The Number 7 (21 page)

“To prevent airstrikes,” Lasse jabbed his brother in the ribs with his elbow. “Der Rote Baron. The Red Baron,” he said, referencing the famous fighter pilot, in an exaggerated German accent while pointing to the dark sky. “We're in hiding.”

Gerhard looked down the main street of the town. Heavy drapes hung in every window of every house in Trelleborg.
When had that happened?
He felt like a stranger in his own town.

Inside the party, Pontus offered Gerhard a snaps glass filled to the brim with aquavit. “Some strength for the race. Flavored with caraway seed; you'll like it.” The two stood away from the dance floor.

Gerhard swallowed the liquor down quickly, watching as his brother pressed himself against a pretty dark-haired girl on the dance floor. Pontus laughed.

“It's good when the cheeks turn red,” Pontus chuckled.

“It tastes like fire,” Gerhard coughed.

Pontus nodded and smiled. “So why aren't you out there?” He gestured to the group of dancing young people.

Gerhard shrugged. “I'm waiting for the right moment.”

“Let me tell you about the right moment,” Pontus put his heavy, thick hand on Gerhard's shoulder. With his other hand, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced his prized ticket to America. “One night in Göteborg I was at a boxing match with a friend. We'd both placed bets on the same fellow to win, a big Pole named Kozerski. He had arms like tanks,” Pontus patted down his own, flaccid biceps. “Anyway, my friend had this ticket.” He waived the red paper in front of Gerhard's face. “He always talked about getting out of Sweden, going to America. Said he was waiting for ‘the right moment.' He wasn't just a talker, my friend. He was really going to do it. This was all before the war, of course. It would have been easier for him to get out then,” Pontus paused to belch. Gerhard leaned away from his uncle. He suddenly needed another drink.

“The Pole and the other guy fell out of the circle. Kozerski lost his balance and took a blind swing. Hit my friend on the nose. Right here,” Pontus pointed to the bridge between his eyes. “My friend fell over. Dead. I couldn't believe it. I reached down to try to save him . . . hell, I didn't know what to do. I could tell he was dead, though. You just know these things. One day you'll see a body and know what I mean.”

Gerhard looked to his uncle, waiting for him to continue, but it appeared as if Pontus was done.

“So you stole his ticket?” Gerhard asked in disbelief.

“Right out of his pocket. I didn't know what else to do.” Pontus shrugged his shoulders. “All this to say . . . get your ass out there. Lasse is making you look like a goat standing over here by yourself. Or worse, standing here with
me
.”

Pontus walked away, and Gerhard realized with a shock that his revolting uncle was right. He felt sorry for himself. He needed to get some fresh air. Outside, he lit a cigarette and looked up to the sky. He thought about Lasse as he reached into his pocket and ran his fingers over his watch. It was comforting to feel its smooth surface. The watch reminded him of his role. At the station, he was important. People respected him there. He didn't have to worry about competing with Lasse; he didn't have to worry about women or dancing.

Exhaling into the night air, he suddenly realized he wasn't alone. In the darkness about twenty meters away stood Agnes Landquist, the same girl whose bicycle he'd repaired so long ago. Tonight was the first time Gerhard had seen her in quite a while, though he saw her father often. She probably didn't remember him, at least not in the same way he remembered her. But there, outside in the bitter winter air, she advanced toward him and coolly laughed.

“You look so much like your brother. I almost thought you were him.”

The moon illuminated her figure as she walked closer and Gerhard realized just how much she'd changed since the last time they'd met. Her cheeks were thinner, her curves more pronounced, and she held herself as a confident, beautiful woman.

“May I join you? I needed a break from the party,” she said, never taking her eyes off Gerhard.

He nodded.

“May I have one? I've never smoked a cigarette before.” Agnes gestured to Gerhard's lit cigarette.

“I'm out of paper. Can we share this one?” He held it out for her.

She took it and wrapped her lips around it, looking like she'd done it before.

“I didn't know girls smoked.”

She shrugged and handed the cigarette back. For a while they smoked in silence. Eventually, Agnes reached down and wrapped her hand around Gerhard's. He didn't move. He couldn't breathe.

“Is it true what they're saying?”

“What are they saying?” he asked, already knowing what she really meant. She wanted to know about the rumors circulating town. She wanted to know about Hitler's Army.

“That
they're
coming to Sweden.” Her voice fell hard on the unnamed.

“Yes, I think it's true,” Gerhard answered, putting out the cigarette but holding onto her. It was the first time he'd touched a woman; he gripped her hand tightly to keep her from noticing his trembling.

“I think so, too,” she breathed into the night.

They stood for a long time without exchanging words. She guided his right hand to the small of her back and took his left in hers. Listening to a fading waltz floating out from the party, they drifted in the snow creating beautiful, looping circles wherever they stepped. She placed her head on his shoulder. He smelled her hair's faint traces of rosewater. They danced slowly. At last, she stopped and looked up at him. Her eyes were wet, but Gerhard couldn't tell if it was the cold or something else. He wanted to give her everything—his love, the moon, the world—in that moment. He'd wanted her from their earliest days in school together. He would have surrendered everything to her if she'd asked him.

“I think I'd like to kiss you,” she whispered.

She lifted her mouth to his. She tasted of tobacco. It reminded Gerhard of the station. Her lips were soft and wet. It was obvious this wasn't her first kiss, and Gerhard hoped she couldn't tell it was his. He shuffled his feet nervously and steadied his hands on her hips. Agnes breathed heavily and clung passionately to him, as if she wanted him to carry her off, far from the church, far from the party. But something about her desperation made Gerhard feel as if she wasn't clinging to him, but to something greater. She seemed eager to lose herself, but she wasn't giving in to passion or the moment or to him. She was giving up. She was letting go. This isn't how he wanted it to be. She shut her eyes tightly to keep the tears concealed; he kissed her eyelids one at a time, and then he had to go. He couldn't surrender with her; he wasn't willing to give up. Not yet. That would only come later.

In Sälen, on the night before the race, no one in the Magnusson family spoke of the Winter War or of Germany. Each twin quietly prepared for the race in his own way. They took to the trail to analyze the conditions of the snow, the bends in the slope, and the density of the air.

“It's good, Gerhard.”

“What is?”

“This,” Lasse said, stretching his arm out in front of them. “Today we're boys. Tomorrow, men.”

Gerhard walked slowly. He wanted to win; he'd worked so hard.

“I went to Kalmar last week,” Lasse lit a cigarette and offered one to his brother, who waved it away. “Walked right into the naval office and said I was ready to enlist.”

Lasse waited, but Gerhard said nothing.

“Gerhard, I want so badly to be a part of it. I feel ready.”

“It?” Gerhard asked though he already knew the answer.

“Everything,” Lasse inhaled. “This war.”

“And did you enlist?” Gerhard kept the panic from his voice—the anger and the fear—deep in his belly.
Was this a challenge? Was Lasse testing him?

“They told me I was out. Not eligible. ‘Go back to Trelleborg,' they told me. ‘Stay on the ferry. Österberg's orders.' I told them I had come to enlist. I told them to screw Österberg, that I had a right to fight, a right to wear the uniform.”

Gerhard's brow narrowed as he stared at his brother.
What did Lasse want from him?
He was glad Lasse had been turned away. He didn't want to lose his brother to a fight that wasn't theirs. But Lasse wouldn't understand that, so he only stared back into his brother's wounded eyes.

“I'm nobody, Gerhard!” Lasse suddenly burst out, running a hand through his hair. “You . . . you have your plan. I know you've been secretly stashing away money to go to college. And you'll get there . . . you'll get there because you're you. Don't you know I know that? But me? What have I got? I'm never getting out of Trelleborg.

“So tomorrow, when we meet back here again,” Lasse flicked his cigarette into the snow and began walking away into the darkness before shouting over his shoulder, “don't try to do me any favors. Got it? Tomorrow we level the field. It's just you and me. Racing the same race, fighting the same fight.”

The conditions the next morning weren't ideal. The snow was wetter than normal, and it clung to their skis. The air was heavy and saturated; another snowfall was on its way.

Lasse and Gerhard stayed in motion, keeping their muscles warm and their adrenaline going. They knew that the family stood somewhere on the sidelines, but they didn't dare look for them. Neither wanted any distraction from the race ahead. It was possible that one or both brothers would not finish.

“Gerhard, I don't think we should start together,” Lasse announced ten minutes before the signal.

“Whatever you want, Lasse,” Gerhard replied, masking his disappointment. When he'd suggested the race, this wasn't how he'd imagined it would be.

“So, I'll leave you here. Best of luck,” Lasse held out his hand.

“I'll see you at the finish,” Gerhard accepted his brother's gesture.

Lasse lifted his ski poles and pushed himself away into the crowd. Gerhard lost sight of him within seconds.

All of Sälen grew silent as the minutes quickly counted down. Everything slowed down: Gerhard took deep, deliberate breaths and lifted his poles, ready to push off. Then the flags at the starting line lifted into the air, letting the skiers pass. The Vasaloppet had officially begun. Sixty-one kilometers into the race, Gerhard stopped to vomit. He pulled his skis to the side of the track and fell onto his side. He retched three times before dragging himself back to the course. Gerhard was tired and cold and wanted desperately to quit, but there was nowhere to go. He had to complete the race. It was dark when Gerhard arrived in Mora. He wanted to collapse; his muscles throbbed and felt like they would seize at any moment. He saw Leif waiting alone by the finish line.
Where were the others?

“Lasse came in forty minutes ago.” Leif took off his fur cap and put his arm around the elder twin. “You did well, son.”

Gerhard was still catching his breath.

“Everyone's in the pub celebrating with him.”

Gerhard's hands shook as he tried to untie his skis, so Leif bent down to help him.

“Did you plan it?”

Gerhard looked at his father and for a moment neither man spoke. Leif's eyes pleaded something to his son, but Gerhard didn't know what it was. Did his father know the race had been a ruse? A distraction from the suffocating air back in Trelleborg?

“Just don't tell him,” Leif sighed as he lifted the skis onto his back before turning toward the town. “God knows how many times he's fallen in your shadow. Just don't tell him you let him win.”

It was a lie, but Gerhard couldn't bring himself to confess the truth. He had tried his best to win. He had raced and lost. Lasse had won on his own merit but Leif already believed otherwise, and Gerhard let him.

Because Dad had already given Greta “The Thing” for Christmas, she wasn't expecting to open any other gifts except the one from me. But Dad, being wonderfully true to form, presented her with a gift certificate to AutoParts for replacement headlights, floor mats, and other miscellaneous and unanticipated expenses that come with owning a car. Of course, I still had to pinch myself—that car would be mine in a short period of time.

“You don't get it until September when I leave for school!” Greta hissed at me, reading my hungry expression while she opened the gift certificate.

“Jeez,” I answered. “Merry Christmas.”

I handed her my wrapped gift, a small Mason jar filled with flowers I had collected and then dried from Mom's funeral. I'd wanted to keep the jar for me, but I realized Greta needed it more than I did. She recognized the miniature yellow and white roses immediately.

“Louisa, this is weird,” Greta admitted holding the jar up for Dad to see.

I reached out to take the jar back, but Greta snatched it closer to her.