The Second Winter (17 page)

The laughter hadn’t completely subsided before another voice chimed in. This was a weak, gravelly voice — an old voice.
It belonged to Mr. Poulsen, Gertrude’s father. At eighty-nine years old, Viktor Poulsen had outlived his wife by nearly ten years. Ownership of the farm had long since passed to Jurgen and Gertrude. Old man Poulsen occupied a room upstairs in the attic. Every day at exactly seven fifteen, he made his way downstairs to eat his breakfast. He passed an hour in the study, then climbed the stairs back to his room, slowly, clasping the railing in long, silvery fingers. He took his evening meal by himself, sat in a chair with a book in his lap until he fell asleep, then at nine was woken for a bath, before being led back into bed. He was as much a fixture of the house as the old clock in the formal living room, and as little a part of the family. At the sound of his voice, the room fell silent.
And now
, he said,
and now — I — I will tell the last story
.

Amalia leaned farther out of the shadows. The old man was seated in a large white chair next to the hearth, cradling a goblet still full of red wine. Eyes glistening like a madman’s, he raised the glass in a shaky hand and looked around the room at the guests. Some were seated, others standing. All were quiet, waiting for him to speak.

What do you have to tell us, Papa?
Gertrude managed to sound protective and embarrassed in the same breath.

Yeah — what story do you have for us, old man?
Jurgen guffawed, unaware of his own irreverence.
If it’s your last one, you had better make it a winner —

His hand still raised, the old man fastened his eyes on his son-in-law. His goblet gathered the light and cast it back out like a chandelier. The wood crackled in the fireplace. Jurgen swayed back and forth, his shoes squeaked on the polished floor. If a pin had dropped, Amalia would have heard it.
Will you raise your glass with me, Jurgen?

Jurgen held up his empty glass.
Old man, I’m all ears
.

Poulsen appraised this buffoon who was his daughter’s husband. Then at last he brought his glass to his lips and took a sip. The wine sloshed and dribbled down his chin. From her vantage point, Amalia saw a drop splash the edge of the white chair. It would fall upon her tomorrow to remove the stain.

So get on with it, why don’t you, huh? We’re all waiting
. Jurgen raised his hands, gestured toward the gathered guests.
What about this story?

Poulsen cleared his throat.
Did you know, Jurgen, that my father’s father fought with Napoleon in Russia?

Jurgen rolled his eyes and slapped his balding head with a hand the size of a frying pan.
Not this one again, no!
he shouted, and once again the room broke into laughter.

Yes
, Poulsen said, intent upon continuing, as if Jurgen had expressed disbelief rather than impatience.
Yes, yes! He did, I tell you. He joined the Grande Armée as a grenadier, and it so happened that he was sent to the Russian front. One day — I imagine a very cold day — my grandfather’s regiment found itself in battle with the Russians, and the Russian Campaign was a very bloody war, much more bloody than the battles we fight today. A cannonball landed at his feet — this should have killed him, it should have blasted him into a million pieces — but when it exploded, by some miracle, he wasn’t touched — not touched, I tell you, not a hair on his head — except for a single piece of shrapnel no larger than my fingernail, which embedded itself into his chest next to his heart —

Yes, yes, I know, I know
, Jurgen interrupted, unable to stop himself.
He survived the blast, thanks be to God, and came home again in one piece, got married some years later, had a child — your father — and then one day, when he was playing with him on the floor, your infant father kicked your grandfather in the chest and dislodged the shrapnel into his heart, and he died like
that, in his house, and what a strange world it is, am I right? Such a strange world, where a bomb can kill you half a lifetime after it explodes when you are safe inside the walls of your own home
. Jurgen had managed to repeat the entire, well-worn story in almost a single breath, and when he reached the end of his tirade, he bent double and held himself propped up on his knees and wheezed and enjoyed the room’s laughter. Sparks flew up the chimney behind him, and the children — who were still awake, past their bedtime — began to chase each other in circles, caught up in their father’s merriment.

Amalia took a step in retreat. The laughter and voices faded. The children’s giggles trailed away. Once again, she surveyed the dining room. The candles had burned down, a few had gone out. There was nothing left for her to do but wait for the crystal.

Midnight was just a few minutes away by the time Amalia was setting the last of the goblets back into the display cabinet in the dining room. Mrs. Nielsen had come into the kitchen to send Birgit home an hour earlier. She had been planning to give them both a little present, two crowns each, but that was before the maids had broken the cup. The Royal Copenhagen had been in the family for two generations. Four crowns wouldn’t begin to pay for the damage. Still, it was Christmas. If Mr. Nielsen agreed, Mrs. Nielsen would look the other way and wouldn’t dock them any more than their Christmas bonus. Birgit had thanked Mrs. Nielsen and promised to return in the morning. Amalia, too — her hands clasped at the base of her puffy tummy, her eyes trained on the floor — had managed her own
thank you, ma’am
, just like Birgit. Now, she was stretching onto her toes. She slid the last glass back into
its place, made sure that the arrangement was properly symmetrical, then closed the cabinet door. The latch snapped shut with a snug click.

Back in the kitchen, she took a cursory look around, then crossed stealthily to the pantry, where she had stashed a small package for herself on one of the upper shelves. On the floor above, footsteps thudded across the heavy planks, voices rumbled. Christina was still awake, and a peal of her laughter echoed down the stairs. The narrow pantry was dark, cool. Once again, Amalia stood on her toes. Next to a large sack of flour, her fingers found the cloth napkins she had tied together into a bundle. She hadn’t had time to wrap the bundle well, and the ends of the napkins began to unravel as she slid the package of goodies off the ledge. Once it was safely in her hands, she carried it to the counter. Loosening the knots, she picked up a small pie she had stolen from the cakes and treats the cook had spent the day preparing, set it next to the empty drying rack. The fragrance of baked blueberries hit her nose, mixing with the scent of soap from the sink. Underneath the pie were three savory tarts — one for Oskar, one for her father, one for her. She straightened them on the napkin, then set the pie carefully back on top. Her mouth watered as she tied the bundle back together, this time securing it properly. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t remember ever going so long with so little food.

“What have you got there?”

Amalia’s heart burst inside her chest. She hadn’t heard anyone approach. As she twisted around, she tried to hide the package, and it slipped off the counter. The pie tin landed with a loud twang, and crumbs jumped across the floor. In the dim light, it was impossible to read Mr. Nielsen’s expression. “I was just leaving, sir,” she managed to utter.

“I can see that. With your hands full, too.” Mr. Nielsen started to chuckle, but cleared his throat instead. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” As if to emphasize the point, in the living room the antique clock whirred then began to chime the twelve beats of midnight.

“Yes, sir.”

Pursing his lips, Mr. Nielsen stroked his mustache as he appraised the mess on the floor. Floorboards creaked over their heads. “You had better clean that up before the missus comes downstairs. You wouldn’t want her to see this. Stealing food from the party, she wouldn’t like that.”

Amalia’s hands tightened into fists. “I didn’t mean — I didn’t get the chance to eat —”

The huge man knelt with a wheeze and snatched up the pie tin.

“No, sir, let me get that —”

“Don’t panic.” Still leaning over, he looked up at the girl with a red-faced smile. She froze where she was, uncertain whether to kneel down next to him. “I’m just teasing, Amalia. It’s Christmas. You’ve been a real help around here. The sewing, the laundry, even farm work when I need it. Gertrude told me something about a cup. That’s why I came downstairs.” He set the pie tin on the counter. “I thought I would give you your bonus.” He glanced over his shoulder, then dug his hand into his pocket. “You can’t tell the missus, agreed?”

“No, sir, you don’t have to do that.”

Mr. Nielsen pulled out a few crowns, without counting them held them toward her. When she hesitated, he grabbed her by the wrist and shoved the coins into her hand. “Not a word to Gertrude, understand?”

Amalia felt her cheeks burn.

“Well, good night, then,” he said. “You had better clean that up before you leave, though — not a crumb on the floor, or Gertrude will find it, you know how she is.” He paused in the doorway. “And why don’t you take a bottle of wine, too?”

“Sir?”

Mr. Nielsen opened the door to the pantry, grabbed a bottle from one of the shelves, set it down on the counter. “For your father. I know how much Fredrik likes a glass.”

“Sir — please — I mean thank you — it’s not necessary —”

“Merry Christmas, Amalia,” Mr. Nielsen said. Then he left the kitchen. She waited until his footsteps reached the stairs, then dropped the coins into her pocket, bent to her knees, gathered together the pie and the tarts, bundled them carefully back into the napkins. The room was dark, but despite her fatigue, as Mr. Nielsen instructed she made certain that no crumbs were left hidden in the shadows. Then, grabbing the bottle from the counter, she switched off the light and let herself outside.

Across the white expanse that separated the two houses, lights were still burning downstairs in the cottage. The weak yellow glow coruscated on the smooth layer of snow in the pulse of the storm. The distance was deceptive. The cottage lay less than a quarter of a mile from the Nielsens’ manor. But Amalia couldn’t simply short-cut across the field. As soft as the snow looked, the ground underneath was uneven and rough. Sleet sprayed her face, stung her eyes. She brushed a hand over her cheeks as if she was wiping tears, tucked the bundle beneath her arm, set out up the driveway toward the gate.

As the huge house shrank behind her, the landscape swelled around her. For the first few minutes, the cottage only seemed to get farther away. With the moon hidden, shadows swallowed it until it was barely visible at all. The glow in the windows dimmed. The bottle of wine turned to ice in her hands. It would be warm inside, she told herself — and how good it would feel finally to get off her feet. And it was these thoughts, and the prospect of surprising her father and brother with the food, that tugged her forward through the cold. By the time she reached the front path, her shoes were soaked. She slid on the stairs, caught herself on the banister. When she pushed the door open, the heat from the fire seared her face.

From his chair next to the hearth, Fredrik looked up at her through bleary, drunken eyes. He had been dozing, and he nearly lost control of a bottle of whiskey propped on his knee. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I thought you were upstairs asleep already with your brother.”

Amalia stamped the snow off her shoes in the vestibule. Her feet ached as they began to thaw. The cottage was abruptly quiet after having braved the long walk outside. “Isn’t Oskar still awake?”

Fredrik shrugged his shoulders.

“I brought you something,” Amalia said.

Fredrik turned away from his daughter, stared into the fire. He had just placed another log on top a few minutes before, and flames were clawing the tarry chimney.

“Are you hungry? Have you eaten?”

Fredrik located the bundle in her hands. “Something to eat?”

Amalia made sure that she wasn’t tracking snow inside, then approached her father. “It’s from the Nielsens,” she said, offering him the food. “From their Christmas dinner —”