He wasn’t just breathing, he was panting. Slowly, he became aware of the porcelain tile against his temple. He pushed himself upright, shoved the door.
Outside, he barely recognized this street as the same one he had walked less than half an hour before. The intercom was as cold as ice on the tip of his thumb. He leaned into the button, closed his eyes to the swirling snow.
“Tell me,” the German said. His voice was thin and weak over the cheap speaker. “Tell me where it is.”
“Across the street —” Oskar said.
“Where across the street?”
Oskar interrupted him. He didn’t wait for the German to finish his question, he didn’t wait for him to understand. “— there’s a doorway. If you look inside the doorway, you’ll see a hole in the wall. That’s where you’ll find it — in the hole — in a suitcase in the hole.” Then he let go of the button and began to run. His clumsy, ugly farmer’s shoes slid on the slippery pavement. He caught himself on the side of a building, continued down the sidewalk in his awkward, loping gait. By the time the German had reached the bottom of the stairs, his footsteps were a distant swish.
It was already dark at five o’clock when Oskar backtracked through the Nazi quarter to Hermann’s address. The huge windows that lined the German’s apartment were lit, and the electric light hung in the snow. All day, the sky had crumbled into the streets, and there was no sign that the blizzard would let up. With the roads nearly impassible, Copenhagen had become a ghost town. Oskar took up sentry in the doorway across from the bakery where he had hidden the jewels, grateful for the cover of the storm. When the occasional pedestrian passed, he shrank backward, held his breath, found refuge in the shadows.
By seven, Oskar was frozen to the bone. His shoes were wet, his toes ached. He wished that he had gloves — he had lost feeling in his fingers. The wind was gusting, and the cold swept through his clothes and clawed its way beneath his skin. Still, no matter how uncomfortable he became, he knew that he wasn’t going to leave until the lights were switched off inside. Not until there was no more chance that the German would leave the girl alone in the apartment.
