The Number 7 (30 page)

It took him ten minutes to bicycle to the train station. He stood on the platform, looking at the sky, committed to his daily routine. The cloud cover was extensive. Which direction was the sun? Gerhard took out his pocket watch: 6:55 in the morning. He was right on schedule. The day's new batch of German railcars would arrive at the station from the harbor in ten minutes, and he'd pull the Number 7 out of Trelleborg by eight o'clock sharp. For the last time.

He watched the little hands of his watch move ever so slowly around the center wheel.
I love this machine.
What was it Leif had told him so long ago?
Wind it every day and it will never fail you.

Casually, Gerhard glanced up at the tall, black clock standing erect on the platform. The timepiece was iconic to the Trelleborg station, towering four meters tall with a face as large as a serving platter. Looking at the clock was the first thing Gerhard did that day that strayed from his normal routine. He had never referenced any other clock but his pocket watch. What made him look up to see its ghostly white face that day? Gerhard never knew. As he stared, he felt his body go numb, felt his heart stop beating, and he held his breath until he felt dizzy.

8:13.

The platform clock read 8:13. Gerhard quickly held his pocket watch up in the air to compare the two clock faces side by side.

6:58.

8:13.

The gears and wheels of Gerhard's brain revolved, creaking into place. He slowly saw how all the pieces fit together. He closed his eyes and watched his twin brother standing at the washbasin, shaving his identifiable beard. He watched as Lasse sat discreetly on his side of the bedroom, staring each morning as Gerhard wound his pocket watch religiously.

Gerhard's mind imagined Lasse lying awake, waiting for the perfect moment to crawl out of bed and softly lift the pocket watch from his brother's bedside table. Lasse quietly opened the crown. Behind closed eyes, Gerhard watched his brother arrive at the station on schedule. He could see him now, on the track, manning the lever, approaching Mile Marker Two. And Gerhard suddenly realized his own role in this new plan: he had to get to the switch before the Number 7 did.

He sprinted off the platform toward his bicycle. He knew he could get to the mile marker in twenty-five minutes via a shortcut through the woods. The Number 7 would cross over Mile Marker Two in thirty minutes. There wasn't time to think. Gerhard had to get to the switch.

From the sky, the Skåne woods looked like an extensive chart of ant tunnels and animal burrows. Swedish locals visited the woods regularly and had developed a comprehensive map of dirt paths. Since they were young, Gerhard and Lasse had explored these woods with a tireless conviction. Gerhard felt as familiar in these woods as he did on the railroad or on the streets of Trelleborg. He knew exactly how to reach Mile Marker Two.

Gerhard wondered if Lasse knew he was on his way. He wondered if Lasse had planned it, knowing Gerhard would have just the right amount of time to reach the predestined spot on the rail to successfully execute the plan. How long had his brother planned this?

Gerhard had adequately prepared himself for his own demise. He had found his peace. But Lasse changed the rules. He cheated. And Gerhard was overcome with rage. Did Lasse think this was another competition?

Mile Marker Two lay in the bald side of a small knoll. It was the only clearing in the dense woods between the cities of Trelleborg and Vellinge. The Swedish railroad planners had created the switch as a way for trains to pass each other on the track coming in and out of Malmö. One train was able to pull itself onto a small stretch of track that lay parallel to the main route to allow an oncoming train to pass. It usually resulted in a ten- to fifteen-minute wait, but the conductors were happy to be patient if it meant avoiding a collision. The waiting track ran the length of a standard, full train—about ten car lengths—before turning back onto the main line. There were no barricades at the bend to prevent derailment; drivers would enter the alternate track cautiously. Never had there been any train malfunctions at Mile Marker Two, not until it had begun sticking. It provided the perfect opportunity for Lasse to derail the train, plunging it full speed into the thick Swedish forest.

At the spot where the two rails diverged, Gerhard jumped from his bike, discarded it at the base of a tree, and pulled out his watch: 8:41. He had four minutes to think before he'd see the black locomotive barreling around the bend, traveling full speed toward the end of the line.

Gerhard ran his hands through his hair, pushing his fingertips hard against his skull.
Think, think, think
. He knew he had the option of doing nothing and letting the train continue on its path all the way to Kornsjø. He didn't have to switch the lever, he didn't have to act. He walked over to the switch. It felt cold and hard, and he felt impotent.

It would take two seconds to make the decision.

He was a fool to have believed Lasse's coin toss. He should have expected his brother to take his place at the conductor's seat. Everything Lasse had ever said or done, everything leading up to this moment should have warned Gerhard what would happen.

And then Gerhard stopped.

Indeed, he was a fool.

This was Lasse's plan. The choice of sacrifice was never up to Gerhard. No coin should ever have been tossed. This decision to act had been Lasse's from the very beginning, and Gerhard had no right to insert himself and steal his brother's glory. But that didn't keep him, standing in the small clearing at Mile Marker Two, from hoping to hear his brother's change of heart. Just one whistle.

At 8:44 Gerhard saw his Number 7 round the south bend in the tracks, the same bend Gerhard had traveled countless times. Despite the cold wind, he held his hair in place, his two palms smoothing over his forehead. He looked at the front of the train from a distance, trying to see through the front window to glimpse his brother's face. What had Lasse decided? Where did he stand? But Gerhard saw only a reflection of the sky in the glass. He bent over as if to retch and screamed out in frustration. It wasn't supposed to be this way. He couldn't do it.

The train whistle blew, penetrating the woods. Its screech was loud and high-pitched. His ears pricked up, hoping—praying—to hear nothing more. He wanted to let the train continue its journey to Norway. He wanted his brother to live. And if that meant the war would last forever or if it meant that German forces would occupy Sweden, so be it. Gerhard was ready to walk away; he was satisfied with pretending that things weren't as bad as they seemed.

The train continued forward at an alarming rate. If Lasse jumped now, he'd surely meet his death. Still, the train came faster. Gerhard thought about what he'd told his brother the night before, “The faster the train, the bigger the crash.” Then the second whistle blew.

Gerhard felt as if he would collapse. How had this happened? How could Lasse have let this happen? And then he caught a glimpse of his brother through the window. A shadow crept across the glass and Gerhard saw him seventy meters away—beautifully handsome, standing tall at the front of the train. Lasse smiled peacefully and nodded, staring lovingly and intently in Gerhard's direction.

Time stopped.

Gerhard remembered their purpose. It wasn't about them, the Magnusson twins from Trelleborg. It wasn't about Sweden or its compliance. This was about seeing the world for what it was. This was about staring into hell while realizing heaven still exists. Gerhard knew what he had to do.

Slowly and with resolve, Gerhard reached out and felt the lever next to the track. Methodically, he twisted the handle and watched the track shift into place. He made the decision. The train was going to crash. Lasse was going to die.

I lay in bed that night, my cheeks rough with dried tears. I hadn't slept at all. I was devastated at the horror of Grandpa's sacrifice and the guilt from which he suffered. He'd labeled himself a murderer; he'd hauled that title from Sweden to America. Was he ever able to fully release himself of it?

I alternated emotions, switching from sorrow to anger to sorrow. I mourned the loss of a family member I'd only recently come to know and love. Lasse was as much a part of me now as Grandma and Grandpa were. Their triumphs and losses equaled those in my own life. And I was exhausted from the heartache.

I felt an animosity—justified or not—toward my dad for never knowing this tale himself. He'd never asked. Or had he? Grandpa never got the chance to tell his only son his story. Was it because he never found the right words? Was the pain too great? Was it because Dad reminded him too much of Lasse? Or did Dad remind him too much of himself?

Dad really didn't know much about his father. He'd run away from home, and with his departure, Grandpa's narrative was lost forever. Lost, until my phone rang that first night in my grandparents' house. For whatever reason, I'd been chosen to hear the tale. And lying in bed, I didn't know if I should feel gratitude or disgust. The only thing I knew—and this I finally understood with certainty—was that I had to tell Dad. He deserved to know, whether knowing would hurt him or not. Isn't that why we were here? So that he could find peace with the one wrong decision he made years ago? Whether he knew it or not, he'd decided to look back. He made that decision when he returned home.

After the phone call, my current boy troubles seemed so woefully insignificant that I was ashamed at even remembering my own problems. What did I know about grief? And then I thought about Mom. I did know real heartbreak. I understood what it felt like to lose the person closest to me.

Though it didn't come naturally, I decided I needed to be excited about the gallery event. I had become too wrapped up in the logistics of my date—Gabe's sudden illness and the possibility of Chris being my unrealized soulmate had sidetracked me. Looking back on my behavior over the past week, I was utterly embarrassed. How had I so completely lost my way?

The gallery event was the very thing I needed: a celebration of my mother. I was tired of distractions. Grandma's story made me realize just that: the gallery event wasn't about me, wasn't about my dress or my date. The night was dedicated to my mom and her life. This is what I was grateful to remember and I felt indebted to my grandparents for reminding me. Dad, my amazing father who deserved more than the brunt of my anger, dressed to the nines for my gallery event. He pulled out his old tuxedo—still in immaculate condition due to little wear—and pressed it for an entire hour to remove every wrinkle. He'd gone to Weaver's and asked the florist—disoriented in Gabe's absence—to create a corsage for me. How the florist had found chrysanthemums in February, I'll never know. Greta, usually the focus of any room, came out of her bedroom in an understated black dress. Her hair was pulled into a plain, unassuming up-do, and she wore one of Mom's emerald-encrusted brooches in her hair. She was beautiful because she was Greta, but she was the plainest I'd ever seen her. My wonderful older sister was giving me my night. She really had grown up since we had moved to Pennsylvania. And in her black cocktail dress, wearing Mom's jewelry, she looked like our mother's daughter. She was so graceful. That night I was—and I suppose I always will be—in awe of her.

I fumbled with Mom's dress and felt a little awkward pulling the pink sequined cloth over my head. Greta, in her older-sister omnipotent way, helped zip me up and whispered, “Louisa, you look beautiful. You know Mom would be so proud of you.” She looked me up and down in my vanity mirror. “Even if you are wearing those sneakers.”

I grinned. Mom would be proud of me for staying true to myself. Dad came in and pinned the purple mums to my dress. He looked rather smitten with his two daughters.

“You're sure you're okay with Rosemary coming, Louisa?” he asked as he closed the clasp on the corsage.

It was the tenth time he'd asked me. There were obvious reasons he would think I, or Greta, would have reservations about Rosemary coming to an art exhibit focusing on our mom. But the truth was, Rosemary's absence would now be noticed. She'd become part of our family. And I wanted her there, too. In our few months of living on October Hill Road, Rosemary had become a close confidante and a great source of support for some of my biggest secrets. She was a friend, not a parent. I was grateful to Rosemary for bringing my dad the happiness he was missing.

“I'd love for her to come,” I assured my dad with a smile, smoothing my dress in the mirror. I was ready. “Let's go get her.”

Other than the spotlights highlighting the artwork on the walls, the gallery was dimly lit. It made my eyes fuzzy when I focused on any one piece of work and then turned back into the room. An acoustic guitarist played Fats Waller tunes softly in one of the corners, and patrons slowly swayed back and forth, unconscious of their own movements. There was a bar in the adjacent corner serving plastic cups of wine to anyone who asked. Greta and I looked like the only people underage in the gallery. At one point, Mr. Franz pulled me aside and introduced me to a crowd of people as his “new star pupil.” I shook hands with the gallery owner and made small talk with an older gentleman from South Jersey. He told me he was an art collector and a “chaser of shadows.” All of his collection, he explained, contained some oddity or playfulness with light and dark. He told me he believed Mr. Franz was a serious photographer.

“Well, for my sake, I hope he doesn't leave Wyeth,” I joked with the man before excusing myself to see my own display.

My photo essay took up a four-foot-long space of well-lit wall. Though I'd looked at the pages a countless number of times—editing and arranging, cutting and matting—the photos looked different tacked onto the wall under the bright lights. I walked the length of my display, starting at Mom's earliest pictures and finishing at the clip I'd inserted of her obituary. I'd titled my work “The Unsung Dancer” and I liked the way my name looked in the small frame on the wall.