Villi Asgeirsson

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war

Afternoon – a short story

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Her back ached, but it was nothing, she told herself. The children were playing outside, and they had to be fed. You must never let your children starve, no matter what else is happening around you. She stirred in the large pot and monitored the oven. It would be soup tonight, with freshly baked bread. The bones danced in the boiling water as the bubbles escaped from the bottom. She added a few herbs to improve the flavour. The bread was simple. Flour she had managed to get at the market, a little salt, water and an egg. It was all she needed. All she had.

Her husband would be home soon. It was hard to say when, it depended on his work. He did well for himself and his family, helping international organisations and making reasonable pay. They got by and that was all you could ask for. After witnessing people suffering, their oldest daughter was determined to become a doctor. How proud could a mother be? The two younger kids looked up to her and said they wanted to become doctors too, or firefighters, because that was really important. Maybe nurses to help the wounded or maybe politicians to stop the suffering.

They were darlings, and they would be fine. She hoped.

The soup was ready. She went to the door and called the children. Smiling, they came inside, one after the other. Where is daddy, they asked? He will be home soon, she told them.

The youngest ran to his room to get a toy, returned to the kitchen. Where are my bedsheets, he asked? You will all be sleeping with us, she replied. They asked why, and she just smiled. Didn’t want to tell them that if they died, they would die together so that no one would have to mourn the others. They would live together or die together.

The woman filled bowls with soup and put the bread on the table. Leave one for your daddy, she told the kids. He will be hungry when he gets home. She sat down at the table, smiling at her three children. Hoped desperately that their dreams would come true. That they would live to see their dreams realised.

They spoke of the day. A building collapsed a few blocks away. They say old Mustafa was dead. He was attending his vegetable garden when a bomb hit. Why would anyone want him dead? He never harmed anyone. He never made any money off his produce because he kept giving his vegetables away. No matter how life treated him, someone else had it worse and he couldn’t bare to see others starve. His death didn’t make any sense.

The oldest daughter had visited the hospital earlier in the day, seen people covered in blood. She hadn’t cried or fainted. They had told her this was no place for kids but she was twelve and she could handle it and insisted on helping. And she did. After spending a couple of hours there and helping the medical staff, she left. But only after being told she was a very brave girl and that they would love to help her with her study and that she would become a fine doctor some day.

Her mother smiled, and they ate in silence.

It was almost six, and he always tried to be home by six. He rushed down the street and crossed an intersection. He passed a building, the side collapsed, the structure barely standing. It was too common. Too many buildings were damaged or turned to rubble. He held a small box in his hand, made sure not to drop it. A precious thing he’d acquired from the news reporters. It would be a gift to his wife. He was almost running. Turning a corner, he entered their street. Smiling, he felt his heart beating. He wished for this whole thing to be over, for them to have a normal life. The gift was a token of a better future. She would love it.

Something flew over him. He looked up. A black object moving faster than anything. The flash blinded him. The noise was deafening. He was thrown onto the street, dust and rubble raining on him. Every bone in his body hurt, and it was hard to stand up, but he had no choice. He put his hand on his face, looked at the red palm of his hand, knew he was bleeding, but it didn’t matter. He rushed towards the collapsed ruins of a house. Cried her name. Threw stones to one side. Called for her again. Only silence.

It took them two days to recover the bodies.

His family was gone. His life was gone. Only revenge remained.

This is the twentieth installment in the Moments series

Verrader – een kort verhaal

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De verpleegster trok de gordijnen dicht. De oude man lag in het bed en ademde moeizaam. Het was gedaan met hem, dat was duidelijk. Twee weken eerder werd hij hierheen gebracht omdat er geen genezing meer mogelijk meer was op herstel. Normaal gesproken was het redelijk druk op de afdeling, veel visite, maar het was haar opgevallen dat hij geen enkel bezoek had gehad. Niemand kwam voor deze man. Zij organiseerde de ongelezen tijdschriften op een nette stapel en vulde zijn glas met water. Hij maakte een kleine beweging, keek haar aan en ze kwam dichterbij. ‘Ik moet je wat vertellen,’ fluisterde hij. ‘Ik moet een belijdenis maken.’

‘Een belijdenis, meneer? Ik ben geen priester.’

‘Het maakt niet uit.’ Hij had moeite met spreken en ze kon hem bijna niet verstaan. ‘Iemand moet dit horen voordat ik ga.’

Het was vroeg in het voorjaar van 1943. Marloes was een schat, en bakkersdochter. Achterin de bakkerij verpakte zij wat broodjes in een schoon doek en stapelde ze in haar fietsmand. Haar vader keek nerveus op zijn horloge. ‘Vijftien minuten.’ Zij gaf hem een kus op de wang, hing de mand aan haar fiets en was weg.

Het was niet ver van hier, de plek waar ze de vracht zouden droppen. Zij fietste langs het kanaal en over de dijk, totdat ze bij het veld stond. Het was fris en ze trok haar kraag tot over haar oren. Zij had dit vaker gedaan, maar elke keer kreeg ze het er koud van. Ongeacht het weer. In de verte hoorde ze de lage brom van vliegtuigmotoren. De kleine punt in de lucht werd groter en het geluid harder. Het vliegtuig was nu bijna direct boven haar hoofd en ze zag een pakket vallen, een parachute openen. Ze rende in de richting van het krat dat nu op de grond lag, deed hem open en pakte de inhoud in haar handen.

De wapens verstopte zij onder de broodjes. De boer zou de krat ophalen nadat zij weg was. Je kon het niet riskeren dat de Nazi’s deze zouden vinden.

Marloes fietste snel terug naar het dorp, langs een paar soldaten die naar haar knipoogde. Zij was bang voor ze, voelde de angst die alleen een jonge meid kon begrijpen. Een van hen floot en lachte naar haar, maar Marloes negeerde ze. Stel je voor dat ze wisten wat in de fietsmand lag. De soldaten flirten altijd met haar, knipoogden, en lieten duidelijk merken wat ze met haar wilden doen. Maar ze lieten haar met rust.

De oude windmolen stond aan de andere kant van het dorp. Marloes volgde het pad, legde haar fiets naast het hek, pakte de mand en liep rond naar de achterkant van de molen. Zij trok een oud luik open en legde de wapens neer. Iemand zou ze phalen wanneer het donker was.

Zij deed het luik dicht en draaide zich om. Vijf soldaten stonden achter haar, hun geweer in de aanslag. Ze vroegen, in het duits, wat zij aan het doen was. Wat kon zij zeggen? De mand viel op de grond.

‘Ik heb wat bloem nodig. Voor mijn vader, de bakkerij.’ Haar stem trilde en haar handen voelden ijskoud.

De soldaten bleven staan, hun geweren gericht op haar gezicht, terwijl de commandant het luik open deed. Hij bukte, pakte een brits pistool. Marloes deed haar ogen dicht. Hij liep langzaam achter haar langs, langs haar zijde, stopte recht voor haar. Richtte het britse pistool tussen haar ogen. Hij liet het pistool zakken, en aaide haar gezicht met zijn linkerhand. Voelde haar zachte huid, haar nek, haar borsten. ‘Wat zonde,’ zei hij met een glimlach.

De zuster zat naast de stervende man, luisterde naar zijn zwakke stem, zag hoeveel moeite hij had met ademen. ‘Zij is een paar maanden later gestorven, ergens in een kamp. Ik weet niet welk.’ De man probeerde te hoesten maar het lukte niet. ‘Niemand wist dat ik het was. Dat ik de verrader was.’ Hij hijgde, ademen ging erg moeilijk. ‘Ik dacht dat ik aan het helpen was. Ik geloofde in hun leugens. En Marloes. Ik hield van haar maar ze zag mij niet. Deed alsof ik niet bestond. Ik weet niet waarom ik haar heb verraden. Ik hield van haar.’

De zuster zei niks. Ze ging staan, opende de gordijnen en verliet de kamer. Van haar mocht hij alleen sterven.

‘Ik heb hier mee moeten leven,’ fluisterde hij toen de deur dicht ging.

Het aantal slachtoffers in Nederland tijdens de Tweede Wereldoorlog is niet duidelijk, maar wordt geschat op rond de 300.000, waarvan ruim 100.000 Joden. Dit verhaal is voor jullie.

Dit verhaal is het tiende in de serie Moments en werd oorspronkelijk in het Engels op 12 maart gepubliceerd.

White Roses – a short story

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The morning sun illuminated the small café, casting shadows across the tables. People were rushing in, getting coffee to go, while others sat down with the morning papers or their electronic devices of choice. The distant noise of the kitchen escaped into the dining area, the chat of people filled the space.

Vera sat by the window. She liked it here, enjoyed being able to look out onto the street at people rushing by. An enormous bouquet of white roses lay in the middle of the table. She touched one rose, stroked the soft flower. She looked across the table.

‘White roses. You always gave me white roses.’ The delicate smile on her face did little to hide her inner struggles.

A cheerful server arrived at the table like a tornado, put a large cup of cappuccino in front of Vera, a double espresso opposite her. She looked at the server and smiled. ‘Thank you.’

As the tornado rushed off, Vera looked across the table. ‘Double espresso, just the way you like it.’

She took the spoon from the saucer and played with the foam in her cup, dipped it in the coffee and tried to make a pattern in the foam, but failed. She looked across the table. ‘I never knew how they did that. Butterflies and… I once saw someone make a rose.’

She paused. Looked out the window. People were rushing to their jobs, appointments, or whatever seemed so urgent to them at that moment. ‘I never really liked roses. They’re overrated. I like dandelions, they’re stronger but less pretentious.’ She gave up trying to create a pattern in the foam and gently stirred the coffee.

‘They always struck me like a male fantasy. Here is something I got you, and now you know what I want in return.’ Vera put the spoon on the saucer and touched the flowers. She took a sip and stared across the table with the cup in her two hands.

‘Why did you believe them? Did you really think you going there was going to make any difference?’ She put the cup back on the saucer and looked across the table as if waiting for an answer.

‘You’re quiet today.’ She smiled coldly and looked outside again.

‘It was all lies and you just wouldn’t listen. You bought into that fantasy world.’ Vera gazed across the table and spoke through her teeth.

‘I guess the mine was real.’ She finished her cappuccino, stood up and put her coat on without looking away. ‘I shouldn’t be so harsh on you. It must have been extremely painful, dear.’ She grabbed the bouquet and left.

It was only two streets away. The gate was open, and she entered the cemetery. New graves, old and overgrown. Names of couples that had insisted on being buried next to each other, children. People she didn’t know and would never get to know.

Vera walked up a path towards a grave. Looked at the stone. It was ten years ago today. A barren landscape in a far-away land, soldiers walking across a field when an explosion shattered the small group of men. The authorities sent her a message, said they were sorry for her loss and that he’d served his country well. She lay the flowers on the grave and smiled.

‘It is time to end this. I won’t be coming back, darling. It is time to close this chapter and open a new one. Rest in peace, honey.’

She walked away, never looking back. 

This story is the seventeenth installment in the Moments series

A Traitor Lay Dying – a short story

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The nurse closed the curtains as the old man struggled for breath. He’d been transferred here two weeks earlier, and the nurse had noticed nobody ever came to visit the man. She arranged the unread magazines next to his bed and filled the galls with water. He moved slightly, and she looked at him as he gestured her to come closer. ‘I need to tell you something,’ he whispered. ‘I have a confession to make.’

‘A confession? I’m not a priest.’

‘Somebody must hear this before I go,’ he whispered.

It was in early spring 1943. Marloes collected a few breads at the back of the bakery and wrapped them in cloth. Her father nervously looked at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes.’ She smiled and hung the bread basket on her bike.

It wasn’t far from here. The point where they would drop their cargo. She biked along the canal and over the dike until she came to an open field. It was chilly, and she pulled her coat over her ears. She’d done this often enough, but every time it gave her the chills. The distant drone of the engines grew louder, and she looked to the sky. A single airplane appeared from the distance and as it came closer, it dropped the load. A small crate parachuted to the ground. Marloes walked across the field, opened the crate and removed the contents.

The weapons fit nicely under the breads. Someone else would collect the crate after she’d gone. You couldn’t leave these things out here. The Nazis couldn’t be allowed to find it.

Marloes quickly biked back to the village, past a couple of Nazi soldiers that gave her that look only a young woman needs to fear. One of them whistled, but she ignored him. They couldn’t know she was hiding weapons for the resistance in her basket. They never stopped her, never checked. The baker’s daughter was just doing the rounds.

Reaching the outskirts of the village, she followed a path to the windmill. She laid the bike against the fence, took the basket off and walked around to the back, lifted an old wooden hatch and put the weapons down. Someone would come for them after dark.

She closed the hatch and as she stood up, she heard a door open. Turning around, she saw five soldiers approach, pointing their rifles at her. In German, they asked what she was doing. She couldn’t say anything. She froze. Dropped the basket, raised her arms into the air.

‘I am picking up flour for my father.’ Her hands were shaking and the sunny sky seemed to crash down on her.

The soldiers pointed their rifles at her while the officer opened the hatch. She closed her eyes as he reached down. Knew he’d found the guns and ammunition. He stood up, a British gun in his hand, and walked over to her. Stroked her chin and let his finger run down her neck, to her breasts. ‘What a waste,’ he said and smiled.

The nurse looked at the dying man, heard him struggle to speak. ‘She died a few months later in a concentration camp somewhere. I don’t even know which one.’ The old man could hardly breathe, but he had to get his story off his chest. ‘Nobody ever knew I was the one that told them.’ He tried to cough before continuing. ‘I thought I was helping. I really believed their lies. And Marloes, I loved her, but she never even noticed me. I don’t know why I told them, why I betrayed her.’

The nurse said nothing. She stood up, opened the curtains and left the room. He would die alone.

‘I have lived with this ever since,’ he said as she closed the door.

This story is the thenth 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.

Blood and Rain is (almost) here

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It’s taken a while. It always takes a while. Writing a novel is an exercise in carefully selecting the right words. 50-100.000 of them. I could probably do it faster if I didn’t have a family and a job, but no matter. This is a milestone. It is a huge deal to write a novel. They say everyone has a story in them and if you’re lucky enough to be able to write the words, you may possibly end up with a coherent story to tell.

Doing it again is another matter altogether. Your story has been told. Now, come up with another one.

Blood and Rain - paperback
Blood and Rain – paperback

Blood and Rain was born out of two things. I wanted to see if I could do it again and I was curious about the Spanish Civil War. Like most, I knew very little about it. I knew it had happened, but little more. So I started digging. I imagined the people stuck there, in that time and place. We are all prisoners of the times we live in, but what was it like to be there at that time?

The horrors revealed themselves. The massacres, atrocities, people’s endless thirst for a good life and just society. I saw how women were embraced, how they gained equal rights, how the oppression of the church was broken back, but also how the churches were burned and priests murdered, how internal squabbles destroyed the dream of an anarchist utopia. I learned to appreciate Federico García Lorca and other characters caught up in the war. I learned about Guernica and how Spain was used as a testing ground for weapons to be used during the Second World War.

I had to create a character and put him in there.

Research is a wonderful thing. I learned about Biblia del Oso, the Bible of the Bear. The first Bible printed in Spanish, by a man that had escaped the Spanish Inquisition.

Heck, this project has inspired me to start learning the language.

Blood and Rain was a labour of love. I fell in love with Spain, Barcelona and the people of Catalonia. I hope the novel will be read and I dream of it being translated into Spanish some day.

Blood and Rain will be published on 3 March 2017.