The Number 7 (28 page)

Still, his daily routine began to feel second nature. He executed his schedule flawlessly: after arriving in the Trelleborg harbor on one of the railcar ferries—sometimes Lasse's, sometimes not—the German trains continued through Trelleborg's station and connected to Gerhard's own engine. He and Robert smoked cigarettes and watched as new passenger cars appeared in the early morning sun. His train and its travelers arrived at the Norwegian border by one o'clock, completing their seven-hour trip. Gerhard always followed a schedule. He didn't dare deviate from the routine.

But one wet day in late summer, the system altered. That afternoon, as the sun hid behind clouds and the rain fell steady and hard, Gerhard slowly pulled his haul into the Norwegian city, Narvik. The air smelled of manure. This afternoon was different. A huddled crowd of men stood waiting for him on the platform.

The downtrodden group—crippled young boys in faded green—all wore the same vacancy in their eyes. Their clothes, the color of muck on stagnant pools, hung loosely over their weary limbs. They were expressionless zombies. On the far end of the platform stood a handful of armed SS guards, their polished guns pointing menacingly at their prisoners, their pressed khaki shirts contrasting sharply against the dull green. As Gerhard's passengers exited his train, they reacted with the prisoners on the platform like water and oil, one group shuffling aside to avoid mixing with the other. Two incompatible bodies; two contrasting worlds.

“What's this?” Gerhard asked while disembarking his car.

“New cargo,” the head German answered.

“Cargo?” Gerhard glanced at the crowd of grave faces. They stared back at him behind dead eyes.

“You're a Swede?” one of the prisoners shouted to him in Norwegian, right before an armed guard knocked him to the ground with the butt of his machine gun.

The young man whimpered in agony and struggled to get back up. None looked his way; none attempted to help. It was as if they wanted him to remain down. As if it were
better
for him to stay down. The prisoners stared submissively at the train, at Gerhard. He clutched his throat where his collar felt tight around his neck. He needed to breathe, but his lungs constricted. Gerhard coughed loudly and looked away, shutting his eyes tightly, trying to squeeze their gaunt faces from his mind. He wanted the prisoners to know he wasn't who they thought he was. But they didn't seem to care.

“You're taking these prisoners of war to Trelleborg where they'll continue to Germany. Officer Litzing will meet them at the Swedish docks. He'll travel with them across the border. You only take them to Trelleborg.” The SS soldier nodded to Gerhard before turning back to the group. “Go, now! Go, board!”

Gerhard didn't have time to stop them; they poured over the platform through his car doors. They were eager and fatigued.
How long had they been waiting for him?

“Wait, wait, wait,” Gerhard turned to the German. “I can't take them to Trelleborg.”

But the soldier didn't respond; he was busy pulling bandaged, bloodied men from the crowd and pushing them hurriedly into the cars. Gerhard watched helplessly. Robert came to join him up front.

“What are we doing, Gerhard?”

But Gerhard only stared. He had no answer.

Arriving back in Trelleborg, Gerhard met a new group of German soldiers who took over the ride. He watched his train disappear down the tracks toward the docks where, he assumed, Litzing waited to carry out their final leg of the trip. Gerhard couldn't stay at the station. He felt sick and tired and wanted desperately to crawl into bed. As if waiting for his return, Lasse sat on the bench outside their house, eating an apple.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted warmly, shielding the sun with the palm of his hand.

“So you decide I'm worthy of you again?” Gerhard patronized.

Lasse looked quizzically at his brother before shrugging and tossing the apple core out into the road.

“Where have you been for the past four weeks?” Gerhard's voice broke, as if his mental stability would crumble at any moment. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples and he held out his hands, holding onto something that wasn't there.

“I've been here,” Lasse spoke casually, looking confused.

“You know what I mean,” Gerhard slumped beside him.

For a long moment, Lasse said nothing while Gerhard caught his breath.

“What did I do to deserve your silence?” Gerhard shook the fallen bangs out of his eyes and stared at his brother. It was like looking into a mirror.

At once, Lasse began to laugh, uncontrollable, frantic laughter, the likes of which often accompanies exhaustion. Gerhard's shoulders stiffened and he imagined grabbing his brother by the collar. All the agony of the day, all his confusion, all the uncertainty boiled ever so close to the surface that Gerhard trembled with rage.
Why the mockery? Why the jest?

“Gerhard, you've done nothing!”

“Then tell me what's going on because you can't shut me out,” Gerhard pleaded, lowering his voice so no one in the house would hear. “You don't know what I had to do today.”

Lasse stopped laughing and his face grew serious.

“What's that, Gerhard? What did you have to do?”

“I transported fifty Norwegians to God knows where, taking them to where only God can help them,” Gerhard explained, holding out his hands for Lasse to see his shaking.

Lasse leaned his head back against the house and looked up toward the sky.

“I was under strict orders,” Gerhard started to explain, but even he could hear the fear—the uncertainty—in his voice.

“Orders? Come now, Gerhard,” Lasse paused and took a deep breath. It seemed a struggle to continue. “For a year, I've watched and listened. I've listened to Father, I've listened to Pontus, I've listened to you. I've heard and seen things on the ferry I never asked to see or hear. Haven't you? Don't you know about the camps and the deaths and the exterminations?”

Lasse raised his eyebrows waiting for a reply, but Gerhard didn't have one.

“Don't you know about their ‘final solution'? Have you seen the bodies in the water like I have? Swimmers trying to escape—their bodies so frail that they float like driftwood. From what are they escaping? You know. I know you know.” He looked beyond Gerhard, choking on something deeply lodged into his memory.

Gerhard stood up from the bench and crouched down into the dirt. He didn't want to hear what his brother had to say. He didn't want to hear what he'd suspected for so long. He wasn't willing to let go of the fantasy he'd created for his life: a life free of guilt and responsibility.

“And don't act like you're innocent with the rest of them. ‘Following orders'?” Lasse's words came spitting out with disgust. “You don't want to think about the blood on your hands. But that's just it, Gerhard. There's blood on all of our hands.” Lasse held out his palms for Gerhard to see. “We shouldn't fear the Germans. We should fear ourselves.”

Lasse looked down at Gerhard hugging his knees. “The way we've been acting? Our willful blindness? That's not us. It's not Sweden. It's time to
act
, Gerhard.”

Gerhard waited a long time before collapsing at his brother's feet. His mouth felt dry, and he didn't think he was capable of speaking. He remembered Österberg's apathy and Kjell's impotence. He was going to be sick.

“So,” Lasse sighed. “You ask where I've been? I've been here, watching and waiting. I'm going to act, Gerhard. Trelleborg is going to burn, and you can either be the hero or the coward.”

When I arrived at Fat Bottoms the next evening, students I recognized from school and other young people crowded the porch and spilled out of the front door. I could hear a steady beat ripple through the air. I'd forgotten that the small coffee shop was hosting an evening of live indie music. I'd built up my courage to confess to Chris I'd made a mistake, and I refused to let my nerves sway me after I'd come all the way downtown. I elbowed my way through the throngs of people and squeezed past the front door. I saw Chris immediately, steaming milk and brewing espresso. He looked like a natural-born barista.

Shouting to him was pointless. The music was too loud, the crowd too dense, and I could tell he was preoccupied with work. I needed to get closer, so I stood behind a thick line of people waiting to put in their orders. Eventually, my foot found the beat.

The music was good. Peeking around the corner, I saw a small makeshift stage and a tall, thin guy with teased black hair crooning into a microphone. Behind him stood a bassist, rhythm guitarist, drummer, and keyboardist. The bass drum had the name “The Ottomans” taped on in black wire tape. Very hip. I immediately liked the band, this scene. I was getting more and more convinced this was where I was supposed to be. Here, with Chris.

The line didn't move once in five minutes, and I was getting anxious. I was so afraid if I had to wait another five minutes, I'd chicken out, throw in the towel, and retreat back to the house. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Where are you?
Greta texted me.

My face lit up. Of course! So easy!

At Fat Bottoms. Greta, you're a genius! I love you!
I texted back.

I'd had Chris's number in my phone ever since we worked on the almanac project together.
Hey, I'm here
, I sent to him.
You look busy.

Within two minutes, I saw Chris hand some girls their frothy mugs and pull his phone out of his jeans, checking his new message. Immediately, he looked up. I waved from my place in line, ten people back.

“Hi,” I mouthed silently, smiling broadly.

He looked happy to see me and returned the smile. My heart melted into a molten mess inside my chest. Maybe it was the setting or the music, but he looked the best I'd ever seen him.

“Can we talk?” I hoped he could read lips.

He stared back at me and held up his arms with a “how do I get away from this?” look.

My shoulders slumped. There was no way I'd be able to have this discussion any other day. My bravery was up. Right here, right now. I gestured to the other room, indicating that I'd wait. Chris nodded before getting back to his work.
Take it easy, Louisa
, I reassured myself.
It's just Chris.
So why did I feel like I was falling to pieces?

For another hour, The Ottomans played on. I looked around the coffee shop, people-watching. There were girls with pink hair, ripped tights, and leather jackets. There were peroxide blonds in tight skirts and cowboy boots. There were lots of tattoos and the scent of sweet tobacco—clove cigarettes—hung in the air. There was even a group of intellectuals in Ivy League sweaters and wire-rimmed glasses in the corner. I doubted there was anyone in the coffee shop over the age of thirty. It was quite an amalgamation of people: the hipsters, the college kids, the Ottomaniacs (self-dubbed groupies), and the local misfit high school kids I recognized from Chris's lunch table. Chris's ex, Lacey, delivered coffee from the bar. She never once asked me if I needed anything.

By nine-thirty, three-quarters of the crowd had filtered out of Fat Bottoms's cramped interior. The band started packing up their instruments. Chris wiped down the bar and counted the cash register. He looked exhausted. At ten he finally took a chair at my table, handing me a cappuccino.

“I didn't know you were coming tonight,” he smiled, leaning back in the chair and lifting his apron over his head.

“I didn't know I was either.” I shifted nervously in my seat.

“What's up? I feel like I haven't seen you in forever.” It was good to hear his deep voice again.

“I know. I'm sorry about that.” I cocked my head to the side and started playing with a divot in the table. I had to pull myself together.

“So,” I began, looking up into his eyes. For a moment, I got lost. Chris lifted his brows for me to continue. “So, last semester, I had this photography project, right? A photography essay. I did mine on my mom, kind of chronicling her life through pictures. Well, mine was the best in class.”

Chris chuckled at my arrogant honesty.

“No, it's true!” I laughed, too. I was feeling more relaxed.
It's just Chris
. “Mine was so good I was asked to show it at a gallery in Philadelphia. The opening is this week, actually.”

“Well,” Chris sounded a little confused why I'd come all the way to Fat Bottoms and waited an hour for his shift to end, only to tell him something seemingly inconsequential. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I continued running my fingers over the chip in the table. “So, here's the thing,” I inhaled, cautiously, “there's kind of a gala tomorrow night. Opening night. I wanted to know if you wanted to come. With me. To the gala . . .” My voice trailed off, sounding hesitant.

Chris folded his arms. He stared at me for a couple seconds as I sat in agony not knowing how he'd respond. The Ottoman drummer dropped his snare drum, and the entire room turned to look in his direction. Everyone but Chris and me. We continued our awkward silent showdown.

“Louisa, I don't really think it's a good idea.” He sighed, looking indifferent.

I broke our eye contact, directing my attention to a hangnail. I didn't say anything. I was quietly trying to figure out how to get him to change his mind.

“It's not really my thing, you know? I'm not a “gala” type of person.”

There was something in the way Chris said gala that sounded antagonistic, like he was making fun of me for even asking. Suddenly, I wanted to be as far from Fat Bottoms as possible. But Chris didn't stop there.

“Anyway, it's probably going to be a bunch of stuffed shirts. Not my scene.”

“Really?” I swallowed, my throat feeling hot. “So you think I'm a stuffed shirt?”