We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [306]
Knud Erik didn't join in this conversation: he sat alone, scanning the women at the opposite end of the hall. Was his angel of death among them? He wasn't sure he'd recognize her out of uniform. He knew now that it was the unexpected sight of a machine gun in female hands that had attracted his attention. They'd stared into each other's eyes. And he felt oddly convinced that if she was here tonight, she'd try to catch his eye again. He didn't need to look for her. She'd find him.
Nevertheless, he continued studying the women's faces. Most were fleshy and worn, with a bottomless exhaustion that seemed close to resignation. It provoked tenderness in him, but it wasn't a human being he was searching for. It was the most extreme kind of self-obliteration.
They visited the club three nights in a row but not once did he feel the unease of that penetrating gaze on him, though women did look at him. He wore his captain's uniform to make it easier for her to recognize him, but the gold stripes on his sleeve and cap attracted women other than the one he sought. A young one in a green dress that matched her eyes kept staring at him, but he turned away and ignored her clear interest.
The dancing was well under way. Men and women settled down at one another's tables. The barrier between the Russian women and the foreign sailors had fallen. Wally, the experienced boy-man with the big appetite for women, was—as ever—at the center of it all. As for Knud Erik, he stayed on the red velvet sofa and avoided the dance floor.
That same evening Molotovsk was attacked from the air. The German Junkerses were aiming for the harbor. The midnight sun glowed on the horizon when the air-raid alarm sounded. The Nimbus was the only ship in the port and an obvious target. The half-drunk crew jumped from the deck onto the wharf and started running around in panic. There were no shelters in the area, and the first bombs were already falling. The anti-aircraft guns around the harbor were responding furiously. They too were operated by women.
A little distance away lay some huge cement pipes that could serve as shelters: the men ran inside them. They were big enough to stand upright in. One of the already destroyed warehouses took a direct hit. Farther away a transport truck exploded. Hard cracking noises resounded in the pipes, and they jumped. It was the heavy-caliber shells from the anti-aircraft guns; they hadn't made it to their target and were showering down from the sky like iron rain. Then they heard the shrill sound of a Junkers spinning, followed by the hollow boom of a bomb. A bomb, or a stricken aircraft colliding with the ground.
The anti-aircraft guns kept on firing. They saw an unfolded parachute float toward the ground, with the pilot dangling from the cords. The man hit the ground flat and the chute settled on top of him. He didn't reappear and nothing stirred under the thin material.
The alarm was called off shortly afterward. The Nimbus was still lying by the wharf where they'd left her. She didn't appear to have been hit, but a bomb crater on the wharf showed that it had been a close call.
A sudden impulse made Knud Erik head for the parachute. Anton came with him. He lifted the fabric and pulled it away to reveal the pilot's face. His blue eyes were wide open, and so was his mouth, as though his own death had surprised him. He lay in a dark red pool of guts. His lower body and legs were twisted at an odd angle; looking closely, they could see that he'd been torn almost in half. He couldn't have received the injury when his aircraft was hit: he'd never have been able to leave the cockpit. The women who operated the anti-aircraft guns must have used him for target practice as he drifted down. The heavy cartridges designed to bring down an aircraft had shredded his body, and dark stains soaked through the fabric of the parachute. He must have landed with the blood squirting from his exposed intestines. Something in them came to a standstill. "It's no use, Skipper," Anton said eventually.
Knud Erik looked up. Anton had never called