Woman at 1,000 Degrees by Hallgrímur Helgason

Woman at 1,000 Degrees by Hallgrímur Helgason

Author:Hallgrímur Helgason
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2018-12-12T00:00:00+00:00


59

Half Hitler

1942

The big white clock over the main entrance was about to strike three and the station was now almost completely deserted. I sat in the middle of the hall and pined for Mom and Iceland. At some distance to the left of me, two stout and sluggish Dutch countrywomen were sleeping, enveloped in black, reminding me of two seals wrapped in shawls. I’d allowed myself to dream of a warm place between them, but they spoke from the bottom of their windpipes and didn’t understand the most basic questions in German, although they gave me a slice of sausage. Outside, through the darkness of the city, I could hear the crackle of gunfire and, in the distance, isolated shots from antiaircraft guns, even though not a wing could be heard in the sky.

I had managed to slip into a semidormant state, which ended when a strange being appeared in the hall, to my distant right, on the corner by the newspaper kiosk, looking around. It was a dark creature with two short hind paws but long, strong front legs. The first thing that came to mind was an ape or a two-legged dog. It spotted me, the only sign of life in the hall, and edged toward me, thrusting itself on its two front legs.

As it drew closer I realized it was a man, half a man. In half a coat with half a cap on his head, hairy cheeks but a bare chin. Under his big nose he sported a short, curly mustache. He had lost his legs but transferred all their power to his arms, which enabled him to cross the hall surprisingly fast. Then he sat beside me. No doubt he’d deluded himself into thinking he’d finally found a girl of his own kind, because I could read the disappointment in his eyes when he saw I had legs. Out of some unconscious Breidafjördur consideration, I had tucked them under me, but now he saw that his dream princess was fully limbed and, moreover, a child. But even though this was only half a man, his voice was whole.

“Good evening, good evening. ‘Good night’ would be more accurate, but that’s more of a farewell than a hello. Therefore I’ll say good evening, even though it’s morning, what’s your name, young lady?”

“Herra.”

“Hair ad?”

“Herra. With two rolling r’s.”

“Ach so? Herrrrra. With the Führer’s r!” And suddenly he was impersonating Adolf Hitler: “In unserrrem Deutschen Rrrreich! Yes, what I wouldn’t give for two rolling r’s. Then I could rrroll all the way to Amsterdam and from there across the North Sea on my yellow ass.”

“Yellow ass?”

“Yes, I’m Jewish. Jews have yellow asses. And a yellow star. Aaron Hitler, delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“A . . . Hitler?”

“Yes, Aaron Hitler.” He held out his hand. It looked more like a foot. It was covered in a thick black fingerless glove; his palm was protected by a piece of wood that was hidden inside the mitten, out of which stretched long fingers that together seemed to have the power of a Beethoven string quartet.



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