The Informer (Sabotage Group BB) (16 page)

Poul-Erik watches as his mother rushes for the kitchen. His dad in the Hipo? This can’t be happening. He can’t be sitting here, drinking with a Hipo. His dad is a Hipo pig. He is still afraid of him, but he is a hell of a lot more man than his father. He has killed more German soldiers than that jerk is capable of counting. He can’t be sitting here.

He closes his eyes, touching his forehead. Suddenly he realizes that he can’t live here anymore. He has to go to Sweden. There is no choice left for him. He has to get away from this.

“I’ve got an appointment,” he says, getting up.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

“No.”

His father takes his time getting up. Staring at him. Olga comes in with the beer, as he does so.

“No, Karl, not now. Take it easy. It’s our happy day.”

“He refuses to congratulate me, that puppy.”

“Poul-Erik. Congratulate your father!”

“No. I’m ashamed you’re my father. A Hipo pig for a father. That should make me feel proud? You make me sick!”

“You…you!” The bottles topple and the beer spills out as his father fails to grab him across the table.

“Poul-Erik, congratulate your father!”

“No.”

The first blow hits Poul-Erik in the stomach, the next one throws him back into the wall. Now everything is back to normal. Now, Poul-Erik recognizes his family again.

34

“Stop!” BB shouts as Jens steps out of the allotment house carrying a cardboard box. Frowning, Jens stops dead in his tracks to examine their faces. BB is about three steps ahead of Alis K. Both have one hand deep within their coat pockets. “Put the box down, gently.”

Jens tilts his head, licking his teeth. “What’s going on?” he asks. Alis K moves her hand inside the pocket to point her pistol at him. Jens turns to BB.

“Get in the house, Verner. I need to talk to you,” BB says, obviously using Jens’s real name trying to intimidate him. This has a bad ring to it.

“Johannes, Ingrid,” Jens answers calmly, putting the box down on the grass. “Then come in.”

“Are you about to leave this place?” Alis K asks, when all three of them have made it inside the tiny house. His suitcase is lying open on the floor, clothes inside, a couple of boxes of booze and tobacco next to it.

“The neighbor was out in the garden looking in through the windows a few hours ago. I can’t stay.”

“You got another place to hide out?”

“Sure.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere. A basement in Gentofte. Is this an interrogation?”

“Yes,” Alis K says. “Borge is dead.”

“Your revolver, Verner.” BB holds his hand out to receive it. “Now.”

“But…” He shrugs, pulling the revolver out from behind the couch cushions. Holding it with just two fingers around the butt, he drops it into BB’s hand. “Here you go.”

Letting himself drop heavily on to the worn out couch, he shakes a cigarette out of the box. “You think I killed Borge? That’s why you come here all pushy, pointing your guns at me, calling me Verner? Sit down, please. Have a smoke, dammit. I haven’t touched him.”

BB sits, Alis K settles for a cigarette. She is keeping her hand down her pocket. He must be careful not to make any sudden moves. She is on the verge of shooting right there, he knows that look in her eyes—has seen her kill before. She is a talented killer.

“The Germans shot him last night after you ran off.”

“I didn’t run off.” He holds the match for BB to light up his cigarette. “I told you. It wasn’t our battle. It wasn’t worth getting killed for.” He strikes another match and raises his hand to light up Alis K’s cigarette. She hesitates, not sure if she is willing to risk moving a step closer to him. She looks at BB. Jens settles with lighting up his own cigarette, killing the match with a quick wave of the hand. “Here!” He throws the box of matches to her.

“It was our battle,” Alis K says. “It was Willy.”

“Willy? But he should be standing guard for fuck sake. He… Oh!” Now he gets it. The pistols in their pockets, the use of his real name, the desire to kill inside the eyes of Alis K. “You think I’m the informer…the fucking rat? Me?”

“Willy strolled into the backyard among all the waiting Germans. Captured the heavy machine gun in the back of the truck,” Alis K says harshly. “We were trying to assist him when
you
ran off. Borge got shot. He died almost instantly.”

Jens sighs. This is bad. He is thinking like crazy. But what can he do? What can he say?

“Then Willy’s not the rat.” He says tiredly. “And now, you think it is me. You are here to kill me. Did I get that much right?”

“I would like to hear your explanation,” BB says.

“My explanation? Fuck you!”

The small house is all quiet for a while. Jens stares at the burned matchstick inside the ashtray. “Borge came around after the hit on the
Super
garage making the same kind of accusations. I laughed at him. I know all your real names, I know where you live. If I was the rat, then why hasn’t the Gestapo been around your places to arrest you?”

“Because you are one hell of a business man, Verner,” Alis K says. “If you sold it all at once, there’d been nothing left to sell. This way, you’ve been able to sell our asses operation by operation. As long as you didn’t tell them who we were, those of us who got away would soon be planning a new operation you could sell.”

35

The radio is playing Mozart. Grete is sitting by the window, looking out, while mechanically rolling up a ball of yarn. It is freezing outside. Ice crystals along the edges of the window. Heavy, dark clouds in the sky above. Soon, it might begin to rain. Or even snow. The postman passes by the window on his bicycle.

Johannes had of course been unable to hide the two saboteurs from her. She had heard them sneaking around in the basement shelter at once. You hear every sound in this house at night. She had had another sleepless night sitting right here in the same chair, but with the blackout curtains drawn. She had even heard them walking down the basement shaft. She had feared they were burglars for a moment, until she recognized the sound of Johannes’s voice and heard the key in the basement door. She was holding her breath, listening, as they went into the shelter. Then she went into the kitchen to make coffee. Johannes looked like he was going to faint when she came into the shelter carrying a tray with coffee and cheese sandwiches. Johannes was in the company of two other saboteurs. A young boy and the woman who had been there the day before. Alis K. There was blood on their clothes. She stared at Johannes, who attempted a sorry excuse for an apologetic smile.

The woman and the boy both spent the night down in the shelter. Grete made them breakfast and gave them some clothes to wear. She hadn’t spoken to Johannes. She couldn’t. She could hardly look at him.

Of course, he is having an affair with this Alis K. That is just the way he is. She knows him too well. He is driven by a constant need for new thrills. That is his inner demon. He can’t help it. It has been a long time since it stopped making her feel humiliated.

She was not a virgin when they got married. Of course she wasn’t. You couldn’t keep Johannes waiting. But she wasn’t a virgin when she met Johannes either. There was a reason why she was sent away to Odense when she was seventeen. Odense was a punishment. She had brought shame upon her family.

A seagull flies by the window. She closes her eyes.

The first thing, she recalls, is the bulge in the young man’s pants. She had been unable to take her eyes of it. Something happened to her the moment she saw that bulge. A weird sensation deep inside her abdomen. She felt weak, but felt so light. It was a lovely summer in 1929. The town of Struer in the western part of Jutland was showered in sunshine. The bees were humming, the butterflies fluttering. The bay, Limfjorden, was flashing in the sun, and the minister’s daughter lost her virginity in an old tool shed, while the mosquitoes feasted on her skin.

Her father, the minister, was a big man with a beard and the Bible at his side. He sat at the end of the dinner table, towering over his family. Nothing was allowed without his permission. He would punish those who disobeyed him harshly in the name of God. They were five children, all girls. Grete was the second oldest. He would say the prayer before dinner. He read the Bible every day. He wasn’t a man anybody wanted to stand up against. He had pride in the purity of his girls, emphasized it to his parish. Girls should be held on a tight leash. They had the devil inside their chests. He often had to beat it out of them with his belt, as God wanted him to.

Before Grete set eyes on the bulge in the young man’s trousers, she had always followed her father’s command; never once spoke against his will, never did anything without his permission. Virtuous, pretty, submissive. As God wanted her to be. She’d renounced the devil and all his works. She wasn’t looking for trouble like her little sister Ruth who stole from the cookie box before Christmas, making all of them get the belt. He always punished all of them for one girl’s sins. You had to repent your sins, and you had to stand side by side against the devil. The belt was black leather, the buckle replaced by a short stick to make it easier to swing at the girls. The minister was always crying as he punished his daughters. It was his severe duty to do this. It was what the Lord commanded him to do, like it was written by the Apostle Paul. Love was to discipline, and he loved his daughters so very much.

Grete had been on her way to church with a letter to her father from the Capital the first time she noticed the bulge in the young man’s trousers. He was raking the gravel on the churchyard paths. Just a young man her own age. There were so many of those young men around. She greeted him and curtsied briefly, politely lowering her glance as she had been taught. If she had been allowed to look him in the eye, she might never have spotted the bulge in his pants. It was huge. It almost looked like the guy had a cucumber down his trousers.

She was still trembling when she handed the letter to her father. In the days that followed she started inventing excuses to visit the church to get a second glance at the bulge in the young man’s pants. She became obsessed with that bulge. Dreamt about it at night. Woke with her hands under the covers. She prayed the Lord to save her soul; she didn’t want this to happen. But the sin was sweet.

And God wouldn’t help her.

His name was Einar. He was from the small town of Lemvig, west of Struer. His parents had passed away in a fire some months ago, leaving him all by himself. The reverend in Lemvig talked to her father, wanting to help this poor young man whose parents had been active members of the congregation. So now, he had a job helping the old gravedigger at the cemetery and lived in a tiny attic in a house in Struer.

She was so in love, it hurt to even to look at Einar, but it was nothing like the pure and clean love her father used to preach about. It was something completely different, something dark, and forbidden. Deep within her soul. Something far stronger than she was, far more powerful than the fear of her father. There was no mercy. She was lost. Only seventeen years old.

And when it finally happened, it was almost like a rehearsed play where they only acted what had been predetermined. They didn’t speak. Only one word was spoken as she walked to him, taking his hand.

“Come.”

Silently they went into the tool shed down the remotest corner of the cemetery. The door was still closing behind them when she ripped his trousers open, releasing the huge—

The ding-ding-dong of the doorbell shatters the memory, bringing Grete back to the present. She stirs, blinking her eyes. Her heart pounding inside her chest. She puts the yarn down on the floor by the chair and stands up, as the doorbell sounds again.

She finds the boy from last night, Willy, standing outside the front door. He is still wearing Johannes’ old suit. He is shaking. Just standing there, shaking all over.

“What happened?”

“I have…killed my father.”

36

“He’s never going to confess, BB,” Alis K says tiredly. “Why don’t we just shoot him and go home? I’ve got an important appointment coming up.”

“An appointment!” Jens spits. “You’re nothing but a fucking whore!”

Her eyes are cold. She takes another one of his cigarettes. “And you’re nothing but a dead rat, Verner. Why don’t you just tell it like it is?”

“Goddammit, BB, I was the one who started this sabotage group. We’ve been through a lot together, the two of us. Haven’t I fucking saved your life?”

“More than once.” BB nods his head, crossing his legs. “But this has got a bad smell to it, Verner.”

“A bad smell? How much money did you make the night we sailed the Jews to safety in Sweden? I was the one contacting you. I was the one starting it all.”

“People change sides,” Alis K says. “You’ve always been a dirty piece of shit cop. You can be bought, Verner!”

“Just like you, Ingrid. Just like you.”

She stares at him, not saying anything, looking sick to her stomach.

“No, you’re nothing like me.” Her voice little more than a whisper. She pulls hard on the cigarette to make the glow grow long. Then she blows the smoke into his face while stubbing out the cigarette on the back of his hand.