The Second Winter (16 page)

“Twenty-eight?” Amalia lifted a stack of plates off the tray, set them down on the counter as close to the wall as she could. “It feels like fifty.”

“A hundred,” Birgit agreed. “I can barely stand. And they’ve asked for the roast pork again, and the potatoes.”

Amalia finished emptying the tray. A cup teetered on the edge of the tallest stack. Rather than remove it from the
jumble, she shifted the plates at the bottom to stabilize the tower. She had been doing this type of work for years now, and she knew how to get dishes clean. When Birgit carried the tray back out for another load, Amalia decided to steal a minute for herself. Fatigue was getting the better of her. She dried her hands on her apron as she stepped from the sink to the back door. Inside the kitchen, the air was so hot and steamy that she could barely breathe. The knob was cold on her fingertips. She twisted it, pushed the door open. A chilly blast gusted through the gap. She glanced over her shoulder, then reached into the pocket of her apron and grabbed three slivers of candied orange peel that she had lifted from the cook’s basket a few hours earlier. The dried fruit softened on her tongue. She savored the flavor, milking the sugar from the rind, before finally swallowing the sweet pulp.

The food soothed her. She closed her eyes, let the fresh air fill her lungs. A spray of mist dappled her cheeks, her forehead. When she opened her eyes again, she was looking up into a black sky perforated by falling snow. She let her gaze stray across the field toward her house. The snow had begun to stick, and it was beautiful. The ugly furrows the farmers made to work the soil were hidden beneath a white blanket. All the violence was gone, all the hardness. Denmark was a soft, magical place, and here it was, Christmas. Amalia noticed the lights burning in the windows downstairs in her house, and she wished that she could run across the field and join her family. It looked warm and cozy inside the tiny cottage, with smoke rising from the chimney and snow collecting on the thatch roof. How nice it would be to spend Christmas Eve with her father and brother.

“What do you think you’re doing, standing there?”

Amalia turned to face the middle-aged woman in the kitchen doorway. The woman’s hair, normally gathered in a
loose bun, had been lifted into an elegant coiffure. Her shapeless body had been squeezed into a regal black dress, which Amalia herself had let out the week before in preparation for the party. Her neck glistened with a string of tired, yellowing pearls she only brought out for special occasions, three or four times a year. “Mrs. Nielsen,” Amalia said.

“You shouldn’t open that door. We’ll lose the heat. I could feel the draft all the way in the dining room.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Amalia retreated from the doorway, pulled the door shut. The bluster of the icy storm outside was muted into a whisper. The close, steamy air choked her lungs again. The cottage across the field disappeared, replaced by Amalia’s own reflection in the frosty glass panes.

“How long were you standing there?”

Amalia didn’t respond. She straightened her apron around her waist, returned to the sink.

“I don’t pay you to stand now, do I?”

Once again, Amalia felt overcome with dizziness. Her knuckles stung when she dipped her hands into the hot water.

“I’ll want to talk to you about this rudeness.”

“Ma’am?” Amalia was perplexed. She twisted around to get a look at her boss, but Mrs. Nielsen was already heading back into the dining room.

“If I address you,” the middle-aged woman explained as she left, “I expect your attention.”

Amalia reached for the next plate. In her confusion, her hand brushed the tower of china. The porcelain clinked and swayed. She managed to keep the pile propped up, but before she could react, the cup on top slid to the edge then tumbled. When it hit the tile counter, it shattered in an explosion of tiny, sharp pieces. One or two scattered to the floor. A few others skittered into the sink. The rest lay in a heap where the cup
had struck, the fresh edges bright white against the kitchen’s duller colors. Gertrude Nielsen reappeared in the doorway.

“I — I don’t know how it happened,” Amalia stammered.

Behind Mrs. Nielsen, Birgit entered with another tray of dishes. She stared at the remains of the cup. In the dining room, there was a dip in the conversation. Amalia took the tray from the Belgian maid, placed it on the counter. Her hands were shaking, and the plates shook and clanked.

“I saw how high Birgit had piled the china,” Mrs. Nielsen said, breaking her silence.

“No, ma’am,” Amalia said. “I did that — it was my fault.”

Mrs. Nielsen crossed the kitchen. She began to pick up the shards of china, then, realizing that she was doing the maids’ work, dropped them back onto the counter. “Clean this up, Amalia,” she said. “We’ll calculate the damage later.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Amalia said.

“And you make sure that you don’t stack the plates so high, Birgit,” Mrs. Nielsen said, now on her way back into the dining room. “Or it will happen again.”

The two maids waited for the woman of the house to leave the kitchen before they breathed. “I’m sorry,” Birgit whispered. “It was — she was right — I did it, I can’t believe that I did, but I did it —”

Amalia shook her head. She couldn’t otherwise respond.
It’s not your fault — I got tired when I shouldn’t have, and I bumped the plates myself
. Rather than waste the effort in explaining, she returned to the sink, unloaded the new batch of dishes from the tray. This time, she made certain not to pile the china too high. If she broke another piece — if she so much as chipped a single lip — she would lose her job, that was certain. She took the first plate, dipped it into the water, rinsed the smears of food from its smooth surface. Behind her, Birgit
hesitated, then at last took the tray again and left the kitchen for another batch. Next to the sink, the shattered cup lay in shards, glistening in the weak electric light.

In Aalborg, in the library of a run-down house with a red tile roof, Fredrik sat on the edge of a velvet sofa, his elbows resting on his knees. A fire was smoldering in the fireplace. On the mantel, a round mahogany clock read a few minutes after nine. Heavy, sagging curtains were drawn over the windows, and only a single lamp was burning. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the lamp — perhaps, he reflected, the shade was too close to the bulb. Abruptly, he stood from the sofa, crossed to the fireplace, gave the wood a nudge with the toe of his boot. A flame licked the back of the chimney, then the fire died again. Upstairs, a woman yowled and moaned. Fredrik grabbed the last log from the hearth, tossed it onto the embers.

When the madam appeared in the doorway, neither she nor Fredrik smiled. She took him in with a glance, then wrapped the long end of a chiffon scarf around her flabby neck. The building was cold. Still, Fredrik noticed the film of sweat on her upper lip. “Isabella?” she asked the farmhand.

Fredrik grunted.

“Why don’t you turn on the radio?” The old whore rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “A little music wouldn’t hurt.”

Fredrik shrugged. “I’ve been here ten minutes already,” he told her. He gave the log a shove with the poker, sending up a plume of orange sparks.

“Ane isn’t busy tonight.”

Fredrik didn’t react. He was scowling, coaxing a flame from the fire.

“I don’t know how much longer Isabella will be, but if you’re okay waiting —” The madam started to turn.

“Who’s she with?”

The madam smirked.

“A German?”

“Someone who can afford more than the two crowns you pay her.”

“How much is Ane charging?”

“Tonight?” The madam was already halfway into the hall. She stopped with her fingertips on the doorframe. “I’m sure you could have her for a crown.”

Fredrik reached a hand into his pocket. “Perhaps with the lights switched off,” he muttered.

The old whore cackled. “You know where to find her,” she said.

Fredrik counted out a few coins on his palm, then followed the madam into the hall, started up the stairs. His boots sank into a carpet scuffed threadbare by a decade’s march of lonely men.

At ten thirty, the last dishes had been washed in the Nielsens’ kitchen. Birgit was drying the remaining cups, Amalia was wiping down the sink with a rag, polishing the faucet, making certain that the counter, too, was spotless. The party had long since moved from the dining room into the library. Now it was up to the men to keep the fire burning and drinks poured. For the maids, all that remained was to rinse the crystal after the last nightcaps were finished. Apart from the distant rumble of voices and an occasional peal of laughter, the house had fallen quiet. Outside, the wind had picked up, and currents of
cold air circulated through the kitchen. Amalia folded the wet towel, draped it over the front of the sink, then, patting her hands on her apron, crossed into the dining room to take one last look and make certain that they had cleared everything from the table.

The candles were still lit, and she stood for a moment in the flickering light, enraptured by the dance of shadows. Yellow flames reached for the ceiling, plumes of waxy smoke stretched, faded, disappeared, orange reflections kissed the walls. The polished surface of the large antique table glistened. Ornaments the children had cut from red and white construction and tissue paper over the last few weeks twisted slowly on threads hung from lintels and chandeliers. Already, the paper was beginning to droop beneath its own weight. Christmas Day was tomorrow, but these little bits of the children’s imagination were halfway to the rubbish bin. A lone silver serving spoon, forgotten on the sideboard, shimmered like a splinter from the moon. The floorboards creaked beneath Amalia’s weight. The voices ebbed then became louder again in the next room. She slipped the silver spoon into its velvet-lined drawer. Then she edged toward the doorway to the library. There, she hid herself in the shadows.

Now the Swensens are gone I can say it
. This booming voice belonged to Jurgen Nielsen, master of the house.

Oh, now now, Jurgen
, Gertrude Nielsen chided.
Save your unkindest remarks for my ears, wouldn’t you?
Mrs. Nielsen was ashamed of her husband. Beneath a bushy mustache that had remained black even as his hair had begun to gray, his lips were rubbery and always wet, and his mouth was huge. He had nostrils like the barrel of a shotgun in a nose as formless as a potato. He inhaled a lot of air, and when he spoke his voice bounced off the walls. He had married into the farm,
but it was his now, and he had made it everything that it was today. He might have been a boor, but he was a hardworking one. He didn’t owe his good fortune to anyone. At heart, he was a kind man, but he spoke his mind without worrying what his wife or anyone else might think.
You know how you get after too much wine —

Too much? I’m sorry, my darling, but I don’t think I’ve had too much. I don’t even think I’ve had enough yet —

Well — I don’t think anyone wants to hear what you have to say about the Swensens
.

Gisela was wearing wooden shoes
, Mr. Nielsen boomed, unable to restrain himself.

Oh, dear
. Mrs. Nielsen wanted to protest.
She’s from Holland, darling. That’s what they wear there, wooden shoes
.

And Peter —

Really, darling
.

Peter had pissed his pants. Did you see it? I’m sorry, but he had pissed his pants!

The library broke into laughter. In the shadows, Amalia smiled. She couldn’t help herself. Mr. Nielsen was a jovial, likable man. He was enormous — as tall as her father almost, but not thin like Fredrik, as barrel-chested as a cask. He held the world securely in his big, fat hands. She leaned forward to get a better view into the room, spied Jurgen Nielsen standing by the fire, draining the last of his wine. His crystal goblet was dwarfed by his fingers. Its contents disappeared, and he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes twinkled like they were made of glass. Amalia noticed that he was unsteady on his feet. He teetered, but gracefully, as if he were floating on the surface of the laughter his joke had provoked.