Villi Asgeirsson

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short story

Queen of Hearts – a short story

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The queen was looking out the window, at men pushing carts through the castle grounds, women running after chickens and carrying breads, soldiers standing guard and knights unmounting their horses, two men dragging a condemned man to the platform and the executioner inspecting his axe. They were hard years, constant wars with her neighbours and the people suffered. How was she supposed to keep the peace with the endless raids on her border villages? They called her a warrior queen as her reign had been that of war and violence and because she had led her troops into many battles, but what she really wanted was a man she could call her king and little princes running around the castle.

Fate had pushed itself unto her and she had no choice but to oblige. A queen could not be seen to be weaker than a king would. There were enough greedy relatives waiting for the opportunity to oust her, with or without bloodshed.

The executioner raised his axe, and the queen walked away from her window.

She turned to look into the large mirror on the wall. The dark hair flowing from under her crown, almost merging with her black velvet dress. Black, the colour of mourning. Her future king, the one she had chosen, was dead. She looked into her own eyes, saw the stony stare. Am I evil, she asked herself. She didn’t hesitate to condemn people, to send them to the gallows. It did nothing to her to see them hanged. It gave her no pleasure, but she had no choice. You couldn’t allow yourself to be sensitive to that sort of thing. She ran her slender finger down the pale face. Wondered if she was still beautiful. There was a tiny wrinkle sprouting from her eye, but it was hair thin. Her face was still smooth, her features still those of a young woman. The only thing that may have made her look beyond her years was the sternness of her gaze. The coldness of her eyes, the authority she projected.

So why had he rejected her? He was nothing but a knight. A war hero, with many battles won, but in her name. His ancestry wasn’t much to boast about. His father had been a minor earl and yet, the man she had chosen rejected the idea of becoming her king.

Her face grew dark, thinking of their encounter. He kneeled before her, as one should. She complimented him on his victories and admired his body, his face and the fire in his eyes. He will be the father of the future king, she decided. But after weeks of courtship, he made his excuses, got himself out of her noose and claimed he had to leave for some battle or other.

One does not disobey the queen.

She lifted a glass of blood red wine and wetted her lips. Any moment now.

There were footsteps out in the hall. The queen put the glass down and smiled at her mirror image. They may think they can defy their queen, but they are wrong. She applied red colour to her lips, fixed her hair. No man should be able to resist this woman. She smiled and held back the tears. She was good in holding back tears, concealing her emotions. Some called her the Ice Queen. They knew nothing.

There was a knock on the door. She straightened her dress and waited a few seconds before answering. ‘Yes, come in.’

The door opened, and two soldiers entered, one carrying a covered silver tray. ‘Your Majesty.’

Silently, she gestured towards the table. The soldier put the tray down and walked backwards towards the door. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, and he left, closing the door.

Here we are again, she thought as she sauntered towards the covered tray. My love.

She lifted the silver lid, revealing a heart laden with diamonds and gold. Her face showed no emotion as she picked up a large ring with a deep blue stone from the soldier’s heart.

‘You should have given me your heart, my darling. Now I was forced to take it.’

She arranged the jewellery around the still warm heart and put the ring on her finger.

The widowed queen.

This story is the ninth installment in the Moments series

Cinema – a short story

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It wasn’t far off Alexanderplatz, but the alley was dark and deserted. Kirsten sensed the man following her and walked a little faster than she otherwise would. He walked faster still and soon caught up with her. Touched her shoulder. She ignored him, but he grabbed her and twisted her around. Kirsten tried to break loose, but he held tight, shook and threw her against the wall. Gottlieb pushed himself against her. She struggled but couldn’t move. She tried to scratch his face with her fingernails, but he grabbed her hand and all she could do was scream.

Ulrich was enjoying the evening walk, no destination on his mind. Just an evening stroll in the city. He heard a scream nearby, from an alley he just passed. His senses awake, he turned and ran towards the sound. Turning the corner, he saw a man holding a woman against her will.

He breathed deeply before mustering up the courage, composed himself and ran down the alley. Before Gottlieb could understand what was happening, he was ripped away from Kirsten. Almost losing his balance, he smashed against the opposite wall. He pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed at Ulrich. The two men confronted each other while Kirsten tried to compose herself.

‘Put the gun away,’ Ulrich almost whispered.

‘Learn to mind your own business.’ Gottlieb aimed the gun between the man’s eyes.

 Ulrich jumped to one side, confusing Gottlieb for a moment, then launched himself, knocking the gun out of Gottlieb’s hand with a karate kick. Both men seemed prepared to run after it but knew the other would use the opportunity to attack. Gottlieb punched toward Ulrich, but was thwarted. After receiving a heavy blow in the face, he ran away, out of the alley and out of sight.

Ulrich picked up the gun and smiled at Kirsten. ‘Hope he didn’t cause you any harm.’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Kirsten brushed her coat and smiled.

‘Ulrich, my name is Ulrich. Hungry?’

A moment later, they were in Alexanderplatz, laughing at the sauce running down her face as she took a bite. ‘Curry wurst may not be a great idea for a first date,’ she mumbled amusingly through the fat soaked wrapping. So beautiful, so elegant, yet so human. This perfect being mesmerised Ulrich. He saw his future right there, in her eyes. Fate had brought them together and nothing would get in their way.

Five men approached from the side. Ulrich devoured the sausage and clenched his fists. He was ready. Gottlieb, he recognised the man from the alley. They aligned themselves in a half circle, like gunslingers in a western, ambushing their prey. Kirsten moved closer to Ulrich, and he put his arms around her. They turned and walked off, knowing the men would come after them. Ulrich needed a plan.

The remains of the old Berlin Wall merely indicated at their former power. Covered in graffiti, the barbed wire and gun turrets were gone, but that didn’t make Ulrich and Kirsten feel any safer. The five men followed them at a steady distance, never letting them out of sight. As they approached the end of East Side Gallery, they took a sprint across Warschauer Straße, but could not get away. Two men attacked Ulrich, and he fell to the ground. Three went after Kirsten, grabbed her and dragged her to a car. As she was being pushed into the back, Ulrich, enraged, punched and kicked and got up. He ran towards the car, but someone shouted ‘Klaus!’ and he was tripped by one of the men. He fell on his face as the car sped off. The two men were back on their feet and started kicking him. Lying helpless on the ground, he remembered the gun he’d gotten off Gottlieb earlier. He pulled it out of his pocket, quickly turned and shot one of the men, which promptly fell into the Spree river. The other man ran off across the Oberbaum Brücke. Ulrich was in pain, but got back on his feet and ran after him.

He caught up with the crook halfway across the bridge. They slammed against the railing and almost lost their balance. The man resisted, but Ulrich drew the gun and pushed it under his chin.

‘Where did they take her?’

‘I don’t know.’

Ulrich pushed the gun upwards and it hurt Klaus. ‘Take me to her.’

‘I don’t know where they are.’

Ulrich searched Klaus’ pockets and found a phone. ‘Unlock it. Give me the name of the guy we’re about to visit.’

‘Never.’

‘I don’t care if you die here and now, or later. Or not at all. I really don’t care. I just want that girl back.’

‘Go to hell.’

Ulrich pushed Klaus, so he almost lost balance, aimed at his knee and pulled the trigger. Klaus screamed and fell to the ground ‘Tell me.’ Ulrich pointed the gun at his other knee.

‘Don’t!’

‘Tell me where she is or you’ll never walk again!’

‘Unlock it with 2014. Name is Gottlieb.’

Ulrich typed a text message. “Got rid of the guy. Where can we join you?”

Ulrich pointed the gun at Klaus again, while keeping one eye on the phone. ‘Don’t move.’

A message came in. “Tiergarten, under the Bismarck Monument.”

Ulrich hit Klaus on the head, knocking him out before taking his gun and waving a taxi.

The taxi stopped at the Victory Column and Ulrich got out. He walked straight to the path leading up to the Bismarck Monument, making no effort to be discreet. As the men saw him, he drew the two guns and fired. Two of the three men fell down. Gottlieb grabbed Kirsten and dragged her to one side, towards the trees. As they approached the English Garden, Gottlieb stopped and turned, pointing his gun at Kirsten. 

‘If you shoot, she will die. You are too far away. She will be hit.’

‘Let her go.’

‘Never!’

‘I’m telling you. This is your last chance. Your friends are all dead and I won’t hesitate to kill you too.’

Gottlieb pushed his gun against Kirsten’s chin and hid his own face behind hers. Ulrich raised his gun and aimed. Kirsten whispered something in terror but the words never came out. Ulrich held his breath, aimed and fired. Gottlieb let out a quick scream as he fell to the ground.

‘Let’s get out of here.’ Ulrich took Kirsten’s hand.

They walked towards the city, holding hands. As they stood under the Brandenburger Tor in the evening light, she turned and thanked him. He looked into her eyes and they kissed. They would never be separated again.

The evening sun cast shadows across the tiny room. Ulrich killed a cigarette in an overfull ashtray, stretched and typed THE END on his typewriter.

He got up from the chair, grabbed his coat and stormed out the door. The evening was beautiful, calm and chilly, and the Babylon Theatre cast its neon glow onto the pavement. Entering through the door, Gottlieb smiled as he looked at the ticket. ‘How often have you seen this film?’ He tore the stub off and let Ulrich in.

‘I don’t know.’ It was awkward to be recognised like this. He didn’t come here for the film, and it was none of Gottlieb’s business. He walked down the couple of steps to the candy stand. Kirsten smiled. ‘What can I do for you?’

He wanted to say so much to her. ‘Can I…’ 

’Sorry?’ She smiled patiently. How could she be so perfect?

‘Po… pop…’

‘You want popcorn?’

‘Yes.’

She smiled at him. ‘No problem. Cola, as usual?’

‘Yeah.’ This was awkward. Ulrich searched his trousers for change. It dropped on the floor, obviously. Embarrassed, he bent down, picked up the money and put it on the till in front of her. He smiled and she smiled back.

The film was the same as it had always been. He’d seen it around six times now. The half way point was here and the lights came on, but he stayed in his seat. He wanted to go out and see her, but he’d had enough popcorn and just standing there… it was awkward enough as it was. A moment passed, people returned to their seats, and the lights went out. The hero ran across a street and shot some bad guys, but the girl was still missing. She would be rescued towards the end. Ulrich had seen it all before.

He could not concentrate on the film. All he could think about was her as he put the leftovers of his popcorn away and stood up. There was no need for him to see the ending of this film anymore.

Ulrich apologised to the people in his row as he made his way towards the aisle, then walked up to the door. One last look at the screen. The hero was calling a taxi.

Ulrich opened the door and walked into the foyer. Kirsten was busy putting empty bottles into crates and arranging candy. Ulrich walked up to her. She looked up and smiled.

This story is the eigth installment in the Moments series

19 February 1916, 8:07 A.M. – a short story

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The distant rumble of bombs and artillery never seems to stop. Every moment of every day, it penetrates my mind. I have been at the front for almost three months and it’s driven me insane.

Sleep didn’t come this night. What good would that do, anyway? While insomnia allows me to experience life, for as long as that lasts, it gives me no pleasure. It’s dark and cold here. What day is it anyway? 12th of February, I think. I’m not sure. I fear the dawn. It will arrive too soon.

I tried to count the days as I lay awake. 19 years, five months and sixteen days have I been in this world. Should I count the seventeenth day? Tomorrow? 365 times nineteen, add the leap years, I lost count. Try it again. There is nothing else to do.

I tried to look at the photo in my hand, tried to see her face as she smiled at me. Does she worry about me? How will she react when she hears the news after tomorrow? Will she cry? I wish I could hold her in my arms. That’s all I wanted. I wanted to get away, get back to her. Have a normal life, away from this madness.

Will she find someone else? 

Dear mom. I’m trying to read the letter you sent two weeks ago, but it’s too dark in here. You were so proud when you saw me in uniform, said I was a real man now. It doesn’t feel like it. The uniform turned me into a monster, not a man. Running away was me trying to get away from this hell, I don’t want to turn into them. There is no sanity in the trenches, just madness. Grown men cry. There is nothing but noise, mud, insanity and death. I was fully expecting to die here, but wasn’t it supposed to be a German shell or a bullet? It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

I see the faint glow on the dirty window above me. I would welcome it, but this dawn brings no sunshine, no warmth, no future. I read the letter again. Posted two weeks ago, but they only gave it to me three days ago. I almost didn’t get to see it. Who knows what else I will miss? Charlie is doing well in school, father had the flu but is getting better. Grandma is worried, but assures me we’ll meet again. Poor soul. I hope she won’t be too sad.

Mr Gilbert also sent a letter a while ago, saying he looked forward to seeing his boy again. Hopefully soon. The bookshop is doing well, considering everything, and he hopes his apprentice comes back shortly to pick up where he left off. He says war makes no sense, the only one I ever heard talk against it. I wish I could walk in through those doors now, smell the old books, wish I could complain about how early in the morning it is and how I don’t want to end up listening to wannabe poets that hang around all day, hoping to gain inspiration by being surrounded by old books, and lonely women looking for fantasy romances as they have none in their lives. I miss Mr Gilbert and would give up everything to be there now, to be tired and grumpy, arranging Shakespeare in chronological order again. I wish my life was boring, as it used to be.

The first rays of the sun light up the dirty glass in the window. They are late. Have they changed their mind? Have they pardoned me? I jump up on the bed to see the outside world. The dead trees, the wet ground. I hear them. Footsteps coming my way. I jump down from the bed, so they won’t think I was running away again. Then I wonder why it would matter. It’s not as if they can give me a harsher sentence or sentence me to death again. The door opens, the Sergeant enters. He is holding a piece of paper, states my name, looks at me. His eyes are cold, like my cell.

‘It is 8:07 A.M.’ He looks at his watch as if to verify that what he’s just said is correct, then he looks at me. ‘The court has charged you with desertion and your sentence is death,’ he states.

I say nothing. Can’t say anything. Two men standing behind him wait until he gives them a signal, then tie my hands behind my back. We then proceed out into the chilly morning. The first rays of the sun kiss my face, but have no warmth to offer. Like the heavens are trying to say goodbye but not caring enough to show emotions.

It’s not that I wanted to run away. I genuinely wanted to fight for king and country, but after months of bombs going off around me, officers that treated me like scum, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I had to get away. Get back home, to my girl, to the bookstore, to the family. I wanted this war to end, to have a family of my own and loved ones around, exchanging presents at Christmas, celebrating another birthday. I hadn’t planned on leaving the trenches when I did. There was heavy fighting and as I lay there, sheltering myself from the flying dirt and bullets, I couldn’t take it anymore. I sat in the knee deep mud, crying. The rain was pouring down, and I was cold, shocked and drained. An officer kicked me and called me a coward, pointed a rifle at me and told me if I didn’t get up he’d shoot me himself. I got up and aimed my rifle across no-man’s-land, fired in the general direction of the enemy. I wasn’t sure who this enemy was and as soon as the officer got a bullet through his head and fell dead next to me; I started crawling away. I got out of sight, stood up and ran. I ran all day until dusk. I was alone in France, no way to get home, but I wasn’t at the front anymore.

They found me the following morning, sleeping in a barn next to cows. The trial was quick, and the general had no problems passing the sentence. They let me rot away in a cell for a week, allowing me time to understand my fate.

‘Cigarette?’ the sergeant asks.

‘Please.’

He unties my hands, warns me not to run. I stand there, in the courtyard, smoking. Trying to make it last as long as possible. This cigarette is the timer, the clock, it shows how much time I have left. I look at the wooden pole, at the holes in the wall behind it. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last.

He smiles sadly as I finish the cigarette, gives the soldiers the order to tie me to the pole. I want to see the sun, but it is behind a wall. I realise I will never see it again. Never see my girl, the rest. Nothing and nobody will come and save me at the last moment. A soldier puts a bag over my head. I try to refuse, but it is procedures.

I try to pray but can’t find any words. Don’t know what to ask for.

‘Ready!’ My heart is beating so loud I can hear it.

‘Aim!’ A dreadful feeling fills my body and mind. Not fear of death, but the thought of the people, my people, the ones I will never see again. My mom that will get a letter saying how sad they are I’d been lost in action. Or will they do that? Do they treat it differently with deserters? Traitors? Will they add shame to her sorrow? Or have I shamed her? My girl…

Or will I become nothing more than a statistic?

‘Fire!’

During the Great War of 1914-1918, almost a thousand soldiers were executed for desertion and other crimes. Around 600 French soldiers were shot at dawn, 306 British and Commonwealth, including 22 Irishmen, 23 Canadians and five New Zealanders. 18 German soldiers were executed. On average, five soldiers were executed every week. Many charges were flimsy and wouldn’t stand up in court. Some are also said to have been framed by officers or fellow soldiers as revenge. Many of the soldiers were as young as 16 or 17 years old. Many deserters suffered from mental breakdown and shell shock – known today as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – caused by constant bombardment and poor conditions. In many countries, still today, the executed soldiers are not given the same respect as others. They are still seen as traitors.

This story is the seventh installment in the Moments series.

Leaving the Door Ajar – a short story

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He stood there, staring at her name on the door, imagined their names next to each other. Unlocking the phone and dialling her number, he heard her voice for the first time in months.

It was just a few seconds, but it felt like days had passed when she opened the door. She smiled and invited him to come inside. He kissed her lightly on the cheek and the memories flooded his mind. He remembered her skin, knew again how it felt against his, her smell, the long nights, how she had been his. How they were one, were supposed to be one.

She showed him to the living room. Coffee? Thanks. She went to the kitchen, he followed her. His wife, his companion, soulmate, his everything. Imagined everything she should have been. And never would be.

She gestured and they sat down at the opposite sides of the table. Sipping the hot coffee, trying not to get burned. Shyly looking at each other, then away. Saying nothing. How could you be shy with a person you had been so intimate with? The late afternoon sun shone through the window, lighting up her face and making her look even more beautiful than he had remembered. His most beautiful memory had nothing on reality. This whole thing hadn’t been a problem before today. They had gone their separate ways, and he had been fine with it. He’d been able to live with it. The things in life, circumstances that made it impossible for them to be lovers. Nothing you could do about it. They’d made a decision that it was best to call it a day, that it would be easier to move one, find someone else. But here she was, flesh and blood, the most beautiful flesh and blood he could have imagined. There was nobody else. How could there be?

‘So, how are you doing,’ she asked?

‘Good. Busy.’

‘Good.’ She smiled.

‘Work is going well and I have a few projects going and it’s really going well.’

‘That’s nice. Keeping yourself busy?’

‘Very. Drowning myself in work, I guess.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ She looked out the window at the naked trees, shivering in the February cold. ‘I love this apartment.’

‘I can imagine. It’s great.’ He imagined what it would be like to share it with her. Share the world with her. But he wasn’t here for that. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Good. I’m taking care of myself. Good diet, eating healthy, working out, working a lot.’

‘Good.’ It showed. She looked stunning. Should he tell her? Tell her that she was ripping his heart out, that she looked more beautiful than ever? No, that’s not what he was here to do. This was a curtesy visit. Just a casual meeting to catch up, to see each other. It was over. Had been over for months. He would not comment on her looks, do anything that might tip the balance. They could not afford to do something stupid. It would only make things harder to deal with.

The last rays of the sun were illuminating the face he longed to touch. Pulling out all the textures he knew so well, giving her skin a golden colour. She was glowing like an angel. There had been so much he’d wanted to say. He had rambled on in the car, had a long and intelligent conversation. He’d known exactly what he was going to say, but he couldn’t think of anything now.

Maybe it didn’t matter. The silence was clear. The glances. They had talked for hours, disappear into their own world. Their minds and bodies in perfect harmony. Soul mates. From the very beginning, they had never had a moment of awkward silence. Until now. He looked around. The pictures on the wall he knew so well, her little things and objects that had been so fascinating when they met and so familiar as they became lovers. The world that had almost been his so long ago. The world he had so desperately wanted to be a part of. He wanted to break the silence, but he was afraid that it would speed up their goodbye. He was close to her now, and he never wanted that to end. Opening his mouth would break the stalemate. But then, he would not keep her like this all day. It was time to face the inevitable. It was over and he would have to let her go.

They started talking at the same time, but stopped and smiled.

‘You go first,’ he said.

‘I should show you the apartment. It’s not big.’

‘Yeah.’ They both stood up, hesitated, and looked at each other. ‘You first.’

She walked into the hall, the hair falling over her shoulders, begging him to touch. ‘Here is a small spare room. I’m thinking of using it as an office, but it’s full of boxes now. I work from home quite a bit now, so that would be good.’ He looked past her, but before he could enter, she was off, opening another door. ‘The bathroom.’

‘Nice,’ he said and looked over her shoulder again, breathing slowly, taking in the smell of her hair.

‘And here, the bedroom.’ She entered, and he followed. ‘That’s all. It’s a small apartment.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ He looked at the glamorous black and white photo of Marlene Dietrich on the wall. ‘You moved old Marlene with you.’

‘Yeah, I try to make it homely. She belongs above my bed.’ He felt the electricity in the air, the unbearable tension, looked into her eyes and she looked into his. They sat down on the edge of the bed and he moved his hand closer to her, without touching. She moved closer, he felt her breath on his lips. He put his hand on her knee, his cheek gently touching hers. Her heavy breathing so warm on his neck. They almost kissed. ‘I need to change. Going out with the girls tonight.’ She almost whispered, then looked out the window, away from him.

‘I know. You told me.’

‘Sorry. Would have been nice to have more time.’ She looked into his eyes again.

‘It’s fine.’ He slowly stood up, went into the living room and picked up his jacket from the sofa. She followed him to the door. He turned and faced her. For a second, time stood still. This was really it. Their last goodbye. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but they were in each other’s arms. The smell, the way she felt. So familiar, so out of reach. They were locked in each other’s arms, they were one. Alone in the universe. He was going to let loose, but she held on. They hugged like two people that never want to be parted. She was so warm, so soft. So perfect. He kissed her on the cheek and she returned it. They kissed, they held each other. They were one. The world, once again, was irrelevant. It was just them. Like it had always been.

But the moment passed, and he was outside again. The frozen leaves covering the path like a loosely woven carpet made a crushing sound under his feet. He walked away from the house, down the street. The look in her eyes still fresh in his mind. He looked up at her window, but she wasn’t there. She would never be there again. Last time, they had left the door ajar, now it was shut.

A single leaf fell down from a tree in front of him. The world was falling asleep, winter was taking over.

This story is the sixth installment in the Moments series.

I’ll See You in My Dreams – a short story

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He knew it as she put the coffee mug in front of him. She pierced deep into his eyes and stirred a little too slowly. He smiled, trying to look as innocent as possible. How could she know? She couldn’t. It was impossible. The authentication system was fully biometric. There was no way anyone could look into his account and see what he’d been up to. Not even his wife.

‘How was it?’

‘How was what?’

‘Who is she?’

‘Who is who?’

‘Where did you go with her?’

Images of a faraway sandy beach flashed before his eyes. The warm breeze, the gentle waves crashing against their feet and the soft sand between their toes. The blood red sunrise, the gentle warmth as the rays hit their naked bodies. Running hand in hand, falling into the cool surf and making love. It happened in his dream and there was no way she could know.

‘Was it a colleague? An actual person or an avatar? I can understand an avatar, but if she’s a genuine person, if you went there with somebody else… Was it somebody real?’

‘I’ve been here all along. I work from home, I was in bed with you, sleeping. What are you talking about?’

‘How do you explain this?’ She projected a receipt onto the kitchen wall.

In Your Dreams, it said. It was a rental service, much like the old movie streaming services they used to have. They marketed it as a sleeping aid. You could rent dreams before going to bed and be guaranteed a good sleep. Their holiday sceneries were popular. You fell asleep and found yourself on a beach or in a forest, on a mountain top or on a boat, sailing the oceans. Every week, they added new scenes. ‘It’s a receipt from In Your Dreams. You use it as well.’

‘This.’ She pointed at a subitem. Away Together. ‘Who were you with?’

He hadn’t thought of it showing up on the receipt. It was innocent enough; you rented a dream and invited others to join. ‘I thought it would be a good idea if we went away for a night. I bought it for you.’

‘You woke me up. You were moaning and groaning and you were fully aroused. You weren’t counting pigeons on a square in Rome. You were with someone and you had sex.’

What could he say? They’d been married over 20 years. He had never cheated on her. He wasn’t even sure if this qualified as cheating. Surely, dreaming with somebody wasn’t a crime? Yes, he had invited a young female colleague to join his dream, and yes, they had run together in the sand and made love on the beach. They’d been all alone, because that’s how it works in those dreams. Nobody saw them, nobody knew, they hadn’t met in reality. ‘I don’t know what I look like when I sleep, but I was asleep in my own bed. How can I be cheating on you?’

It didn’t help. She stormed out, shouting something about staying with her mother and that she wanted a divorce. She’d been threatening with it for a while now, and it looked like she meant it this time. It was a dream, goddamn it, he thought to himself. A dream. Nothing more.

As the front door slammed shut, he poured himself another cup of coffee and looked out onto the street. It was quiet. It was always quiet. Nobody went outside these days. Life happened in a virtual reality, in a chair with a headset on. You sat down, put that thing on your head and were instantly at work, in the supermarket or wherever you wanted to be. The supermarket was especially convenient. There were no other people, and the products you normally bought were lined up at the front. You just touched them and they were in your basket, then delivered to your house within ten minutes. The gym was good too; they put you in a beautiful location and the algorithm fooled your brain into burning calories as you virtually ran, swam or climbed. The latest addition, sharing your experiences was great, as you could invite people to come along. What was the harm in that?

He finished his coffee and sat down in his work chair, leaned backwards and put on the headset and goggles. He was in his office and so was she. She looked at him and smiled. ‘Thanks for last night.’ She kissed him passionately, and he felt her body push against his. She looked into his eyes. ‘I have this report you need to look at. You know where to find me.’ She smiled and left the office.

This story is the fifth installment in the Moments series

1953 – een kort verhaal

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De exacte datum van de begrafenis kan ik mij niet meer herinneren. Ik was net acht jaar oud en begreep niet goed wat er gebeurd was. Ik hield mijn vader’s hand vast. Tranen zag ik nooit, maar ik denk dat ze wel stroomde ’s nachts, als ik hem niet zag. Voor mij probeerde hij altijd sterk te zijn.

Drie kisten lagen voor ons, naast de graven. De ene was groot genoeg voor mijn moeder, twee kleinere, voor mijn tweelingzus en voor lieve Tessa. Afgelopen november vierden we haar vijfde verjaardag. Mijn vader had mijn hand vast, net zoals hij die van Tessa vast had die nacht. Alleen, toen, was hij zijn greep verloren. Jaren later, als oude man op zijn sterfbed, zag ik zijn tranen. Zijn laatste woorden, ‘ik had haar vast moeten houden, ik had sterker moeten zijn’. Dat waren zijn laatste gedachten voordat hij deze aarde verliet. Hij heeft dit leven verlaten met tranen in zijn ogen.

Zaterdag 31 januari 1953 was een gewone dag. Storm werd verwacht, maar dat was niets bijzonders voor de tijd van het jaar. De donkere wolken zagen er stoer uit en we lachten erom. Beter niet buiten zijn als het gaat regenen, word je zeiknat. Onze buurman, oude Jan, was vrolijk en lachte toen hij de aardappelzak aan mij gaf. Kan je dit dragen, schat? Is best zwaar voor een klein meisje.

Ik ben niet klein, had ik duidelijk gemaakt, en hij gaf mij een knuffel. Groetjes aan je vader, zei hij.

De zak was wel zwaar en ik had moeite met fietsen over de dijk in de stevige wind, maar ik was het gewend. De zee was erg hoog en de golven kwamen tot bovenaan de dijk, en soms proefde ik zout in mijn mond. Vader was duidelijk geweest, snel terug naar huis komen. Het wordt een zware storm.

Mijn zusjes speelden rondom het huis toen ik thuis kwam. Ik gooide mijn fiets neer en ging achter hen aan. Moeder keek me aan, hoe vaak had ze nu gezegd dat ik netter met mijn fiets moest omgaan? Ik had daar geen tijd voor, Tessa rende gillend weg en verstopte zich bij de stallen. Ik vond haar en riep ‘boe!’ en ze lachte. Je kan me niet pakken, riep ze en rende weer weg. Ons pakken vond ze ook fantastisch en soms lieten we haar winnen.

De aardappelen waren gekookt en moeder stampte ze samen met de boerenkool in een grote pan. De geur van de worstjes ontsnapte naar buiten en we gingen naar binnen. Aan tafel waren we stil, alleen het geluid van de radio en het gezeur van de storm.

“Boven het noordelijke en westelijke deel van de Noordzee woedt een zware storm tussen noordwest en noord. Het stormveld breidt zich verder over de noordelijke en oostelijke Noordzee uit. Verwacht mag worden dat de storm de hele nacht zal voortduren. Daarom werden vanmiddag om half zes Rotterdam, Willemstad en Bergen op Zoom gewaarschuwd voor gevaarlijk hoogwater.”

Mijn vader leek bezorgd en moeder wilde ons zo snel mogelijk in bed stoppen. Rond acht uur lagen we er allemaal in.

Ik kon niet goed slapen. Het was pikkedonker toen de herrie me wakker maakte. De storm trok aan ons huis en ik maakte me zorgen over het dak. Ik probeerde weer te gaan slapen, maar buiten klapperde een deur. Waarschijnlijk bij de stallen. De koeien kunnen niet slapen met die herrie, dacht ik.

Ik ging mijn bed uit, vond de kerosine lamp van mijn vader en een lucifer. In de oranje gloed van de lamp zag ik hoe de regen als watervallen langs de ramen stroomde. Ik trok mijn laarzen aan en deed de voordeur open. De storm trok deze gelijk uit mijn handen. Ik zette de eerste stap naar buiten en de regen sloeg in mijn gezicht, alsof het ijskogels waren. De lamp werd gedoofd en ik stond weer in het donker.

Vechtend door de storm kwam ik bij de stallen. Ik kon bijna niks zien maar ik hoorde de koeien trekken aan de kettingen. Ze waren doodsbang. Ik ging naar binnen en aaide ze eventjes, probeerde ze tot rust te brengen. ‘Wat doe jij hier, schat?’ Mijn vader stond achter mij. ‘Ga naar binnen, probeer te slapen.’ Hij aaide over mijn natte hoofd en gaf me een kus op de kin. ‘Morgen is dit allemaal voorbij.’

Hij had gelijk. Ik moest naar bed. Ik ben naar buiten gegaan en liep richting het huis, maar ik was erg nieuwsgierig hoe de storm op de dijk eruit zag. Vader wordt boos, dacht ik, maar hij had de lamp aangekregen en was met de koeien bezig. Hij kon mij niet zien en als ik snel terug was en in bed, zou hij er niks van weten. Ik klom tegen de stijle zijwand van de dijk, achter ons huis op, en kwam bij het fietspad. Het was bijna onmogelijk om te staan. Ik spreidde mijn handen uit en schreeuwde tegen de wind. Dit was geweldig!

Een windvlaag gooide me tegen de grond en toen ik weer probeerde op te staan, kreeg ik een zware golf over me heen. Ik was zeiknat, zout in mijn mond en mijn ogen deden pijn. Ik probeerde weer op te staan, maar kon niet. Nog een golf spoelde over me heen en ik voelde de grond zakken. De dijk die ons en alle onze bezittingen beschermde, voelde als zand onder mijn lijf. In paniek probeerde ik weg te kruipen, richting de vuurtoren die in de verte nog wat licht straalde. De aarde zakte weg en de zee stroomde over me heen. Ik moest weg.

Kruipend voelde ik de grond wegspoelen achter me. Het lukte om op te staan en half struikelend rende ik zo snel als ik kon richting de vuurtoren. Ik draaide me om en zag hoe de dijk wegspoelde, hoe de zee het land op stroomde, hoe het huis onder water stond. Ik zag mijn vader rennen met de lamp, zag hem net op tijd binnen gaan, zag de ramen kapot gaan en water naar binnen stromen, zag de lamp op de bovenverdieping en het water hem inhalen, zag het licht richting zolder gaan en brokken huis weg spoelen.

Ik riep ‘papa!’, maar hij kon mij niet horen. Ik zag het licht doven, hoopte dat ze allemaal veilig op zolder zaten, dat de dijk mij zou beschermen. Door de storm heen kon ik de stem van mijn vader horen. Hij riep ons, alledrie de zusters, mijn moeder riep terug. Ik wilde niets liever dan terug naar het huis maar een oceaan stormde tussen mij en mijn familie.

De dijk zakte weer in en ik kroop verder weg, totdat ik hun stemmen niet meer kon horen.

Met grote dank aan Marcel Cornelissen. Hij zorgde ervoor dan mijn Nederlands leesbaar bleef.

De watersnood van 1953, meestal aangeduid als de Watersnoodramp, voltrok zich in de nacht van zaterdag 31 januari op zondag 1 februari 1953. De ramp werd veroorzaakt door een stormvloed in combinatie met springtij, waarbij het water in de trechtervormige zuidelijke Noordzee tot extreme hoogte steeg.

Het aantal doden bedroeg 1836 in Nederland, 307 in het Verenigd Koninkrijk, 224 op zee, waaronder 133 bij het vergaan van een Engelse veerboot en 28 in België. De ramp was aanleiding voor de ontwikkeling van een sterk verbeterde kustverdediging met zware stormvloedkeringen. Het meest ingrijpend zijn de Deltawerken in Nederland, terwijl in Engeland onder meer de Thames Barrier en een stormvloedkering in de rivier Hull zijn gebouwd.

Dit verhaal is niet gebaseerd op echte mensen, maar het is een verhaal dat had kunnen gebeuren en in vele vormen gebeurd is. Dit verhaal is een eerbetoon aan de mensen die zijn omgekomen en die familie en vrienden verloren hebben door de ramp.