The Number 7 Page 20

  On top of all of that, it was the second half of my sophomore year, bringing a change in schedule. I had enrolled in Photography II, as had Gabe, and my American History class was replaced with a special elective offered on the history of the Brandywine Valley. It seemed Chris had opted out of this class, and as luck would have it I was left sitting next to Jennifer Adams. She sat smugly in her desk, proudly applying a very familiar shade of red lipstick.

  “It looked better on my car,” I muttered under my breath.

  “And you look better on a broom,” she smiled coyly into her compact.

  We spent the rest of the class purposefully avoiding all interaction. I only saw Chris in the lunchroom, usually sitting at his table of other misfit high schoolers, and more than once our eyes met across the room. He was better at holding the eye contact than I was, and I usually found myself feigning a distraction. My table, too, had rotated in the changing of the semesters, and I traded my seat next to Allison for one next to Gabe and his friends. They welcomed me happily. Sitting beside Gabe was excitement in itself, but seeing Allison’s face when I made the switch was a sweet added layer of icing on the cake. I’d been ignorant of how far jaws could actually drop. Allison’s reaction set me straight: four-and-a-half inches.

  News quickly spread around the school of Gabe and me being together, though neither of us actually discussed it. I was content with my final decision. Gabe made me unbelievably happy, but I couldn’t deny—though I’d never admit it to anyone—a minuscule touch of remorse that I wasn’t going to explain things to Chris. Knowing him, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t want or care about an explanation. Or did he? Still, there was that unmistakable twinge. Didn’t I owe it to him? Didn’t he deserve to know?

  The Saturday before the exhibition, Rosemary took Greta and me to the King of Prussia Mall—a monstrosity of a shopping center—to seek out an appropriate dress for my big debut. Having never been to this mall, Greta was immediately in shopping heaven. She excused herself from Rosemary and me and took her purse and her debit card on a much-anticipated rampage. Later in the day, she referred to it as her “epic comeback.” She hadn’t done that type of shopping since we’d left North Carolina, and it was funny to see her back in her element. By the end of the day, Greta struggled to juggle her eleven shopping bags in various sizes and colors. Every time she set them down and picked them back up, she had to count to make sure everything was accounted for, like a shepherd looking after her flock.

  But Rosemary and I were on a completely different mission than Greta. We needed to find something for me that was stylish but not too showy. I wanted something a young, urbane artist would wear, and Rosemary was more than eager to help.

  I tried on long shirts with leggings, dark skinny-legged denim jeans, black slacks and black vests, silver dresses and purple pumps, red blouses and white minis. I examined patterns that ran the gamut: plaids, stripes, polka dots, and houndstooth in a variety of electric colors, and accessories that would turn heads. But nothing seemed like me. As Mr. Franz had explained, many of the exhibit patrons would wear tuxedos and gowns, but it was also quite acceptable—especially for the artists—to wear something a little less formal. Rosemary seemed to agree with my idea of taking liberties and wearing something more unique and stunning. To me, this exhibition was more important than homecoming and prom combined. To me, this event was so much a part of me, and no outfit seemed to be as perfect as I needed it to be.

  “What about something of your mom’s?” Rosemary at last suggested. Despite being a little jealous I hadn’t thought of it myself, the sentiment was so appropriate and wonderful I wanted to hug Rosemary for suggesting it.

  I was so eager to raid Mom’s old clothes that I insisted we leave for home immediately to comb through the wardrobe bags Dad had never been able to throw away. And why should he? He had two young daughters who would, one day, very much want to know their mother. Apparently, not only had that day arrived, but Dad’s salvaging of the clothes provided a goldmine of outfits for me to sort through.

  I never thought I’d be okay going through Mom’s old belongings with Dad’s new girlfriend, but the situation presented itself, and never once did it feel awkward. Rosemary pulled dress after dress out of long plastic clothing bags and eagerly held them up for my approval. We created three piles: the “Yeses,” the “Nos,” and the “Maybes.”

  “Your mother had really great taste,” Rosemary complimented, pulling out Mom’s old pink sequined dress.

  This dress, I knew, my mother wore to her thirtieth birthday party before she’d been diagnosed. Dad had arranged the party, specifically stating on every invitation that the party had a “black” theme and every guest should arrive in black dress, only. Wasn’t it a surprise then, when Mom pulled up in a black limousine wearing a hot pink sequined dress with the smallest bit of black trim? It was a memory I didn’t personally have stored away, but one I cherished just the same.

  “She looks like she was a lot of fun.” Rosemary held up the dress, and I tried it on immediately.

  Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of my bedroom vanity in Mom’s birthday dress paired with black Chuck Taylors—my perfect outfit. Then Dad knocked on my bedroom door telling me I had a phone call. It was exactly what I didn’t want to hear.

  “They say it’s walking pneumonia.” Gabe coughed into the phone. “I’m on antibiotics for two weeks and I’m not allowed out of the house. I’m grounded by bacteria, Lou.” Gabe coughed again.

  The gallery event was in three days, and my date—my amazingly wonderful, adorable crush—was bedridden. I should have seen it coming. I was naïve to think this night could go so seamlessly.

  “I’m really sorry,” he apologized, but there was something strange in the way he said it. Like he wasn’t being completely honest with me.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I offered, my voice laced with despair.

  “I’ll let you know,” he responded curtly. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”

  I thanked him for calling, passing on my wishes for a speedy—though it wouldn’t be speedy enough—recovery, and set down the phone. Rosemary, who’d been sitting on my bed listening to the entire conversation, looked at me with compassionate eyes.

  “Walking pneumonia,” I informed her, and she nodded in understanding. I slowly began taking off the dress, my mood the complete opposite of how I had felt putting it on.

  That night as I lay awake staring at the ceiling, I kept replaying Gabe’s tone over in my head. Something wasn’t right about it, but I couldn’t pinpoint what. I thought about how I had ended up here: the conversation with Greta over the breakfast table. What had compelled me to utter Gabe’s name? What was it inside me that picked Gabe over Chris? I didn’t know.

  And then my mind wandered to an alternate universe. What would have happened if I had said Chris’s name instead of Gabe’s? How would it feel sitting at Chris’s lunch table next to him with his arm around me? I closed my eyes and pictured myself tying my sneakers, smoothing down Mom’s dress and skipping down the front stairs, two by two, to answer the knock at the door and find Chris waiting to take me to my art show. I imagined Chris’s beautiful tan skin, his dark hair pulled back in true debonair fashion. He looked uncomfortable in his tux, but exquisite. In that picture, I saw that he was destined for greatness. He was handsome and tall, and that familiar careless grin and twinkle in his eye let me know that we were going to have an amazing time together, no matter where the road took us.

  I sat up in bed and looked around my dark room, eyeing the sequined dress suspended from a hanger on my closet door. What if I’d made a mistake? What if this was my chance to choose a different path? Maybe Gabe’s sudden illness was a sign that I was meant to be with Chris. The thought was agonizing, and part of me felt like a fool for even considering it. But Rosemary said that she had seen me happy. Perhaps I was destined to be happy with Chris, not Gabe. I was desperate to know.

  If I had picked up the telephone and calle
d Chris that instant, he would have answered. But I couldn’t pull the trigger. I needed to sleep on the possibility. If my mind was still unsure in the morning, I’d visit Chris at Fat Bottoms and ask him to take me to the art show. And then, maybe, I’d finally be rid of this feeling of uncertainty. Walking pneumonia could quite possibly end up being the fork in the road toward a different happiness.

  I woke up the next morning nervous. I hadn’t slept well because I wasn’t able to stop my mind from fluctuating between Gabe and Chris. I’d thought this part was over. I had finally made up my mind, and then Gabe had to throw a monkey wrench into the entire situation and make me start doubting myself. Was it fair for me to ask Chris to replace Gabe? Absolutely not. I knew what I was formulating in my head was so completely selfish and absurd that I didn’t dare ponder what Gabe would think of me if he found out. But I also knew that life presented roadblocks and offered escape routes and second chances. Maybe somewhere, someone was telling me I chose wrong. Maybe I was being given another chance. And I knew where to find that other opportunity: he’d be starting his shift at Fat Bottoms at around four o’clock. And that’s where I was going to be, exploring a different path.

  XXIX.

  For an entire month after his meeting with Litzing, Gerhard barely saw his brother. Lasse’s mind seemed to be somewhere else; he seemed distracted. Most nights Lasse finished his dinner and went straight to bed. At first, Gerhard didn’t want to bother him. But by the fourth week, Gerhard’s concern had grown too great. He didn’t like how distant his brother seemed. Something was wrong.

  For the first time in his entire life, Gerhard felt disconnected from his twin. Since birth, he and Lasse had sensed each other’s pain, known their inner desires, and recognized their deepest fears. But now, Lasse seemed far away in a place he didn’t share with anyone. Lasse had also grown quiet; his once boisterous laugh was seldom heard, his smile rarely seen. Somehow, somewhere, Gerhard had lost his best friend.

  Lasse was only one of Gerhard’s problems. On July 8, 1940, the Swedish public officially learned about the formal agreement between Sweden and Germany: one daily, round-trip train from Trelleborg to Kornsjø and another weekly train from Trelleborg to Narvik. Each train carried approximately five hundred Nazi soldiers and supplies. This agreement, now a legal arrangement, was the result of Swedish Prime Minister Per Albin Hansson’s desire to maintain peace. He continued to tout Sweden as a neutral country, but this, of course, was the greatest trick he would ever perform.

  In an attempt to remain impartial, Hansson exported relief supplies to Norway, Denmark, and Finland, while also transporting iron ore to Germany. The duplicity and compliance left Gerhard bewildered. On what side of the war did his country stand?

  Still, his daily routine began to feel second nature. He executed his schedule flawlessly: after arriving in the Trelleborg harbor on one of the railcar ferries—sometimes Lasse’s, sometimes not—the German trains continued through Trelleborg’s station and connected to Gerhard’s own engine. He and Robert smoked cigarettes and watched as new passenger cars appeared in the early morning sun. His train and its travelers arrived at the Norwegian border by one o’clock, completing their seven-hour trip. Gerhard always followed a schedule. He didn’t dare deviate from the routine.

  But one wet day in late summer, the system altered. That afternoon, as the sun hid behind clouds and the rain fell steady and hard, Gerhard slowly pulled his haul into the Norwegian city, Narvik. The air smelled of manure. This afternoon was different. A huddled crowd of men stood waiting for him on the platform.

  The downtrodden group—crippled young boys in faded green—all wore the same vacancy in their eyes. Their clothes, the color of muck on stagnant pools, hung loosely over their weary limbs. They were expressionless zombies. On the far end of the platform stood a handful of armed SS guards, their polished guns pointing menacingly at their prisoners, their pressed khaki shirts contrasting sharply against the dull green. As Gerhard’s passengers exited his train, they reacted with the prisoners on the platform like water and oil, one group shuffling aside to avoid mixing with the other. Two incompatible bodies; two contrasting worlds.

  “What’s this?” Gerhard asked while disembarking his car.

  “New cargo,” the head German answered.

  “Cargo?” Gerhard glanced at the crowd of grave faces. They stared back at him behind dead eyes.

  “You’re a Swede?” one of the prisoners shouted to him in Norwegian, right before an armed guard knocked him to the ground with the butt of his machine gun.

  The young man whimpered in agony and struggled to get back up. None looked his way; none attempted to help. It was as if they wanted him to remain down. As if it were better for him to stay down. The prisoners stared submissively at the train, at Gerhard. He clutched his throat where his collar felt tight around his neck. He needed to breathe, but his lungs constricted. Gerhard coughed loudly and looked away, shutting his eyes tightly, trying to squeeze their gaunt faces from his mind. He wanted the prisoners to know he wasn’t who they thought he was. But they didn’t seem to care.

  “You’re taking these prisoners of war to Trelleborg where they’ll continue to Germany. Officer Litzing will meet them at the Swedish docks. He’ll travel with them across the border. You only take them to Trelleborg.” The SS soldier nodded to Gerhard before turning back to the group. “Go, now! Go, board!”

  Gerhard didn’t have time to stop them; they poured over the platform through his car doors. They were eager and fatigued. How long had they been waiting for him?

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Gerhard turned to the German. “I can’t take them to Trelleborg.”

  But the soldier didn’t respond; he was busy pulling bandaged, bloodied men from the crowd and pushing them hurriedly into the cars. Gerhard watched helplessly. Robert came to join him up front.

  “What are we doing, Gerhard?”

  But Gerhard only stared. He had no answer.

  Arriving back in Trelleborg, Gerhard met a new group of German soldiers who took over the ride. He watched his train disappear down the tracks toward the docks where, he assumed, Litzing waited to carry out their final leg of the trip. Gerhard couldn’t stay at the station. He felt sick and tired and wanted desperately to crawl into bed. As if waiting for his return, Lasse sat on the bench outside their house, eating an apple.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted warmly, shielding the sun with the palm of his hand.

  “So you decide I’m worthy of you again?” Gerhard patronized.

  Lasse looked quizzically at his brother before shrugging and tossing the apple core out into the road.

  “Where have you been for the past four weeks?” Gerhard’s voice broke, as if his mental stability would crumble at any moment. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples and he held out his hands, holding onto something that wasn’t there.

  “I’ve been here,” Lasse spoke casually, looking confused.

  “You know what I mean,” Gerhard slumped beside him.

  For a long moment, Lasse said nothing while Gerhard caught his breath.

  “What did I do to deserve your silence?” Gerhard shook the fallen bangs out of his eyes and stared at his brother. It was like looking into a mirror.

  At once, Lasse began to laugh, uncontrollable, frantic laughter, the likes of which often accompanies exhaustion. Gerhard’s shoulders stiffened and he imagined grabbing his brother by the collar. All the agony of the day, all his confusion, all the uncertainty boiled ever so close to the surface that Gerhard trembled with rage. Why the mockery? Why the jest?

  “Gerhard, you’ve done nothing!”

  “Then tell me what’s going on because you can’t shut me out,” Gerhard pleaded, lowering his voice so no one in the house would hear. “You don’t know what I had to do today.”

  Lasse stopped laughing and his face grew serious.

  “What’s that, Gerhard? What did you have to do?”

  “I transported fifty Norwegians to God kno
ws where, taking them to where only God can help them,” Gerhard explained, holding out his hands for Lasse to see his shaking.

  Lasse leaned his head back against the house and looked up toward the sky.

  “I was under strict orders,” Gerhard started to explain, but even he could hear the fear—the uncertainty—in his voice.

  “Orders? Come now, Gerhard,” Lasse paused and took a deep breath. It seemed a struggle to continue. “For a year, I’ve watched and listened. I’ve listened to Father, I’ve listened to Pontus, I’ve listened to you. I’ve heard and seen things on the ferry I never asked to see or hear. Haven’t you? Don’t you know about the camps and the deaths and the exterminations?”

  Lasse raised his eyebrows waiting for a reply, but Gerhard didn’t have one.

  “Don’t you know about their ‘final solution’? Have you seen the bodies in the water like I have? Swimmers trying to escape—their bodies so frail that they float like driftwood. From what are they escaping? You know. I know you know.” He looked beyond Gerhard, choking on something deeply lodged into his memory.

  Gerhard stood up from the bench and crouched down into the dirt. He didn’t want to hear what his brother had to say. He didn’t want to hear what he’d suspected for so long. He wasn’t willing to let go of the fantasy he’d created for his life: a life free of guilt and responsibility.

  “And don’t act like you’re innocent with the rest of them. ‘Following orders’?” Lasse’s words came spitting out with disgust. “You don’t want to think about the blood on your hands. But that’s just it, Gerhard. There’s blood on all of our hands.” Lasse held out his palms for Gerhard to see. “We shouldn’t fear the Germans. We should fear ourselves.”