The Redbreast(22)
talking about going over. Well, you were certainly
. . . good friends, you two, weren’t you?’
Gudbrand didn’t hear at first; the words were too
distant. Then the echo of them reached him, and he
felt the warmth surge back into his body.
‘The Germans are never going to let us retreat,’
Sindre said. ‘We’re going to die here, every man
jack of them. You should have hopped it. The
Bolsheviks aren’t supposed to be as brutal as
Hitler to people like you and Daniel. Such good
friends, I mean.’
Gudbrand didn’t answer. He could feel the heat in
his fingertips now.
‘We thought of nipping over there tonight,’ Sindre
said. ‘Hallgrim Dale and I. Before it was too late.’
He twisted in the snow and eyed Gudbrand.
‘Don’t look so shocked, Johansen,’ he grinned.
‘Why do you think we said we were ill?’
Gudbrand curled his toes in his boots. He could
feel them now. They felt warm and good. There
was something else too.
‘Do you want to join us, Johansen?’ Sindre asked.
The lice! He was warm, but he couldn’t feel the
lice. Even the whistling sound under his helmet had
stopped.
‘So it was you who spread the rumours,’
Gudbrand said.
‘Which rumours?’
‘Daniel and I talked about going to America, not
over to the Russians. And not now, but after the
war.’
Sindre shrugged, looked at his watch and got on
to his knees. ‘I’ll shoot you if you try,’ Gudbrand
said. ‘With what?’ Sindre asked, gesturing towards
the gun parts on the rug. Their rifles were in the
bunker and they both knew that Gudbrand wouldn’t
be able to get there and back before Sindre had
gone.
‘Stay here and die if you want, Johansen. All the
best to Dale, and tell him to follow.’
Gudbrand reached inside his uniform and pulled
out his bayonet. The moonlight shone on the matt
steel blade. Sindre shook his head.
‘People like you and Gudeson are dreamers. Put
the blade away and join me. The Russians are
getting new provisions across Lake Ladoga now.
Fresh meat.’
‘I’m no traitor,’ Gudbrand said.
Sindre stood up.
‘If you try to kill me with that bayonet, the Dutch
listening post will hear us and sound the alarm.
Use your head. Who do you think they’ll believe
was trying to desert? You, with all the rumours
there already are about your plans to do a runner,
or me, a party member?’
‘Sit down, Sindre Fauke.’
Sindre laughed.
‘You’re no killer, Gudbrand. I’m off now. Give
me fifty metres before you sound the alarm, so that
you’re in the clear.’
They eyed each other. Small, feather-light
snowflakes had begun to fall between them. Sindre
smiled: ‘Moonlight and snow at the same time.
That’s a rare sight, isn’t it?’
12
Leningrad. 2 January 1943.
THE TRENCH THE FOUR MEN WERE STANDING IN WAS
TWO kilometres north of their own section of the
front, at the point where the trench doubled back,
almost forming a loop. The captain stood in front
of Gudbrand and was stamping his feet. It was
snowing and there was already a thin layer of fine
snow on the top of the captain’s cap. Edvard
Mosken stood next to the captain and observed
Gudbrand with one eye wide open, the other
almost closed.
‘ So,’ the captain said. ‘ Er ist hinüber zu den
Russen geflohen? He’s gone over to the Russians,
has he?’
‘ Ja,’ Gudbrand said.
‘ Warum? ’
‘ Das weiß ich nicht.’
The captain gazed into the distance, sucked his
teeth and stamped his feet. Then he nodded to
Edvard, mumbled a few words to his
Rottenführer, the German corporal accompanying
him, then they saluted. The snow crunched as they
left.
‘That was that,’ Edvard said. He was still
watching Gudbrand. ‘Yes,’ Gudbrand said. ‘Not
much of an investigation.’
‘No.’
‘Who would have thought it?’ The one wide-open
eye stared life-lessly at Gudbrand.
‘Men desert all the time here,’ Gudbrand said.
‘They can’t investigate all of —’
‘I mean, who would have thought it of Sindre?
Who would have thought he would do something
like that?’
‘Yes, you could say that,’ Gudbrand said.
‘On the spur of the moment. Just got up and made
a run for it.’
‘Right.’
‘Shame about the machine gun.’ Edvard’s voice
was cold with sarcasm.
‘Yes.’
‘And you couldn’t call the Dutch guards, either?’