The small group of Icelanders in the city stuck very closely together. Karl came from a little fishing village and was studying journalism. His faculty, nicknamed the Red Cloister, was said to admit only party hardliners. Rut was from Akureyri. She had chaired the youth movement there and now studied literature, specialising in Russian. Hrafnhildur was studying German language and literature, while Emil, from western Iceland, was an economics undergraduate. One way or another most of them had been picked out by the Socialist Party of Iceland for study grants in East Germany. They would meet up in the evenings and play cards or listen to Deependra’s jazz records, or go to the local bar and sing Icelandic songs. The university ran an active film club and they watched Battleship Potemkin and discussed film as a vehicle for propaganda. They talked politics with other students. Attendance was compulsory at the meetings and talks held by the students” organisation Freie Deutsche Jugend — abbreviated as FDJ — the only society allowed to operate at the university. Everyone wanted to forge a new and better world.
All apart from one. Hannes had been in Leipzig the longest of all the Icelanders and avoided the others. Two months passed before Tomas first met him. He knew about Hannes from Reykjavik: the party had big plans for him. The chairman had mentioned his name at an editorial meeting and referred to him as material for the future. Like Tomas, Hannes had worked as a journalist on the party paper and he heard stories about him from the reporters. Tomas had seen Hannes speaking at meetings in Reykjavik and was impressed by his zeal, his phrases about how warmongering cowboys could buy out democracy in Iceland, how Icelandic politicians were puppets in the hands of American imperialists. “Democracy in this country is not worth a shit for as long as the American army spreads its filth over Icelandic soil!” he had shouted to thunderous applause. In his first years in East Germany, Hannes had written a regular column called Letter from the East, describing the wonders of the communist system, until the articles had ceased to appear. The other Icelanders in the city had little to say about Hannes. He had gradually distanced himself from them and had gone his own way. Occasionally they discussed this but shrugged as if it were none of their business.
One day he came across Hannes in the university library. Evening had fallen, there were few people at the desks and Hannes had his head buried in his books. It was cold and blustery outside. Sometimes it was so cold in the library that people’s breath steamed when they talked. Hannes was wearing a long overcoat and a cap with ear muffs. The library had suffered badly in the air raids and only part of it was in use.
“Aren’t you, Hannes?” he asked in a friendly tone. “We’ve never met.”
Hannes looked up from his books.
“I’m Tomas.” He held out his hand.
Hannes stared at him and the outstretched hand, then buried his head back in his books.
“Leave me alone,” he said.
Tomas was surprised. He had not expected such a reception from his compatriot, least of all from this man, who enjoyed great respect and had impressed him so deeply.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. Of course, you’re studying.”
Instead of answering, Hannes went on jotting notes from the open books on the table in front of him. He wrote quickly in pencil and was wearing fingerless gloves to keep his hands warm.
“I was just wondering if we could have a coffee sometime,” Tomas went on. “Or a beer.”
Hannes did not reply. Tomas stood over him, waiting for some kind of response, but when none came he slowly backed off from the table and turned away. He was halfway behind a rack of books when Hannes looked up from his tomes and at last answered him.
“Did you say Tomas?”
“Yes, we’ve never met but I’ve heard…”
“I know who you are,” Hannes said. “I was like you once. What do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just to say hello. I was sitting over on that side and I’ve been watching you. I only wanted to say hello. I went to a meeting once where you—”
“What do you think of Leipzig?” Hannes interrupted.
“Brass-monkey weather and bad food but the university’s good and the first thing I’m going to do when I get back to Iceland is to campaign for legalising beer.”
Hannes smiled.
“That’s true, the beer’s the best thing about this place.”
“Maybe we could have a jar together sometime,” Tomas said.
“Maybe,” Hannes said, and delved back into his books. Their conversation was over.
“What do you mean, you were like me once?” Tomas asked hesitantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Hannes said, looking up and scrutinising him. He hesitated.
“Take no notice of me,” he said. “It’ll do you no good.”
Confused, he walked out of the library and into the piercing winter wind. On the way to the dormitory he met Emil and Rut. They had been to collect a package posted from Iceland for her. It was a food parcel and they were gloating over it. He did not mention his encounter with Hannes because he did not understand what he had meant.
“Lothar was looking for you,” Emil said. “I told him you were at the library.”
“I didn’t see him,” he said. “Do you know what he wanted?”
“No idea,” Emil said.
Lothar was his liaison, his Betreuer. Every foreigner at the university had a liaison who was available for help. Lothar had befriended the Icelanders at the dormitory. He offered to take them around the city and show them the sights. He assisted them at the university and sometimes paid the bill when they went to Auerbachkeller. He wanted to go to Iceland, he said, to study Icelandic, and he spoke the language well, could even sing the latest hit songs. He said he was interested in the old Icelandic sagas, had read Njal’s Saga and wanted to translate it.
“Here’s the building,” Rut said all of a sudden, and stopped. “That’s the office. There are prison cells inside.”
They looked up at the building. It was a gloomy stone edifice of four storeys. Plywood boarding had been nailed over all the ground-floor windows. He saw the name of the street: Dittrichring. Number 24.
“Prison cells? What is this place?” he asked.
“The security police are in there,” Emil said in a low voice, as if someone might hear him.
“Stasi,” Rut said.
He looked up along the building again. The pallid street lights cast a murky shadow onto its stone walls and windows, and a slight shiver ran through him. He felt clearly that he never wanted to enter that place but had no way of knowing then how little his own wishes counted for.
He sighed and looked out to sea where a little sailboat was cruising by.
Decades later, when the Soviet Union and communism had fallen, he had returned to the headquarters and noticed at once the old nauseating smell. It produced the same effect on him as when the rat had got trapped behind the dormitory stove and they had unwittingly roasted it over and again, until the stench in the old villa became unbearable.
8
Erlendur watched Marion sitting in the chair in the living room, breathing through an oxygen mask. The last time he had seen his former CID boss was at Christmas and he did not know that Marion had since fallen ill. Enquiring at work, he had discovered that decades of smoking had ruined Marion’s lungs and a thrombosis had caused paralysis of the right side, arm and part of the face. The flat was dim despite the sun outside, with a thick layer of dust on the tables. A nurse visited once a day and she was just leaving when Erlendur called.
He sat down in the deep sofa facing Marion and thought about the sorry state to which his old colleague had been reduced. There was almost no flesh left on the bones. That huge head nodded slowly above a weak body. Every bone in Marion’s face was visible, the eyes sunken under yellowy, scraggy hair. Erlendur dwelled on the tobacco-stained fingers and shrivelled nails resting on the chair’s worn arm. Marion was asleep.