The Number 7 Page 19

  There was a thirty-minute pause, and then a shift in energy as the car doors opened and men came stepping out into the muddy rail yard. They stretched their legs, lit cigarettes, and chuckled in low murmurs to each other. He’d been told they were noncombatants, that they were there to provide aid to injured soldiers on the Norwegian border, but Gerhard knew by looking at them that they were military. And the Nazis themselves didn’t seem so concerned with maintaining the ruse.

  The soldiers were deliberate and calculating in their movements. They worked as a single force, and Gerhard found them stronger and more powerful than any group he had ever seen. There didn’t seem to be an individual heartbeat among them; there was only one living, breathing beast.

  After the brief respite, the soldiers transferred onto Gerhard’s cars while he stood watch. A few young soldiers glanced his way and they locked eyes, questioning each other silently.

  Once they’d all boarded, Robert smiled somberly toward Gerhard and held a small flask up in mocking jest. “Heil Hitler,” the young fireman whispered, and he lifted the flask to his lips.

  XXVI.

  In the middle of the night, I woke up in a cold sweat. I had been dreaming of Grandmother. We sat in the slave graveyard Dad had shown Greta and me. Grandmother sat on a beautifully woven blanket in the middle of the grass and I lay with my head in her lap as she read from a book. She was reciting Grandfather’s story to me, and as she spoke, the stories were played out like a marionette show in front of my eyes. The characters hung from strings: Gerhard and Lasse, Åsa and Leif, Anna, and Robert. Their movements were jerky and uncoordinated.

  And then, all of a sudden, Grandma stopped reading and the puppets fell into a lifeless heap on the floor. “The End.” Grandma shut the book, shrugged her shoulders apologetically, and folded her hands.

  “But I don’t understand.” I began to panic. “What happens?” I looked at the stage where the puppets lay still.

  “It’s what happens, Louisa.” Grandmother reached down and stroked my hair, trying to ease my alarm. “It ends.”

  “But what about me? What about Dad?” I asked anxiously.

  “Your dad? What does he know about anything? He ran away, remember?”

  “He wants to know!” I shouted at her, but she only stared sympathetically back at me, as if I wouldn’t face the truth. And I suddenly realized I didn’t know what the truth was. “I think he wants to know.”

  “Then tell him,” she whispered.

  “Tell him what?”

  “The end,” she smiled sadly.

  And then I awoke. I walked to the hallway bathroom and drank a glass of water from the faucet. It tasted metallic. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. For a split second I could have sworn I saw Grandmother’s face staring back at me. She flashed quickly into my eyes—from behind my eyes, her face replacing mine—but then she was gone. I splashed water onto my cheeks and rubbed the mirror with a wet hand. Was I chasing her or she me?

  The story is coming to an end, I thought. Grandmother had been calling me for two months, and I finally felt closer to discovering the mystery. But I couldn’t see the conclusion. I leaned on the sink and ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. Think, think, think. What am I supposed to do? I have this story that no one seems to know but me, and I don’t know what to do with it. Do I tell Dad? Won’t it be painful for him to hear? Do I really want to be responsible for that pain? I stood under the fluorescent lights for five minutes in a sleepy stupor, and then a truly horrific thought came to me: What happens when the phone calls stop?

  I snaked my way down the hallway to Greta’s door, but hesitated before reaching out to open it. How had this happened? How had we become so distant?

  I slowly opened the door a crack and peered inside. The comforter rose and fell silently with each breath. The floor was cold beneath my feet so I scurried across the room and crawled in next to my sister’s warm body. She stretched and reached out to touch me.

  “Louisa?”

  “Greta,” my tears wet her shoulder as I collapsed against her and let all of my contained helplessness escape in one choked breath. “I’m sorry I never asked if you were okay.”

  She sat up in bed and placed her hand on my head, letting me surrender all of it. We lay there in silence until my tears and breathing steadied.

  “I really feel invisible, Louisa,” she finally said, her voice full of emptiness. “I miss her so much. Don’t you?”

  I turned to look at her and thought her face seemed tired and faded.

  Miss Mom? Only every time I hurt, or laugh, or feel something new. Every time Dad says something lame or I ace a pop quiz or Gabe holds my hand.

  “All the time,” I swallowed. It was the easiest and the hardest phrase I could muster.

  “I know Dad always wants to know what’s going on with us, but sometimes Mom’s absence is suffocating. And I feel like I have to be all grown up because she’s not here . . . when all I really want to do is curl up in her lap like I used to. Or tell her how I’m completely, insanely terrified of what’s going to happen next year when I’m really on my own. And I turn,” Greta removed her hand from my hair to gesture toward an invisible guest, “and no one seems to be there who cares.”

  “But I—” I began to protest before Greta held up her hand for me to stop.

  “No one who cares like Mom would. You feel it, too. I know you do. You must.”

  “I wish I could tell her about you. I’m scared for you, Greta. I don’t know what to do,” I grabbed her wrist but she pulled it away defensively.

  “You have to keep it a secret,” she whispered sternly. “I’ve ended it. Promise me you’ll keep it a secret.”

  But I couldn’t promise. At least, I couldn’t promise out loud. I buried my face into her shoulder and nodded, wanting so badly for it to be morning and feeling so tired of my secrets.

  Dad didn’t notice my puffy eyes the next morning at the breakfast table. Greta had given me some of her moisturizer to ease the swelling. She tried to smile and engage me in conversation so Dad wouldn’t catch on to my reticence.

  “Louisa, you’ve been invited to a black-tie event. And you have two boys in your life! I hope at least one of those guys will be on your arm that night,” Greta forced a smile across the table. “Which one?”

  “It’s kind of come down to that, hasn’t it? I can’t ask both,” I replied cynically.

  “That doesn’t work. Trust me . . . I’ve tried.” Greta laughed encouragingly.

  Dad leaned out from behind his paper, raising an eyebrow at Greta. She chuckled innocently, while I tapped my coffee spoon on the tabletop, deliberating. I thought about Gabe’s freckles and protruding ears. I thought about how he always said the right thing, how he made me laugh, and how he gave me flowers. An endless supply of flowers. And I thought about Chris: his long hair, his flip-flops, his allure, his mystery. I thought about being a turtle with him.

  “I’m inviting Gabe.” The words slipped out before I had time to catch them on the back of my teeth. I didn’t consciously select them; I just needed to say something. I needed to decide. And I chose Gabe.

  “Are you sure?” Greta slowly began peeling an orange, its smell reminding me of Chris.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  But as soon as I said it, I knew I had never been so unsure about anything in all my life. Gabe was the logical choice for the art exhibition, I reasoned with myself on the ride to school. Above all my feelings for him—the butterflies in my stomach, the kiss on the ski lift—he’d been my biggest source of encouragement throughout the process. We had talked about the project together, and I’d even go so far as to say he inspired some of my entries. So why did I feel like I was forfeiting a good thing?

  My stomach ached. I knew that once I officially asked Gabe to the art show, my friendship with Chris would be practically nonexistent. I didn’t feel like I’d had enough time with Chris, and I was sad to know there would be no more late-night adventures. No
more back-alley surprises. Would Chris understand? Did I?

  I decided I just needed to bite the bullet and take action. I wasn’t going to change my mind. Somewhere in my subconscious, Gabe came out as the front-runner. And yet, there was Chris waiting for me in our History final. The teacher began handing out exams and immediately announced, “No talking.” Chris stretched next to me in his desk, his dark arms reaching over his head. He looked over and smiled at me. I smiled back.

  I’m such a jerk.

  “Eyes on your own papers. You have ninety minutes. You may begin.”

  That night, Dad and I went to Weaver’s to pick up ingredients for a stuffed cabbage dinner. I was hoping to find Gabe. I needed to ask him to go with me to the gallery event, and I needed him to prove I was making the right choice.

  “I’m going to go pick up the cabbage,” I hollered to Dad who stood studying the different grades of ground beef behind the deli counter.

  “Don’t forget the allspice!” Dad shouted over his shoulder.

  I found Gabe restocking cans of soup.

  “Hey!” He stood up, looking happy to see me. “I finally talked to Jenn. She was crazy angry, but I think she finally gets it. I picked you.” He looked relieved, and I inhaled slowly.

  I picked you, too, I thought.

  “Mr. Franz invited me to showcase my photography essay at a gallery in Philadelphia. There’s kind of an opening reception, black-tie thing.” I bit my cuticle nervously. He could still say no. “I was wondering—”

  “Are you kidding? I’d love to go!”

  “Huh?” Here was one of the most popular boys in school, and he was agreeing to be my date to a gala in the city. How did this happen? I couldn’t believe I’d had the nerve to have actually asked him in the first place. For a moment, I was quite proud of myself.

  “Or were you not asking me?” Gabe blushed and looked back at the cans waiting to be stocked.

  “Of course I was asking you!” I exclaimed. “You’re sure you want to come?”

  Gabe’s smile returned full force. “I was born in a tuxedo. We’ll have a great time.” He winked, flashed a devilish grin, and took me in his arms as if we were waltzing.

  “Will there be dancing?” he whispered seductively into my ear.

  Every thought of Chris melted into a distant world.

  XXVII.

  Gerhard didn’t know how, but by July everyone in town knew about his weekly transactions. The exchange became a spectator sport for curious children. What did the Nazis look like in the flesh? Some days the transfers took longer than usual. Fifteen minutes. Thirty. An hour. Each new train brought new faces, but they were all the same as the first. Ghost faces in the dark.

  One warm morning, Kjell escorted Gerhard back into his office where they were greeted by two men. One was familiar to Gerhard: Lukas Österberg, head of city council. He was the man responsible for Lasse’s seeming imprisonment in Trelleborg; he alone stood between Lasse and Lasse’s desire to serve in Sweden’s military. Gerhard studied Österberg’s countenance, a face that stretched downward and bore sunken sockets with lackluster eyes that looked out at the world impassively. In all the years of seeing him at town events, Gerhard had never seen the man smile. The other man next to Österberg was a stranger. He stood erect in a slate, Schutzstaffel uniform with an officer’s cap under his arm. His black boots were newly shined.

  “Guten Morgen. Stefan Litzing,” the officer introduced himself before switching to English. “You’ve been summoned to this meeting on official request from German Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop.”

  “Gerhard, I—” Kjell began to interject, but the German threw his hand in the air to silence him. Kjell fell back.

  “Gerhard Magnusson, your government appreciates your cooperation for peace between our two nations.” He looked at Österberg, who nodded in agreement. “So we are giving you more responsibility. Your previous charge still applies. You will continue your passages to Kornsjø as normal, but we are adding new cargo to your route.”

  Gerhard looked to Kjell for more information, but the old man only shrugged his shoulders before looking sheepishly at the floor.

  “Listen, I’ve got work to do. May I get to it?” Kjell asked between his teeth. He seemed desperate to leave.

  “You are dismissed.” Österberg waved him away and Kjell disappeared.

  Gerhard looked at Österberg with disgust. Everything about the man reeked with conceit. Gerhard wanted to escape the meeting and run to Kjell, but he felt compelled to stay. Österberg gestured for him to sit, but Gerhard remained standing. It was one small act of defiance of which he was capable.

  “You see, Gerhard, we’ll need your continued discretion in this matter. No one can know what we’re doing here,” Österberg crossed his arms and leaned casually on Kjell’s small desk.

  Gerhard wanted to laugh. Everyone knew what they were doing.

  “You will transport our wagons to Norway as you have been for the past months. Continue your good work.” Litzing smiled. “But Germany now has new cargo we’d like you to transport from Norway. You are not permitted to open these wagons between the Norwegian border and Trelleborg. If they are opened before they reach this destination, there will be consequences.” Litzing began putting on his black leather gloves to signal the meeting was coming to a close.

  “What’s the cargo?” Gerhard asked, surprised with the command he heard in his own voice.

  “That’s none of your concern, son.” Österberg shifted his weight effortlessly. His tone made Gerhard feel insignificant. How did he do that?

  “You want me to transport trains across my country without me knowing what’s in them? I feel I have some right to know—”

  “But that’s where you’re wrong.” Litzing ceased putting on his second glove, turned to look Gerhard in the eye, and grinned. “The only right you have left is to obey your country. Am I correct, Herr Österberg?”

  “Correct,” the councilman nodded in absolute agreement. His bottom lip turned out like a swollen, purple worm.

  Gerhard recoiled.

  “Keep the cars sealed, hmm?”

  The German tapped Gerhard arrogantly on the cheek before exiting. Österberg followed silently.

  Out on the waiting platform, the two men spoke quietly to themselves and Gerhard studied them from the entrance of the station. Occasionally, Litzing gestured to the trains and Österberg nodded. There was something in the way Österberg stood; he seemed smaller, weaker than the other man despite being about the same size.

  “I didn’t believe it,” mumbled a voice from behind.

  Gerhard turned; he’d been unaware someone was sitting on the bench behind him. He turned to see Pontus, legs wide apart, his gut protruding aggressively from his waist. He stroked his mustache habitually and stared beyond Gerhard to the platform.

  “The SS has arrived.” Pontus glared steadily at Litzing while Gerhard eyed his uncle suspiciously. Why was he here?

  Pontus stood laboriously and slowly sauntered toward the men. His wavering gait betrayed his attempts to appear sober. From his pocket, he revealed a small, red object. At first, Gerhard thought it was a Nazi armband like the one Litzing wore, but as he looked closer he saw that Pontus held his ticket to America—the same ticket he had flashed so proudly to the family before. Gerhard trailed his uncle closely; he was beginning to feel uneasy. What was Pontus doing?

  In broken German, Pontus began to speak in nonsensical phrases.

  “Excuse me, sir, but I have this ticket to America. I took it off a dead man, if you’ll believe it. I have this ticket . . . I must get out of Sweden. I need to go to America.”

  Litzing raised an eyebrow and looked down at Pontus with disgust.

  “Please, can you help me?” Pontus reached out desperately to touch the captain. “I was supposed to have a second chance! America was my second chance! You can help me. If I can just get out of Sweden—”

  Pontus grabbed Litzing’s shoulders, but the G
erman turned suddenly. In one swift motion, as if swinging a tennis racket, he produced a small pistol from his hip. The soldier held the handgun to Pontus’s head and cocked it. Click! Gerhard heard the sound above Pontus’s rising sobs. It echoed in his ears, draining out all other noise. The men were at an impasse. Pontus crumpled to the ground while Litzing stood erect, his arm stretched steadily out as if it was made of wax. Whose move was it?

  “It’s fine! It’s fine!” Gerhard shouted. “He’s just drunk. It’s fine!”

  “He’s not very good target practice!” Litzing shouted across the tracks, laughing violently at Pontus lying in a drunken heap in the dust.

  Gerhard swiftly lifted Pontus. He felt his uncle’s weight and nearly buckled under the pressure. The stench, the heaviness, the gun. It all left Gerhard feeling nauseous. He needed to get Pontus away from here. He needed to take control. Österberg watched coolly as Gerhard slowly dragged Pontus away from the platform.

  Litzing replaced the pistol in his belt. “Too easy. He’d be impossible to miss.”

  Gerhard dreaded having to tell Lasse what happened when he returned home. The story would put Lasse into a frenzy. His brother was already obsessed with the war, and Litzing’s actions would only fuel his fascination.

  So Gerhard decided not to tell. Lasse didn’t have to know what happened. The less he knows the better, Gerhard thought quietly to himself as he stumbled up to the house with his uncle. Still, something in his silence left him feeling guilty, empty. Lasse would want to know what happened; he deserved to know. But it was easier pretending life was still safe, and things were still normal. It’s easier this way, Gerhard sighed, collapsing on a bench in front of the house. It’s better this way.

  XXVIII.

  Like most things, the week of the art exhibition came up faster than I had expected. In the interim, Mr. Franz had me busy reworking my project so it could be better displayed. I had to dissect each page, sometimes transferring all of my photos and text from the back of one page to the front of another. I had to create a mat for each folio and mount them properly. All in all, I had seven frames. Seven pages of matted photos and memories of my mother. I found the end product to be rather spectacular. And when I showed them to Greta and Dad, the three of us had a good nostalgic cry. Dad expressed his ceaseless pride, and Greta gave me butterflies by complimenting my “sincere artistry.” I was on cloud nine.