Matthías nodded, put on his overcoat and hat, and Halldór escorted him out, asking an officer to drive the gentleman home.
Diary III
February 23, 1915. Life continues as usual here in Berlin in spite of the war. There is, however, much unemployment, and business is generally stagnant. At college the students do their best to concentrate on their studies…Military processions march through the streets to the beat of drums. They are all dressed in gray uniforms with either beribboned caps or spiked helmets…
April 25, 1915. The final examinations are imminent, but the war eclipses everything. My college friends intend military service after graduation. Some are eager, others anxious. What is certain is that there will be a multitude of railroad projects because of the war. They are now attaching huge cannons on to railroad wagons…
May 8, 1915. Newspapers here in Berlin report that a German submarine U-20 sunk the giant ocean liner Lusitania south of Ireland yesterday. Kapitän Schwieger has received much praise for this act here in Germany. The German Ambassador in the United States had warned tourists against taking passage with the ship. I doubt whether this will prove to have been a judicious move for the Germans in their conduct of the war…The newspapers have not reported this, but rumor is flying round here in college that several hundred passengers died on the Lusitania, including many Americans. It is said that women and children were among those who perished…
May 12, 1915. The woman with whom I take meals wishes fervently for peace, as supplies are continually dwindling. Now you may no longer serve meat on Tuesdays and Fridays. Occasionally there is fish instead and then nobody notices it, but on some meatless days, the shops have no fish either. The cabbage does not taste of anything, and the soups are insubstantial. The bread is good, but the worst thing is when there is no butter or margarine available. Then we have jam or honey on our bread…
June 4, 1915. The final exams are over. Celebrations here are muted because of the war. I have said good-bye to those professors and college friends I was able to get hold of. I am going to haste my way to Denmark. Probably best to go overland through Jutland…
Erlendur telephoned Reverend Ingimar. The pastor had been audibly shocked by the news of his friend’s death, but seemed to recover enough for Erlendur to ask if he could come by later that day. The reverend agreed and said he’d let their other friends know what had happened. Then Erlendur spoke to Jacob’s sister Kirsten in Akureyri, who, after a short silence, said she would come south to Reykjavik at the first available opportunity.
Erlendur was frequently given the task of bringing bad news to relatives. He had a way of doing it that was both considerate and calming, which surprised those who didn’t know him well. Erlendur had a reputation as something of a joker, and while he liked to laugh and tease, he was also quick to sense when it was appropriate to be serious.
He would be working on the case for the rest of this day and the following one, and then heading off on holiday. He was looking forward to the trip, but was now feeling a bit apprehensive about being away from the investigation. He had a feeling he would be needed over the next few days. Halldór always relied on having someone to discuss things with, and that was usually him. There would be difficult decisions to make in this case, and Halldór didn’t really trust his colleagues: Egill was not good at giving appropriate advice, Jóhann never took a stand on anything, and Marteinn was new to the job. That left only Hrefna, but Halldór was not in the habit of turning to her.
Reverend Ingimar was tall and slim, though slightly stooped; he had dark hair and graying sideburns.
“It is incomprehensible how something like this can happen,” he said, inviting Erlendur into his home. “Here you are, this is my office, please take a seat. My wife will bring us coffee in a minute.”
They sat down, and Erlendur got out his notebook and a pen. “I understand that you and the late Jacob Kieler were good friends.”
“Yes, we met in the first year of high school and immediately became good companions,” Ingimar replied.
“So perhaps you can tell me a bit about him, what sort of a person he was?”
“Yes,” the pastor cleared his throat, “I was indeed thinking back to our school years when you arrived. I’m rather expecting the family to come to me about the funeral, and I shall begin working on the eulogy presently.”
He leafed through some papers on the desk in front of him.
“Jacob Junior was the son of Jacob Kieler, engineer, and his wife, Elizabeth. The Kieler name stems from Jacob Junior’s great-grandfather, who emigrated from Denmark to Iceland in the middle part of the last century. His name was Jacob as well. His son, Jacob Junior’s grandfather, was called Alfred. They were both killed in accidents while still full of life; Jacob the elder fell off a horse, whereas Alfred died in a car accident many years later.”