The Informer (Sabotage Group BB) (12 page)

“Can I see the reverend, please?” Alis K asks, trying to smile. The woman in the door—
his wife!
—is staring at her for a long time. The blond hair arranged at the top of her head. A single wrinkle on the forehead.

“Of course.”

Leaving Alis K standing in the rain, she goes to get her husband. Muffled voices reach her ears from inside the house. Alis K shifts the umbrella to her other hand. BB appears in the door.

“What are you thinking, showing up here?”

“It’s important.”

“It’d better be. Come inside.” Turning around, he walks down the hallway. Alis K folds her umbrella and hurries after him into a small study. There is a desk in the center of the room and bookshelves along the walls. Carpet on the floor. Looking around, she touches the porcelain figure on the windowsill. An elephant. White.

“Was that your wife?” she asks in a low voice.

“Yes. She’s in the kitchen now. What do you want?”

“Brink’s Sewing Factory tonight. Borge has convinced Jens that Willy’s the informer. It’s crazy. The boy saved my life. He shot and killed two Hipo scum! How could he possibly do that if he was the one who told them we were coming?”

“Borge thinks the boy might have tricked you. Maybe he fired blanks at them.”

“He shot one of them in the face, BB.

Most of the cheek and one of his eyes were blown off right in front of me. It wasn’t just some ketchup or stage blood leaking from a hole in his chest. It was
real
. The other one shit his pants when he died. I could smell it. I was this close to him as I had to get his gun.”

Taking a pipe from one of the drawers in his desk, Johannes strikes a match. “Sit down.” He points to the chair on the other side of the desk. “The boy’s father is in Germany. I’ve been asking around. Nobody seems to know exactly what his father’s doing down in Germany.”

“You can’t judge people by their parents,” Alis K whispers.

“Of course not, but it’s part of the big picture.”

“Borge and Jens have made a trap for him. Borge made him believe that he’s to guard a hit on Brink’s Sewing Factory tonight. Everybody except Willy knows we aren’t hitting anything. We’re just there to see if the bastards have been informed again. If they are, then it must be Willy who’s the rat as he is the only one not knowing the hit is fake.”

“All right. We’re supposed to be there?”

“Of course, but I don’t want any part of this.”

“That’s why you came here?”

“Yes, we need to stop it.”

“Don’t you ever come here, Alis K.”

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t followed.”

“My wife.”

“I thought you told her …”

“I did. Only she freaks out. I don’t want her doing that. I can’t do this to her.”

“You can’t do
this
to her?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her wet shoes. She shouldn’t have come. She has only made things worse than they were to begin with. She feels chaotic today. Falling apart. It hurts to sit down. A customer got out of control yesterday. He had brought a horsewhip. She couldn’t stop him. It stings like hell. She feels like crying. Something deep within has been ruined. Something she has been hiding way down her soul is coming out. She can’t cope much longer.

“You’ll be there tonight, and so will I. End of discussion.”

“I can’t …”

“If we haven’t been ratted out, then it’ll prove Willy’s innocence.”

She lifts her head to look at him. He looks confident, he even smiles. She stands, nodding her head. “Forgive me for coming here. It …”

“Don’t worry about it.”

She nods again. It is a struggle not to run out of the house like the devil was chasing her. She walks, walks calmly and restrained towards the door. “Goodbye.”

He gets up. “Let me follow you out.”

She walks down the hall. A quick glance through the open kitchen door. BB’s wife smiles at her. She looks like a nice person—even lovely with dimples and kind eyes. And that just makes everything worse. Alis K is unable to return her smile; all she manages is a silent nod. At the door she turns to look at BB. She has known all along. Of course she has. She knows men. She knew all along, but she was unable to keep from hoping.

Stepping out into the rain, she doesn’t look back as she walks away. Letting the tears flow, she feels the rain wash them down her face.

Sitting on a bench, getting soaked, she cries for BB, for Willy. For her life. For the hundreds of men who have spilled their semen inside her abdomen. For the illegal abortions she has had done. For the whippings. For the people she has killed. For the constant fear of getting busted. For her loneliness. For the schoolteacher who took her virginity at the after-school detention when she was eleven. For the beatings her father gave her for telling lies like that when she told him about the abuse, hoping he would make it stop. For the many after-school detentions that followed until she ran off from home and finally got to Copenhagen. She cries silent tears. No sobs, no sounds. She is sitting straight up in the rain while the tears wash down her face.

Later she stands, looking at the closed umbrella. A deep sigh. Then she unfolds it and walks away drenched to her skin under the open umbrella. Coming home, she gets out of the soggy clothes, hanging them to dry by the heater. She examines the stripes on her buttocks, the many traces left by the horsewhip. She lights a fire in the heater and creeps into bed. Asleep in seconds.

A couple of hours later a knock on the door makes her stir. “Come in,” she says in a voice hoarse from sleep.

A man in a black uniform enters the room. “We have an appointment,” he says, shutting the door behind him.

She smiles at him, as convincing as she is capable of. “Put the money on the table.”

Finding his wallet he places a few banknotes on the nightstand. “The usual,” he says, unbuttoning his uniform.

Pushing the duvet aside, Alis K spreads her legs. “Come here, baby.”

26

“Now, what?” Grete stands tall with a stern frown, hands at her sides. “Johannes!”

Returning her glance, he sees the fear hiding in her eyes. The shivering lip. He shrugs. “Take it easy.”

“That woman! She was the one on the telephone the other night, right?”

“Sure.”

She looks up at the ceiling. Down at his shoes. At the door to the study. “Are you having an affair with that woman?”

“An affair?” He shows her his most innocent smile.

“It written all over you, Johannes.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I think you need some rest. You haven’t been sleeping so well since you found out about the sabotage.”

“So, there’s nothing going on between you and that woman?”

“No, there’s absolutely nothing going on between me and that woman.”

She blinks away the tears as he pulls her into his arms whispering: “Hush, hush” into her hair. But she doesn’t surrender, she doesn’t cry. Soon she breaks free from his embrace and walks back into the kitchen.

“Maybe we can adopt a child,” Johannes says later on. “There’s a lot of children in this world who could use a loving mother like you.”

“Oh?” she says.

Through the window he catches a glimpse of the maid, Linda, going out the back on her way to the butcher to see if there’s any pork today. She is a large monstrosity of a woman from the island of Bornholm with a great lump for a nose and a nasty breath. It was Grete who hired her. Some might say that was a wise decision.

“It’s not a bad idea to adopt a child. I know a reverend up in Hillerod, who has two little girls from Finland.”

“I’m not having any girls from Finland.”

“I think it’s possible to get boys as well.”

“I don’t want any boys either.”

“Oh.”

He stomps into the living room and throws himself down his chair. Grabs the newspaper and flicks it open by random. Grinding his teeth. After a while she comes to him.

“Brink’s Sewing Factory!” she says.

“So now you’re even listening at the doors?” he asks behind the newspaper.

“If the husband has secrets, the wife might do a thing like that.”

He sighs. Flips a page in the newspaper, slowly. “What do you need to know then?”

“Are you going?”

“Of course I am. I have to.”

“Johannes, please…”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“What is going to happen to me if you get caught by the Germans? Do you even care about that?”

“Nothing will happen.”

“Someday, it will.”

“Nonsense.”

“Johannes…”

“When you were listening at the door, you might have heard that this is not really an operation. We are just going to see if we got ratted out. Then we go home. There’s absolutely no danger.”

“I’ve started biting my nails,” she says, showing him the jagged fingernails. “I’ve never done that before. I can’t sleep at night. My stomach hurts. Johannes, this has to stop. I can’t take it.”

“Why don’t you support me in this? You’re no fan of the Nazis?”

She stares at him.

“I’m afraid too, Grete, but I can’t just sit and do nothing. Somebody’s got to fight evil. If not me, then who? I’ve got no children. And if something bad was to happen to me, you’d get by. I know you would. You’re a strong woman.”

She turns her back and leaves him sitting there. Johannes shakes his head. Maybe he should go after her? Grab her, hold her. Carry her into one of the bedrooms. Make love to her for the first time in months. Maybe that would make her relax a bit. In times like these, sex is the only comfort left. That is why, there are so many children being born nowadays. You have got to find some consolation.

He puts the newspaper down on the table. Smiles to himself. “I might do that!” he whispers to the living room, getting up from the chair.

Grete is in the bitterly cold dining room. They only heat the room when they have guests coming over. She has taken their wedding picture from the wall. Johannes walks to her and starts to rub her shoulders tenderly.

“We were so in love,” she says.

“Hm,” he hums, his lips against her ears.

“What are you doing?” she shivers.

“Kissing your ear.”

“It tickles.”

Lowering his mouth to kiss her neck, he lets his hands slide down to her breasts.

“But Linda?”

“She went to the butcher.”

He tries to find her nipples through the fabric of her shirt, but he can’t.

“Put the picture back on the wall.” His hands go down her stomach.

“Johannes, please.”

He removes the picture from her hands and places it on the dining table. Then he lifts her from the floor and carries her into the nearest bedroom. His own. Gently letting her slide down on the bed, he kisses her on the mouth. Trying to push his tongue inside, but she won’t let him.

“What?” he asks.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m bleeding,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“Grete…” But it is over. He knows it all too well. He has been there so many times before he stopped trying. “We’ll never get children if we don’t…”

“I can’t get pregnant while I’m bleeding.”

He snorts, pushing himself away from her; he goes out into the hallway. Grabs his overcoat and hat. The umbrella.

“Johannes? Where are you going?” Grete yells after him.

He doesn’t answer. Stepping out into the rain, he listens, as the rain drums on the umbrella and chuckles down the gutter. The air feels fresh and wonderful, but he’s not in a mood to appreciate it. Keeping a steady pace down the street, he feels black inside. Black as the soot from a chimney.

27

“Are you alone?”

Iris Skrab eyes him from the wet shoes all the way to the tip of the umbrella before nodding her head. “Yes, I’m alone. Get in.”

He folds the umbrella and steps in the door. Walking into the living room, Iris Skrab wriggles her butt, sending him a long glance over her shoulder. She is wearing a skirt and a blouse. The radio is on. Jazz. She lights up a cigarette while he gets his overcoat off.

Standing in the middle of the living room, she is smoking when he enters. “Sit down, Johannes,” she says, pointing to the chair.

He sits. Thinking about Grete, about Alis K, about tonight’s operation; he lights up his pipe, trying to stop thinking so much. He needs to relax, let it all go before it starts to eat him up, bit by bit.

Iris unzips her skirt, lets it fall to the floor, and steps out of it. The blouse covers most of her panties, and the stockings stop only a few centimeters below, letting Johannes glimpse the naked skin of her thighs.