Life Will Have Its Way (13 page)

Anja was anxious to talk about something else and we moved to the living room while she went looking for an old photo album. She returned frustrated and empty handed and slumped into the sofa next to Thomas. He fidgeted with his back pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet. “Maybe I have something you’d like to see,” he said as he produced a faded photo.

A pair of teenagers stared into the camera, their faces fresh, their expressions eager. Initially Anja seemed confused by the picture, she’d never seen it before or at least couldn’t remember it. She peeled back the protective plastic cover and rubbed her finger slowly over the image, then laughed quietly to herself. Thomas pressed his head into hers and they leaned into each other, gravity and the weak springs at the center of the sofa pushed them closer together. The years seemed to melt away and the same starry-eyed couple from the photograph sat in front of me on the couch.

Anja slowly slipped the photo back into its sleeve, she continued to look at it for some time before finally giving it back. We all knew it was getting late but no one dared look at the clock or wonder what time it was. Morning was coming too soon and Thomas expected the tunnel would be dry enough for them to leave before midday as long as it didn’t rain again. There was a noise in the hallway and we all turned to find Lukas rubbing his eyes, staggering slowly toward us. “Gramm… pa?” he said with a startle when he realized Thomas was there. “Where did you come from?” he asked stopping himself at the edge of the living room, not certain whether or not he should advance.

“Come on over here Skeeter!” Thomas replied holding his hands out toward him.

Lukas rushed to his grandfather, collapsing into his arms. “But gramm-pa, how’d you find us?”

Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Lukas, instantly recognizing his note, hung his head in embarrassment, the skin on the side of his cheeks flushed a dark, blotchy red.

“Don’t be embarrassed son,” Thomas said. “It was a damn good thing you wrote that note.”

Lukas sat small and crumpled under the weight of his grandfather’s embrace, the bold confidence he’d exhibited earlier had all but vanished and he seemed content to just be young and vulnerable. 

“I guess we’re probably in real big trouble, aren’t we?” he whispered.

Thomas squeezed him tight. “We can talk about that later.”

Anja watched from a distance until she felt the moment was right, then moved toward Lukas and took him tenderly by the arm. “You should get back to bed little one.”

Lukas gave Thomas another big hug and a kiss on the cheek before heading back to the guest room.

A few minutes later Anja alerted to something outside. She popped up from the couch and crept slowly toward the front window, stopping a foot or so short of the curtains. She strained to listen then shook her head, “False alarm, false alarm. I thought I heard something, but, I guess not.”

Before she’d made it more than half of the way back to her seat, another noise outside forced her to return to the window. Her expression quickly changed, she held her finger to her mouth and signaled for Thomas to go to the guest room. For a second he didn’t move, he seemed confused about what she was asking him to do. Noise or no noise, I don’t think Thomas would have gone anywhere except for the fact that Anja was so urgently asking him to. He finally jumped up from where he was sitting, grabbed his things, scanned the room to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and disappeared down the hall. 

I tiptoed to the front door and placed my ear against it. There were footsteps outside in the entryway, they sounded intentionally soft and slow. I turned to Anja, trying unsuccessfully to form the hand signals that would let her know someone was in the building. She shook her head and raised her hands in the air. She had a crazed look on her face and didn’t seem to understand what I was trying to tell her. “Someone is in the building,” I half mouthed, half whispered.

She scurried across the room, nearly floating in the direction of the hall. A few seconds passed and nothing happened, I thought I could hear voices, but couldn’t tell if it was coming from somewhere outside or from Anja and Thomas in the other room. I strained to listen. Suddenly everything seemed so loud, the slow, rhythmic drip of the kitchen faucet, the gentle hum of the refrigerator. My ears felt full with the strain of trying to listen. Then there it was again. A voice, faint, soft, almost silent followed by a gentle tapping noise. “Hello. Hello? Are you there?”  

No one answered.

Anja rushed from the guest room, “Everything is secure,” she winked.

I pressed my ear hard against the door. I wanted to hear something, something more, something that would help me identify the voice in the hallway. My ears drums felt they might burst when a shrill yip cut through the silence. 

“Hello down there,” a gravelly woman’s voice yelled into the hallway. “Isn’t she there? She should be there. She’s always there at night. Why don’t you try again young man?”

The tapping noise was repeated a few times before the footsteps travelled back toward the front of the building, louder, quicker than they had been the first time. 1B and her dog were still there, waiting, watching.

“No luck sweetie?”

“No, no luck,” the voice answered quietly.

“If you’d like, I can take a message, I always see her in the morning when she’s on her way to work.”

“No, no thank you.”

“Are you sure honey, it’s no trouble to me,” 1B offered eagerly. You could leave a note.”

Whoever was in the hallway didn’t respond.

Fear kept me glued to the door, my hand wrapped tightly around the knob, my full weight pressed against the dark-stained wood. The footsteps moved past the door and I waited for the heavy click of the front entrance before I dared let go of the knob. Goose bumps broke out across my arms and legs, and the back of my skull started to tingle.

“I think the coast is clear,” I said weakly. “Whoever it was, they just left.” 

Anja dashed to the window that over looked the street, she peeked between the curtains. “I don’t see anyone, except,” she pointed her finger across the hall to apartment 1B, then moved to see in the other direction. “No, no I don’t see anyone else out there.” 

With barely any sleep, I made my way to work. The air in the office was thick and sticky, heat blasted from the vents in the ceiling, and the windows were covered with sweat. My co-workers were stripped down to the lowest layer they could decently go. I followed their cue. One of the mailroom clerks pushed his heavily loaded cart past my desk, his face was red, his brow covered with moisture.

“What’s up with the heat?” I asked.

“I think the furnace is broken again.” He stopped long enough to wipe his face with the back of his forearm. “The thermostat must be stuck on super hot or something,” he laughed as he passed me a stack of wildly crumpled envelopes.

I flipped through them casually. “Looks like somebody was in a bad mood yesterday.”

“Aren’t they always? Must be tough to read other people’s mail all day, eh?”

My eyes kept wandering toward the clock. I cursed that stupid clock. How could it really only have been ten minutes when it felt as though it couldn’t have possibly been any less than two hours? Time is a strange thing. Logically speaking a minute is a minute, and all minutes are supposed to be the same but our perception of time can make one minute pass so quickly it seems never to have existed or make the same minute feel as though it will never end.

I passed the time trying to imagine what they were doing back at the apartment.
8:00 - They should be up now. Anja is probably getting them breakfast. They’ll sit around the table, laughing, talking, the little family Anja never got to have. 8:30 - Anja has cleared the table and left the dishes in the sink, they’re all dressed, packed and ready to go, just relaxing a bit and saying goodbye. Anja will try to act like she’s fine, but she won’t be able to. 9:00 - They must be heading to the cellar now. Going quietly to the back door, the kids will probably love the idea of sneaking around. Anja will tell Evie it’s all just a game.

I could feel my eyes well up. I wiped them quickly, hoping no one would notice. They would be long gone by the time I got home. I knew in all likelihood I would never see Thomas or the kids ever again. Anja warned the boys several times
about trying to come back. “It’s too dangerous now,” she said, “far too dangerous
.
” She must have repeated that phrase a half dozen times. She said it so many times I felt she was almost daring them to come back and was secretly hoping they would.

As the clock struck 9:30, a clanking metal noise came from the furnace room followed by a long string of profanity. A loud suck of air pulled through the vents. Everyone looked to the ceiling. The vent fell silent. The boiler room door burst open and the head maintenance man rushed out into the office.

“Everyone out, everyone out!” He said waving his hands in giant, frenetic circles. We stood motionless, unable to see the relationship between ourselves and the man in grease covered overalls running wildly through the office. “Gas leak! Gas leak!” He yelled even louder, frustrated by the lack of response.

I grabbed my things, and rushed toward the exit with everyone else. Most people funneled to the stairwell but a few stopped to wait for the elevator, further incensing the maintenance man. “Aaaaaare you people crazy?” he yelled swatting his hands toward them, he looked like a cranky, old rancher trying to get his unruly cattle to move along. “Use the stairs! Use the stairs!”

After having spent the better part of the morning in the sweltering heat of the office, the air outside felt brisk and refreshing. Initially, there was a buzz of excitement, the same excitement felt by school children when a fire alarm is sounded. Adrenaline pumps through the system with the thought that the situation may actually be real, real and probably dangerous. When you realize it’s just a drill, you still relish in the fact that the monotony of a school day is unexpectedly broken by a trip outside with your friends. But eventually the excitement fades and standing outside with nothing to do starts to become less of a thrill and more of an inconvenience. After about twenty minutes time, that was the feeling shared by most everyone from the office.

The once refreshing morning air became cold and uncomfortable and we stamped around trying to warm ourselves in the sunless, shaded sidewalk in front of the building. Our full attention was directed toward the main doors as they were pushed open in unison. The security guard that usually manned the front
desk lumbered out onto the sidewalk, his hands crossed over his chest. He reviewed the crowd, moving his head slowly and methodically, he would demand complete silence and attention before he would honor us with whatever information he held. When he finally felt satisfied, he cleared his throat and started speaking in an unnecessarily official tone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” his chin held high, I wasn’t sure if he did that because it made him feel more superior, or whether he’d been told that angle made his neck appear more slender. “It has come to my attention,” he said, pausing dramatically, “that the problem upstairs will require additional time to repair.”

A collective sigh emanated from the crowd. The security guard breathed heavily and cleared his throat again, this time it sounded a bit forced and I suspected it was an attempt to remind us that he would not continue speaking until we were silent and he had our full attention. “The good news is,” he said, “that we should, and I repeat should, have things back to normal within the hour."

There was no more grumbling as everyone seemed pleased with that part of the announcement. People started to pair off and excuse themselves to go walk around the block, walk to the park, or run a few errands. I thought I might as well use the time to get something quick to eat at the grocery around the corner. The store was small and dirty and they never had anything good in there, but it was the only place close enough to walk to during working hours.

The store seemed to be more crowded than usual for that time of morning and I figured they must have gotten something in or perhaps there had just been a loose rumor. Food rumors were to be taken very seriously even though there was always a good chance they were just that, a rumor. You simply did not have the luxury of dismissing a rumor, no matter how impossible or implausible it might seem. I often found it curious that people weren’t more upset when they’d made all the effort to get something only to find that it had never existed in the first place, but it was just a reality that we accepted.

In the moments that we chased the rumors, we were allowed a chance to dream. To imagine what it would be like to be lucky, lucky enough to have heard the rumor first, lucky enough to be close enough to the point of distribution to make it to the front of the line. That spot of luck might change everything, from then forward you might be considered lucky, your luck might continue, it might over flow to the next time there was a rumor, the next time a good job came open, the next time a good apartment became available. You lived for the moment the store owner placed the coveted item in your hand then turned to face the people behind you, the people less lucky, the people whose luck might completely evaporate as soon as they got their turn at the counter. You passed them trying not to make eye contact, trying not to look into the faces full of hope, full of anxiety. They wanted to be lucky too. Most people didn’t really even care what they might be in line for, half the time they didn’t even know what they were in line for. It didn’t matter, it was all just about validating how lucky you were. How much the universe loved you.

The little store started to fill rapidly, people stood shoulder to shoulder, squeezing in where there was room, and squeezing harder where there was not. I asked the woman trying desperately not to crush me with her bag what everyone was waiting for.

“I don’t know,” she laughed. “I had been waiting down the street for apples,” a wide smile crossed her face. “Can you imagine? Apples? Apples! They said they would have apples! I can’t remember the last time I ate an apple.” She raised her free hand to her mouth, opening it wide to take a bite of her imaginary apple. Her eyes closed and she inhaled dreamily, experiencing the cold, crisp, juicy sensation that could only be brought about by an apple. She laughed and opened her bag to reveal the contents. There were no apples. “I just followed some of the other ladies here. I really have no idea what they’re even supposed to have.”

The crowd pulsated, I was near the back of the store without much hope of getting out, people continued to filter through the front, ignoring the pleas of the storekeeper who was frantically trying to wave them away. The heat soon became stifling. I pulled at the door of the nearest cooler, the inside shared the same smell that could be found in a deli where strong meats and fine cheeses were stored in the open, or possibly the smell of a dairy, where the bittersweet
mixture of soured milk and fresh manure could always be found. Yes, that was it. It smelled like a dairy, exactly like a dairy.

I was well familiar with such a smell after having visited a dairy at least once a week with my mother when I was young. You would bring your container into a pasteurizing room where a giant vat of milk resided. While filling your bottle, milk would inevitably overflow and pool on the floor, waiting, growing sour, for someone to wash it away. If you got there at the right time, you could watch the cows file in, walking dutifully to their stations. They nibbled on hay while cold, metal suction devices were attached to each nipple, the milk sucked from them, flowing into tubes that whisked it off into collective storage. Normally only certain people were allowed to go directly through the farmer but somehow my mother obtained permission. There were several reasons that made the trip desirable, of course the milk was fresh and readily available but the main reason my mother liked to go directly to the farm was for the thick, rich cream that formed on top of the milk once it had settled, a delicacy that even the most exaggerated food rumor couldn’t produce.

Someone pressed hard against me and my knees were forced into the edge of the refrigeration unit. “Excuse me!” I snapped, turning around to see a near riot unfolding at the front of the store. Apparently it was not just a rumor, the highly sought after item appeared to be some sort of tinned sardines. The storeowner looked nervous, and I soon understood why he had been so enthusiastic about trying to wave people away. His wife presented only two small boxes on the counter, she struggled to open them amidst the chaos, hands were flung in the air, pushing, shoving, a low buzz of voices floated above the thronging crown. From where I stood, it appeared there would only be enough to satisfy about half of the people in line.

I felt another hard push from behind, only this time I was being taken through the crowd, past its edge. I ducked as I was shoved through the curtain separating the storage area from the rest of the store. The entry to the space was small and our bodies were pushed tight against one another with no room to separate. A large, strong hand placed itself quickly over my mouth. I recognized the sweet,
dry, musky smell of after-shave from the day before. I looked up into the same eyes that had met mine in the interrogation room. But this time they weren’t shy, they were intense and serious. He held the finger of his free hand to his lips. “I have something very important to tell you, but we must hurry.” He dropped the hand that had been covering my mouth, his face scrunched up, “Sorry about that, I just didn’t want you to scream. I was sure you were going to scream.”

“It’s okay.” I said coyly, feeling as though I had been suddenly transported to a secondary school dance where butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I watched the cutest boy in the class walk across the room toward me. Up until that moment I’d found anyone having anything to do with the police quite repulsive, they were usually small men with something to prove, perhaps the type that might be drawn to bodybuilding or bar room fig
hting. But Marko was different. He didn’t seem to be anything like the rest of them, not anything at all, and I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d managed to land himself in such an incredibly unsuitable profession.

“Friedrich’s gone back to your building, and he’s taken a bunch of guys with him.”

“What?” I nearly shouted. “But why?”

“Shhhhhhhht!” He threw his hand firmly into the air, the way a crossing guard might direct a fast approaching driver to come to a stop. He peered through the slit in the curtain to make sure no one on the other side had heard me. “You have to be more quiet!”

I nodded, lowering my head in embarrassment.

“Someone keeps calling the dispatch.”

He was speaking so low, I could barely hear him. I stood on my toes to reach closer to his ear, bringing me closer to that source of that heavenly smell that could be found wherever he went, “I can barely hear you!”

The noise outside grew louder, there was another world going in the store, the low rumble of humanity, on a quest for self-preservation, shuffling, shrieking, bartering, begging. We weren’t part of any of that, a thick, floral tapestry separated us from the uncivilized. He put his hands on my arms pulling me even
closer, leaning into me so he could speak directly into my ear. I tried to form the warm breath of his voice into words.

“I said,” he nearly shouted, “someone has been calling our dispatch all morning.”

I pulled back. I wanted to see his face.

“Why?”

Of course I knew why, I wanted to see if he thought I knew why. He pulled me closer again. “They’ve claimed there were unfamiliar voices in your building,” he released my arms somewhat and pulled back, “children’s voices.”