Read Online The Second Winter by Craig Larsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Larsen
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hundred and fifty.”
The farmer took the time to count the bills before pocketing them.
“Are these all your things?” Fredrik asked again.
“Yes,” the young woman answered him, paying special attention to him still, Fredrik noticed.
He scooped up their belongings in his massive hands. “Get the rest,” he said to Axel.
“I’ll take this one myself,” the old Jew said, pulling the leather satchel out of Axel’s grip.
Fredrik’s eyes met the old Jew’s. “Sure you will,” he said. Then he led the way out of the barn, into the storm. The rain drenched him as he shoved their carefully packed goods into a crude wooden crate. “You’ll travel underneath,” he said to the old man. “You and your wife and your daughter.”
“Underneath?” The old man’s glasses were slick with rain, and he couldn’t see where Fredrik was directing him. He raised his voice to be heard, continued to speak in German. “I don’t understand. Underneath what?”
“Shhh,” Fredrik said. “Quiet, understand me?”
“Underneath the truck,” Axel said, in German that was even worse than the farmer’s.
“There,” Fredrik said. He grabbed the Jew by the shoulder. Beneath his fingers, the old man’s bones felt as light as a bird’s. “There!” He shoved him roughly toward the side of the truck, directed him to a gap in between the oversize tires. From there, it was possible to climb onto a steel platform that had been hung from the truck’s chassis.
“We can’t climb in there,” the old man started to protest.
“Yes we can, Papa,” the young woman said.
“Yes we can,” her mother said, at the same time.
The Jews were hesitating, wasting time. Fredrik threw the wooden crate into the rear of the truck, fastened the gate, checked the ties on the tarp. “You’ve got two minutes,” he said. “There’s room for eight people. You’re just three. Climb in. Get your clothes dirty. I’ll leave with you or without you, understand? Two minutes.”
Oskar helped the young woman in first. As she slid into the gap, Fredrik disappeared around the truck. Axel climbed into the cab on the passenger side. The engine turned over with a guttural rumble. The lights carved tallow columns into the rain. When the girl’s skirt caught on a spear of rusty metal andhiked up her leg, Oskar’s eyes were drawn to the black hair matted against the white fabric of her underpants. He continued to stare until the girl had pulled herself onto the platform and her mother was climbing in after her.
“Are you okay, Rachel?” the old man asked his daughter. “Are you okay, Maria?” he asked his wife.
And then it was just Oskar and the old Jew standing in the rain together, and when Oskar reached out to help him into the gap, the old man shrugged the boy’s hand off him as roughly as he knew how. “To hell with you, you dirty Danish bastard,” the old man said.
Oskar waited until the old man was safely underneath the carriage, then climbed into the cab next to Axel. The overweight truck started forward through the slick mud with a lurch. Fredrik followed the weak headlights onto the dark road. The hard seat dug into Oskar’s ribs.
By the time they reached Agersted, it was already after five. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but farms were rousing themselves from sleep. Here and there in the dark, lit windows gave dimension to the landscape, and the salty air was tinged with smoke swirling from chimneys. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still blowing. The rich farmland was covered with a blanket of mist. They had two miles left to walk to the coast — at least half an hour across the pastures in between, probably forty-five minutes, an hour if the Jews didn’t move quickly enough. At sunrise, when the air began to clear, the fisherman waiting for the Jews would set sail. To linger any longer would draw suspicion from any Germans stationed along the coast. Fredrik reached into the gap between the tires, grabbed the first
The farmer took the time to count the bills before pocketing them.
“Are these all your things?” Fredrik asked again.
“Yes,” the young woman answered him, paying special attention to him still, Fredrik noticed.
He scooped up their belongings in his massive hands. “Get the rest,” he said to Axel.
“I’ll take this one myself,” the old Jew said, pulling the leather satchel out of Axel’s grip.
Fredrik’s eyes met the old Jew’s. “Sure you will,” he said. Then he led the way out of the barn, into the storm. The rain drenched him as he shoved their carefully packed goods into a crude wooden crate. “You’ll travel underneath,” he said to the old man. “You and your wife and your daughter.”
“Underneath?” The old man’s glasses were slick with rain, and he couldn’t see where Fredrik was directing him. He raised his voice to be heard, continued to speak in German. “I don’t understand. Underneath what?”
“Shhh,” Fredrik said. “Quiet, understand me?”
“Underneath the truck,” Axel said, in German that was even worse than the farmer’s.
“There,” Fredrik said. He grabbed the Jew by the shoulder. Beneath his fingers, the old man’s bones felt as light as a bird’s. “There!” He shoved him roughly toward the side of the truck, directed him to a gap in between the oversize tires. From there, it was possible to climb onto a steel platform that had been hung from the truck’s chassis.
“We can’t climb in there,” the old man started to protest.
“Yes we can, Papa,” the young woman said.
“Yes we can,” her mother said, at the same time.
The Jews were hesitating, wasting time. Fredrik threw the wooden crate into the rear of the truck, fastened the gate, checked the ties on the tarp. “You’ve got two minutes,” he said. “There’s room for eight people. You’re just three. Climb in. Get your clothes dirty. I’ll leave with you or without you, understand? Two minutes.”
Oskar helped the young woman in first. As she slid into the gap, Fredrik disappeared around the truck. Axel climbed into the cab on the passenger side. The engine turned over with a guttural rumble. The lights carved tallow columns into the rain. When the girl’s skirt caught on a spear of rusty metal andhiked up her leg, Oskar’s eyes were drawn to the black hair matted against the white fabric of her underpants. He continued to stare until the girl had pulled herself onto the platform and her mother was climbing in after her.
“Are you okay, Rachel?” the old man asked his daughter. “Are you okay, Maria?” he asked his wife.
And then it was just Oskar and the old Jew standing in the rain together, and when Oskar reached out to help him into the gap, the old man shrugged the boy’s hand off him as roughly as he knew how. “To hell with you, you dirty Danish bastard,” the old man said.
Oskar waited until the old man was safely underneath the carriage, then climbed into the cab next to Axel. The overweight truck started forward through the slick mud with a lurch. Fredrik followed the weak headlights onto the dark road. The hard seat dug into Oskar’s ribs.
By the time they reached Agersted, it was already after five. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but farms were rousing themselves from sleep. Here and there in the dark, lit windows gave dimension to the landscape, and the salty air was tinged with smoke swirling from chimneys. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still blowing. The rich farmland was covered with a blanket of mist. They had two miles left to walk to the coast — at least half an hour across the pastures in between, probably forty-five minutes, an hour if the Jews didn’t move quickly enough. At sunrise, when the air began to clear, the fisherman waiting for the Jews would set sail. To linger any longer would draw suspicion from any Germans stationed along the coast. Fredrik reached into the gap between the tires, grabbed the first
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