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By Root 3021 0

between his right- and left-hand columns a third column was called for, one that his dreams had never warned him about: the list of ships that had been sold. It filled faster than the other two columns, and soon outstripped them. But there was no drama in this particular list. It contained neither dreams nor dead, but instead marked the strangely frantic wealth that flooded our town. Houses were repaired and painted, women who once dressed modestly now wore their Sunday best every day, and the shops stocked new and more expensive goods. The people of Marstal, once renowned for their thrift, were living as if there were no tomorrow.

This wasn't some frenzy brought on by the mortal fear of war. It was the dizziness that comes from having too much money.

THEN, FINALLY, the war came to Marstal with a face that wasn't cheerful. Finally: that was the word Albert used in his notes. The wall between him and the rest of us was about to topple, and we'd all soon know what he knew. It was no longer just in his lonely dreams that people would perish. In real life they'd be shot down, drown, freeze to death, and die from exposure and thirst. Survivors came home and brought his visions to life with their stories. Others vanished without a trace.

A message came from the royal envoy in Berlin: the Astræa had been lost. There was no information about where or how. Seven men were missing, including two from Marstal, the skipper, Abraham Christian Svane, and the first mate, Valdemar Holm. A man from the Faroe Islands and an able seaman from Cape Verde were among the others.

Albert had seen them die. He'd seen them jump for their lives through flying shards from a lifeboat under fire. It had been a calm, overcast day. The sea lay like gray silk. He'd seen the water close over them as their lungs gave out and the last air bubble burst.

Germany had declared unrestricted submarine war. Marstal, which had lost only seven ships in the previous two years, now lost sixteen in a single year, then four in a month. The returning survivors didn't get drunk and brag of their experiences; instead, they avoided attention. The crew of the Peace, who'd seen their captain and their bosun shot down in front of them and afterward drifted for days in a sinking lifeboat while two more men perished, stayed at home with their families. If an acquaintance approached them in the street, they'd quickly veer down the nearest alley.

The Hydra disappeared without a trace, with six men on board. Not all of them were from Marstal, but the losses could be felt across the town.

Gaps began appearing in our ranks.

PASTOR ABILDGAARD went to Jørgensen's grocery shop in Tværgade. The owner, whose full name was Kresten Minor Jørgensen, was a former first mate who'd come ashore and now sold groceries and ship's provisions. He manned the large wooden counter himself, a small stooping man with a bald head that shone as if polished; on a summer's day when he strolled around in his short khaki jacket, it would reflect the sun, forcing passersby to squint.

The small bell that hung above the door rang out, a noisy, irritating sound, as Abildgaard entered the shop. A couple of old skippers were chatting on a long wooden bench to the right of the door, but Abildgaard never learned what they were talking about, because the moment he closed the door behind him, a deathly silence descended.

Deathly was indeed the word, for death itself might have entered the shop with him. Jørgensen took a step back behind his wooden counter, his jaw dropping and his eyes widening. Abildgaard turned around, thinking that the grocer must have seen something shocking in the street through the open door. Meanwhile the two skippers eyed the minister and the grocer alternately, as if waiting for an incident of immense significance to unfold.

"Good morning," Abildgaard stuttered, hesitating to utter such a pleasantry in this laden atmosphere.

Jørgensen didn't answer.

When the pastor approached the counter, ready to order his goods, Jørgensen took another step back and splayed his raised hands.