The Second Winter (21 page)

When the train finally arrived, Oskar waited for a few passengers to disembark before climbing into a second-class carriage. Descending from the next car, a woman in a long coat tried to catch his eye, but her face was nearly obscured by a thick scarf, and Oskar didn’t see her. Coal smoke belched from the engine’s smokestack. Steam jetted from vents beneath its belly. He grabbed hold of the guide bar and pulled himself up the tall first step.

“Oskar? Oskar Gregersen? Is that you?”

He glanced over his shoulder. The woman in the long coat was standing a few feet behind him on the platform. Next to her, a man with poor skin was holding a set of beaten-up, matching suitcases. “Elke,” Oskar said. “Mother.” He stepped back down, glanced up the length of the train, then stood in front of his mother with an awkward smile, unable to return her gaze. He didn’t bend to give her cheek a kiss, and she didn’t move toward him, either. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Ole has some business,” she explained.

The man standing next to her shifted uncomfortably, and Oskar noticed how yellow and crooked his teeth were.

“Will you stay long?” Oskar asked his mother.

“Not long,” the man said.

“Only a day or two,” Oskar’s mother said. “It’s Christmas, or we wouldn’t stay at all.”

Oskar glanced again up the length of the train. The passengers disembarking in Aalborg had already gotten off. A conductor was walking toward him, closing the doors. “I have to go,” Oskar said.

“Let me look at you first,” his mother said. She pulled the scarf away from her face so that she could see her son better.
Underneath, her cheeks were red and chafed. Fine pieces of hay clung to her coat. “You’ve grown so tall — you know, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“I have to go,” Oskar repeated.

“Are you on your way to Copenhagen?” the man asked.

Oskar didn’t respond.

“How is your father?” his mother asked.

Oskar only shrugged. At the base of the train, the conductor blew his whistle. “Well,” Oskar said. “Goodbye, then, Mother.”

“Merry Christmas,” the man said.

Oskar grabbed hold of the guide bar, stepped up into the carriage.

“I would have seen you more,” his mother called out after him, “if your father had let me.”

At the top of the stairs, Oskar turned to look at her, and their eyes met. Next to her, the man was staring at the tracks. A conductor was waiting for Oskar to board. Growing impatient, he tried to usher him inside, but Oskar wouldn’t move.

“Tell your sister you saw me,” his mother said. “Your father, too.”

The conductor reached past Oskar to tug the door closed. The train was pulling away from the station by the time Oskar was taking his seat. He looked out the window, but Elke Brink and her husband were already gone.

Oskar’s forehead rested against the cold window. Outside the train, the landscape passed in a blur. The satchel was on his lap. A fine layer of dirt from the barn floor still covered the soft suitcase. Before leaving the house, Oskar had wiped the leather with a wet towel, but not thoroughly enough to remove the soil from the grain. The dried mud darkened his fingertips. His trouser legs were stained with it.
You can spend the night at Fru Gregersen’s house
, Fredrik had told him.
She won’t be expecting you, but she won’t turn you away. It’s Christmas. Tell her that you bring holiday greetings from her son. She won’t be too happy to hear from me, I don’t imagine, and she won’t know what to make of you, but no, she won’t turn you away
. Oskar had taken his dress clothes from his closet. The shirt was wrinkled, but at least he could wear it. His feet barely fit into his old shoes. The trousers, though, were too short by inches, so he hadn’t changed from the pair he had been wearing. Noticing the dirt on his thighs, Oskar brushed the rough fabric with his fingers. Then he rested his forehead on the glass again.
When the train crossed a bridge, the water underneath was so gray that it became part of the sky. The wheels rolled over the tresses with a hollow roar.

The train slowed as they approached the ferry terminal at Nyborg. In Odense, most of the passengers had disembarked, and the carriage was nearly empty. A man riding alone sat facing him a few benches away, partially hidden behind a seatback. The only other people on board this car were a married couple across the aisle, dressed for Christmas, carrying a few wrapped packages in addition to their suitcases. The husband was worrying about the time, his wife was concerned about their children. They must have been wealthy, because the war didn’t figure into their conversation at all. Oskar was only half listening. The flat farmland outside the train was lulling him to sleep.

And, too, he was distracted by the other lone passenger. Wasn’t this the same man whom he had seen at the station in Aalborg? Oskar couldn’t be sure, because he had only been vaguely conscious of him then, and he wasn’t able to get a good look at him now. But Oskar remembered the fedora — the way this man wore it low on his forehead. There was nothing unusual about two men traveling to Copenhagen on the same train. Still, Oskar was aware of him. His eyes settled on the man’s polished shoes, just visible under the seat. His trouser legs were folded into heavy cuffs. Beneath the wool, his shoes glistened. The dim light spilling into the carriage through the rain-dappled windows beaded on the lacquered leather like water. The laces were fastened into tight, precise bows.

When the conductor strolled past to announce their arrival into the harbor at Nyborg, Oskar decided to stand early and move to another car where there were more people. His palms were sweaty. The satchel had become a dead
weight. At the top of the carriage, he looked back down the aisle and was reassured to see that the man in the hat was still in his seat, staring out the window at the darkening sky. Oskar caught a fleeting glimpse of his profile. He had lit a cigarette, and it rested in the limp grip of his fingers beneath a plume of smoke. Oskar passed into the next carriage, joined a group of passengers gathered in front of the door.

On board the ferry, he ducked into a restroom and bolted the lock behind him. His palms wouldn’t stop sweating. It was hot, but that wasn’t why. His hands were shaking, too. Oskar was determined not to disappoint his father. He set the satchel down at his feet, turned on the tap. Cold water spewed from the faucet with a sulfuric smell. He lathered his hands with a greasy bar of soap, washed his face. The grime from the satchel dripped into the sink, slid down the drain. In the mirror, his skin appeared green. His face looked stressed. He held his hands in front of him until they stopped quivering, then dried them with a dirty towel.

Voices passed the bathroom door, footsteps. Rather than rejoin the other passengers, Oskar entered the stall, shut the lid and took a seat on the toilet. He rested his head in his hands, closed his eyes. The floor vibrated beneath his feet. The hull of the huge steel ferry lifted and fell. The engine growled. The air was tinged with diesel.

Charlottenlund. December 25, 1941
.

It was already after eight o’clock by the time Oskar reached the front gates of the Gregersen home in Charlottenlund. He had come to visit his grandmother before, but years ago. He had only a vague recollection of the estate on the coast a few miles north of Copenhagen — an incomplete image of a white plaster villa with striped yellow awnings, set back behind a wrought-iron fence on a bluff overlooking the Øresund. He remembered running as fast as he could across a lush green lawn, reaching the street, crossing blindly, then charging down the path to the beach. Even in summer, the seawater had been as cold as ice. He gazed at the house now, one hand resting on the painted metal railing. Across the manicured gardens, it loomed in the shadows with the grandeur of a palace. Had his father really grown up here?

The grounds were quiet. The windows were dark. Perhaps Christmas dinner was being held somewhere else. Perhaps the
family had closed this house for the winter. He could return to the center of the city. It wasn’t far, he could get a room at a cheap hotel — And then an orange glimmer lit the surface of a window. Oskar tracked the movement, focused on a fine, bright line of light. The windows were blacked out with heavy curtains, that was all. In the calm after a car passed, music trickled across the lawn, faint laughter. And then, too, he smelled the aromatic scent of burning wood. Making up his mind, he hoisted the satchel over the gates, then clambered over after it. His shoes landed on the crushed granite path with a scrape.

At the front door, he hesitated one more time. He tried to remember his grandmother, but all he could recall was an old woman with powdery skin and silver hair, rheumy blue eyes half hidden behind the tired folds of her eyelids. Her hands had been as velvety as rabbit fur. Inside the house, a child’s shout bounced off the walls. Glasses clinked — someone was making a toast. Oskar’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Screwing up his courage, he found the chime, gave it a firm tug. Behind the heavy door, the bell resonated across the foyer. He waited, then pulled the rod a second time.

Next to the door, a curtain was lifted to one side. Oskar peered back through the window at a man who reminded him of his father, though he was darker and heavier. The thick lead glass distorted the man’s features, and only a sliver of his face was visible. But Oskar recognized his uncle. “Who is it? What do you want?”

“It’s me, Uncle Ludvig,” Oskar said. “Oskar. Fredrik’s son.”

“Fredrik’s son,” Ludvig repeated. He licked his lips as if he had tasted something foul. His one visible eye, though, widened and softened. He fooled with the locks, pulled open the door, stopped it short with his foot. “Are you alone?”

“Yes,” Oskar reassured him. “I came by myself.”

Ludvig examined him through the gap, then pulled the door open the rest of the way. Behind him, a small group had gathered at the mouth of the grand foyer. Oskar spotted his eldest cousin, Ralf, who was now twenty-two, Ralf’s brother, Wilhelm, who was fourteen, and their sister, Lise, the youngest at thirteen. Next to them were a few cousins from another side of the family, whose names Oskar didn’t know. “But we’re not expecting you,” Ludvig asked, “are we?”

Oskar didn’t respond. His attention was drawn to the faces staring back at him.

Ludvig rested a hand on his shoulder. The affectionate touch surprised him. Fredrik’s stories always described a cold and nasty man. “You’ve grown since the last time I’ve seen you. But it’s been years, hasn’t it?”

“Seven years,” Oskar said.

“Yes — seven years. Well, come inside. Look, we’re having a party here — it’s Christmas — we’re having Christmas dinner. There’s plenty of food, that’s for sure, and there’s room at the table.”

Oskar followed his uncle across the marble floor. His face flushed as he stepped into the salon. The family was throwing its own little gala. Flames caressed the bricks of a massive hearth, candles glowed. A woman wearing a gown was seated in front of an ebony piano, another beside a harp. A man in a tuxedo was holding a violin by its neck, as if he had bagged a goose. Oskar took in just how well-dressed everyone was. He had never felt more like a bumpkin.

“Where are you coming from today?” Ludvig asked. “All the way from Jutland?”

“Yes.”

“And by yourself — you must be tired. Maybe you want to clean up a little, before you come to dinner —”

Anything, Oskar thought, to get away from this crowd.

“You’ll be staying the night, I’m sure,” Ludvig continued. “I’ll show you to a room upstairs. But first you’ll want to see your grandmother. She doesn’t much like surprises, Mama doesn’t. But this one will probably please her.” As Ludvig led him into the center of the gathering, voices dropped, until — when they were standing in front of Fru Gregersen, who was seated like a queen on a divan, one hand in her lap, the other resting on a gilded armrest — the entire party had fallen still. The rough soles of Oskar’s filthy, silly shoes scuffed the polished floor, and his footsteps alone, not his uncle’s, echoed off the walls of the opulent gallery. Fabric rustled as people turned. The smooth swish of silk and the brittle crumpling of starched cotton swept through the room like a breaking wave.

Fru Gregersen had been speaking to a middle-aged woman seated next to her, and she wasn’t accustomed to having her conversation interrupted. Her face concealed her displeasure. “You must be Fredrik’s eldest,” she said, even before the introduction was made.

Ludvig gave Oskar’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Your mind is sharper than mine, Mama.”

Fru Gregersen frowned. “The resemblance is unmistakable. At first I thought I was looking at my son.”

“He came all the way from Jutland today, Mama,” Ludvig told her. “By himself.”

“Who are you?” Fru Gregersen demanded, reaching out abruptly to grab Oskar’s dirty sleeve. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

“My name is Oskar, ma’am.”

“Oskar — so it is — Oskar. I remember now. You’ve been here before, haven’t you, Oskar?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And so polite!” Fru Gregersen gave his sleeve a shake, then let it go. “And you came all this way just to wish me a good Christmas, I suppose? Or did that worthless son of mine send you here?” She clucked her tongue. “What does he want this time? He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“Ma’am?” When Oskar glanced at Ludvig, his uncle offered him an uncomfortable smile, nothing more. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Oskar said, and when he spoke, a couple of the younger girls giggled and his face turned red. He had no doubt that his accent was funny to them. It sounded rough even to him, against the proper Danish his grandmother and uncle were speaking. “I only need a place to spend the night.” He was stammering. “I didn’t mean to ask anything of you, I mean, I only thought I might be able to spend the night here.”

“You can tell him,” Fru Gregersen continued, “that he won’t see another crown, not in my lifetime, not from me. That — that
woman
— your mother, yes, that’s what she was, I suppose, your
mother
— she emptied his pockets. Did you know that?” A few of the guests exchanged glances. Next to Oskar, Ludvig cleared his throat. “Of course this was what we expected. She was a social climber, that’s what she was. We tried to warn him, but Fredrik always had a mind of his own. He could never see past a pretty face —”