We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [311]
"I'd like to introduce our guest," Knud Erik said. "His name is Herman Frandsen."
Vilhjelm and Anton looked shocked. In the eighteen years since they'd last seen him, Herman had changed into something so ravaged and burned-out that they hadn't recognized him until his name was uttered.
"He's known to several of us on board. But not for good reasons. He's a murderer and a rapist, and if any of you accidentally push him overboard, you'll be rewarded with a bottle of whiskey."
Herman stared into the distance, seemingly unaffected by the speech with which Knud Erik had honored him.
"In the meantime we'd better find you some work to do," Knud Erik said. "You've rested long enough. Get up."
"I can't."
With his remaining arm Herman calmly flipped the blanket aside. His trousers were empty from the knees down. It was more than an arm he'd lost. Both his legs had been amputated.
HERMAN WASN'T THROWN overboard when they left Molotovsk, and nobody tried to win the whiskey bottle on offer to whoever sent him to the resting place he deserved at the bottom of the sea.
"I've still got the most important thing," Herman said to the crowd that had gathered around him in the mess. "My right hand. A sailor's best friend in those long off-duty hours. And I can still raise a glass," he said. "What more can a man ask for?" His jerking-off hand, he called it. "Shake," he said, offering a big paw. "I've washed it." He wriggled the tattoo on his arm. "The old lion still roars."
They lined up to greet him.
Herman spent most of his days in the mess. He helped out at mealtimes, setting the table and clearing it afterward. He could just about manage that with one arm. It was degrading work, but that didn't seem to bother Herman. There was always someone ready to go for a stroll with him on deck when the weather permitted. Someone, Knud Erik didn't know who, had rigged up a pulley so they could lift him onto the bridge. One day he found him sitting on a high chair in front of the wheel, which he controlled with his one strong fist.
He'd given strict orders that Herman was not to be given alcohol, knowing full well that at the heart of it lay a secret desire to make Herman's life unbearable. Yet again and again, he came across him obviously under the influence. There was a secret cache of vodka somewhere on board, and the crew were supplying him with it. They treated him as if he was a mascot rather than a murderer.
There were three people on board who wouldn't have been alive if Herman had had his way: Vilhjelm, Anton, and Knud Erik himself. Miss Kristina's life would have taken a different and happier path without him. Ivar would still be among the living. And so would Holger Jepsen. God only knew how many people around the world Herman had killed since then because they'd been in his way for one reason or another.
And yet here he was, calm, relaxed, jovial, and sociable, making himself popular with the crew, who seemed unaware that he was a monster who'd only been rendered harmless through amputation. The younger men, especially, seemed fascinated by him. When the mess boy brought coffee to the bridge, he described Herman as "an amazing guy who's had lots of adventures."
"He's got some incredible stories," Duncan said. He was seventeen and from Newcastle.
"Did he tell you the one about smashing his stepfather's skull till his brains spilled out? When he wasn't even as old as you are now?"
He glanced furtively at the boy to see if it had had any effect. It hadn't. Stubbornly, the boy looked straight ahead. He had his own view of Herman and there was no way the captain was going to change that.
Knud Erik knew perfectly well why. Before the war, everyone would have avoided Herman if they'd known the truth about him. They'd all have shunned his company, and whoever had the guts to would have treated him with open contempt. But the war had destroyed their moral defenses. They'd