Read Online The Informer (Sabotage Group BB) by Steen Langstrup - Free Book Online
Authors: Steen Langstrup
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piss. He doesn’t sit down on the seat; instead he takes a box of matches from his pocket. The box is wet and the first match fails to ignite. He throws it down the loo and takes another one. This one lights up, making the shadows dance on the wooden walls. There are words like cunt and pussy carved into the walls. He steps up on the seat groping under the roof until he finds the pistol. He lets the match fall and closes his eyes just standing there, holding the pistol. He has shot two men with this gun. Two Hipo. After that, he made love to Alis K. He is a man now. More than that. He is a warrior. The pistol is cold in his hands. He lets the barrel touch his cheek. His heart is beating fast. He can’t wait for the next hit.
Ten minutes later, he puts the gun back. He could use a better place to stash it, but where would he find that? With seven—sometimes even eight—people living in a two-room apartment you don’t get that many secret hiding places.
The rats are fighting violently over something down the basement shaft, when he leaves the privy and walks to the stairway. The door to the stairway has been broken for years. It is impossible to close it properly. The green paint is coming off the crumbling wood. When it rains, the alley cats take shelter there, making the whole place reek with cat piss. Some steps on the stairs are broken, and somewhere between the second and the third floor, a piece of the railing is missing.
He finds his mother sitting in the small kitchen with a fag in her mouth breastfeeding the baby. “So, the master finally arrives?” She speaks quietly so as not to stir the sleeping children, but there’s danger in her voice.
I had to work late,” Poul-Erik whispers, looking into the dark living room. He only gets a glimpse of his two smaller brothers, Bjarne and Knud, sleeping on blankets on the floor. “Then I had to walk all the way home.” He takes off both his jacket and pants and hangs them to dry in the kitchen.
“What happened to your bicycle?”
“It was stolen yesterday.” One of his sisters, Bente or Jytte, moans in her sleep inside the bedroom. Poul-Erik wraps a blanket around him himself.
“Stolen? What’s that supposed to mean?” She carries the sleeping baby into the bedroom. Her eyes strike lightning in his direction. “Your father worked very hard to be able to give you that bicycle. What are you going to say to him when he gets home?”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Your fault.” She squeezes past him. Sweaty and angry. “You should be ashamed. You’ll never become a real man, Poul-Erik. You’re nothing but a sissy.” She snorts and sits heavily on the stool by the kitchen table. “You ain’t good for shit.”
Poul-Erik stares at her rough washerwoman hands, the dry, damaged skin. He feels the tears building, as the rage boils in his belly; he keeps it all inside.
“I’ve been washing stairs my whole life. One day after the other.” Her fat fingers drum the table for each word. “Since I was five years old. I’ve never complained. Shame on you. I’m embarrassed to have a son like you…can’t even look after his own bicycle. You just wait until your dad comes home. Then you’ll be in trouble, I can tell you that much.”
“I know.”
“Did you report it stolen?”
“To who? The Germans took the police, remember.”
“To the Hilfspolizei. To the Hipo.”
“No, I am not going to have anything to do with those bastards.”
She stares at him. “Sit down, my boy,” she says in a completely different tone of voice. “Are you hungry? There’s some porridge left in the pot. It’s cold, but you can still eat it.” She doesn’t wait for him to answer, but scoops some porridge into a tin bowl. “Here, eat.”
Poul-Erik eats the cold, lumpy porridge.
“The neighbor’s little boy, Gunnar, died today,” his mum says, lighting a new cigarette. The smoke smells more like burnt hay than tobacco. She talks on for a while about the
Ten minutes later, he puts the gun back. He could use a better place to stash it, but where would he find that? With seven—sometimes even eight—people living in a two-room apartment you don’t get that many secret hiding places.
The rats are fighting violently over something down the basement shaft, when he leaves the privy and walks to the stairway. The door to the stairway has been broken for years. It is impossible to close it properly. The green paint is coming off the crumbling wood. When it rains, the alley cats take shelter there, making the whole place reek with cat piss. Some steps on the stairs are broken, and somewhere between the second and the third floor, a piece of the railing is missing.
He finds his mother sitting in the small kitchen with a fag in her mouth breastfeeding the baby. “So, the master finally arrives?” She speaks quietly so as not to stir the sleeping children, but there’s danger in her voice.
I had to work late,” Poul-Erik whispers, looking into the dark living room. He only gets a glimpse of his two smaller brothers, Bjarne and Knud, sleeping on blankets on the floor. “Then I had to walk all the way home.” He takes off both his jacket and pants and hangs them to dry in the kitchen.
“What happened to your bicycle?”
“It was stolen yesterday.” One of his sisters, Bente or Jytte, moans in her sleep inside the bedroom. Poul-Erik wraps a blanket around him himself.
“Stolen? What’s that supposed to mean?” She carries the sleeping baby into the bedroom. Her eyes strike lightning in his direction. “Your father worked very hard to be able to give you that bicycle. What are you going to say to him when he gets home?”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Your fault.” She squeezes past him. Sweaty and angry. “You should be ashamed. You’ll never become a real man, Poul-Erik. You’re nothing but a sissy.” She snorts and sits heavily on the stool by the kitchen table. “You ain’t good for shit.”
Poul-Erik stares at her rough washerwoman hands, the dry, damaged skin. He feels the tears building, as the rage boils in his belly; he keeps it all inside.
“I’ve been washing stairs my whole life. One day after the other.” Her fat fingers drum the table for each word. “Since I was five years old. I’ve never complained. Shame on you. I’m embarrassed to have a son like you…can’t even look after his own bicycle. You just wait until your dad comes home. Then you’ll be in trouble, I can tell you that much.”
“I know.”
“Did you report it stolen?”
“To who? The Germans took the police, remember.”
“To the Hilfspolizei. To the Hipo.”
“No, I am not going to have anything to do with those bastards.”
She stares at him. “Sit down, my boy,” she says in a completely different tone of voice. “Are you hungry? There’s some porridge left in the pot. It’s cold, but you can still eat it.” She doesn’t wait for him to answer, but scoops some porridge into a tin bowl. “Here, eat.”
Poul-Erik eats the cold, lumpy porridge.
“The neighbor’s little boy, Gunnar, died today,” his mum says, lighting a new cigarette. The smoke smells more like burnt hay than tobacco. She talks on for a while about the
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