“Then you’ll walk the rest of the way to the coast.”
“You’ve got the truck loaded?”
“Fifty bushels of barley, twenty casks of beer. My cousin’s expecting the truck in Agersted. He’ll be taking it to market himself. This war isn’t all bad — we got a good price on the barley, let me tell you.”
Fredrik rubbed his hands together. “Go get them, why don’t you?” Oskar noticed how jittery his father was. His cheeks shimmered — the glow of the lantern revealed a beading layer of sweat. When the farmer disappeared into the recesses of the barn, Fredrik felt for something in the pocket of his jacket, then excused himself. “I’m going to take a leak,” he said to Axel. On his way to the door, his boots hit the earth too hard, as if he was expecting a downward slope, Oskar thought. The shock of his weight telegraphed itself through his long limbs.
The latch was cold on Fredrik’s fingers. Already, his body had begun to acclimate to the damp heat of the animals. When he pushed the door open, the wind smacked his face. Freezingrain stung his cheeks, blinding him. Normally, he would have simply popped a few pills. He had a vial in his pocket, and even though he wasn’t a user, Axel probably would have wanted one, too. But Oskar was here with them — his presence was throwing him off. And Fredrik was fatigued. He had gone nearly a week without sleep. Last night, he had crept across the farm and burglarized the Nielsens’ grain locker. He didn’t like stealing from the Nielsens, because it only meant that they had less to pay him. But the grain locker was an easy mark, and he needed the money. And then the fire at Jepsen’s warehouse had distracted him, and he hadn’t gotten into bed until after two. The night before, he had been caught in Aalborg after curfew and had ended up staying with Isabella. The Italian bitch snored like a man, and the prostitutes in the next room had kept him up half the night whoring with German soldiers. The night before that, he had gone with Axel to Skagen to transport some contraband. The night before that — Fredrik closed the door behind him, found shelter on the side of the barn beneath the overhang. There wasn’t much time. He removed the syringe from his jacket pocket.
When he switched on the torch, its weak glow encircled him in a small bubble of light. He knelt down, and his knee sank into the mud. He raised his trouser cuff, plunged the grimy, fetid needle into a vein just above his ankle. The torch flickered as the battery drained, and the bubble of light grew even smaller. Standing up again, he reached his hands for its smooth edges, expecting contact with a layer of film. The vial of pills rattled in his pocket. He uncapped the brown bottle without looking at it, dropped a capsule onto his tongue, then another. When he unbuttoned his pants, his hands were shaking.
He watched the uneven stream of dank yellow piss penetrate the edge of the filmy bubble then dig a ragged grooveinto the saturated earth. The urine burned, and he stanched the flow between his finger and thumb. He hadn’t bathed since spending the night with Isabella. The smell of their sex wafted into his nostrils. The crude mix of chemicals ripped a gash into the lining of his heart, tore holes into his lungs, seeped like contaminated water into the marrow in the core of his bones. Behind him, the muffled voices inside the barn became the cry of doves.
When Fredrik stepped back through the rotting door, the Jews — an old man, his wife, and their daughter — were huddled around the lantern like moths, whispering to one another in proper German. At the sound of his entrance, they stopped talking, and all three turned toward him, their mouths poised in perfect circles. Rather than feel any pity for this family, Fredrik had to swallow a flux of disgust. The old Jew was so ugly that he could barely look at him. His eyes were dull brown stones behind the polished lenses of a pair of
“You’ve got the truck loaded?”
“Fifty bushels of barley, twenty casks of beer. My cousin’s expecting the truck in Agersted. He’ll be taking it to market himself. This war isn’t all bad — we got a good price on the barley, let me tell you.”
Fredrik rubbed his hands together. “Go get them, why don’t you?” Oskar noticed how jittery his father was. His cheeks shimmered — the glow of the lantern revealed a beading layer of sweat. When the farmer disappeared into the recesses of the barn, Fredrik felt for something in the pocket of his jacket, then excused himself. “I’m going to take a leak,” he said to Axel. On his way to the door, his boots hit the earth too hard, as if he was expecting a downward slope, Oskar thought. The shock of his weight telegraphed itself through his long limbs.
The latch was cold on Fredrik’s fingers. Already, his body had begun to acclimate to the damp heat of the animals. When he pushed the door open, the wind smacked his face. Freezingrain stung his cheeks, blinding him. Normally, he would have simply popped a few pills. He had a vial in his pocket, and even though he wasn’t a user, Axel probably would have wanted one, too. But Oskar was here with them — his presence was throwing him off. And Fredrik was fatigued. He had gone nearly a week without sleep. Last night, he had crept across the farm and burglarized the Nielsens’ grain locker. He didn’t like stealing from the Nielsens, because it only meant that they had less to pay him. But the grain locker was an easy mark, and he needed the money. And then the fire at Jepsen’s warehouse had distracted him, and he hadn’t gotten into bed until after two. The night before, he had been caught in Aalborg after curfew and had ended up staying with Isabella. The Italian bitch snored like a man, and the prostitutes in the next room had kept him up half the night whoring with German soldiers. The night before that, he had gone with Axel to Skagen to transport some contraband. The night before that — Fredrik closed the door behind him, found shelter on the side of the barn beneath the overhang. There wasn’t much time. He removed the syringe from his jacket pocket.
When he switched on the torch, its weak glow encircled him in a small bubble of light. He knelt down, and his knee sank into the mud. He raised his trouser cuff, plunged the grimy, fetid needle into a vein just above his ankle. The torch flickered as the battery drained, and the bubble of light grew even smaller. Standing up again, he reached his hands for its smooth edges, expecting contact with a layer of film. The vial of pills rattled in his pocket. He uncapped the brown bottle without looking at it, dropped a capsule onto his tongue, then another. When he unbuttoned his pants, his hands were shaking.
He watched the uneven stream of dank yellow piss penetrate the edge of the filmy bubble then dig a ragged grooveinto the saturated earth. The urine burned, and he stanched the flow between his finger and thumb. He hadn’t bathed since spending the night with Isabella. The smell of their sex wafted into his nostrils. The crude mix of chemicals ripped a gash into the lining of his heart, tore holes into his lungs, seeped like contaminated water into the marrow in the core of his bones. Behind him, the muffled voices inside the barn became the cry of doves.
When Fredrik stepped back through the rotting door, the Jews — an old man, his wife, and their daughter — were huddled around the lantern like moths, whispering to one another in proper German. At the sound of his entrance, they stopped talking, and all three turned toward him, their mouths poised in perfect circles. Rather than feel any pity for this family, Fredrik had to swallow a flux of disgust. The old Jew was so ugly that he could barely look at him. His eyes were dull brown stones behind the polished lenses of a pair of
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