The Informer (Sabotage Group BB)

2

Alis K moans as BB slowly moves inside her. She grabs his neck, whining words that make no sense as she pushes up to receive him. The echoes of the noise rolling down the high church walls blends in with the sounds of the storm from outside. He pushes her skirt up higher to get a firm grip on her ass and lifts her up. Kissing her mouth, squeezing his tongue inside. Pumping harder.

On the altar above them, the flames of the candles dance to the rhythm of his thrusts; the shadows in the dark church come alive.

Afterwards, he rolls on to his back. Her hands sliding through his hair. He is freezing; he gets up and buttons his trousers.

“You’re hurt.” She touches his thigh.

“It’s nothing. Just a flesh wound.” He moves away from her.

“Let me have a look.” She pulls up her panties and attaches the stockings. Smoothes down the skirt. “A wound like that can get infected very easily.”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he goes for the altar wine. “Do you want a glass? It’s the good bottle. Not the cheap stuff I use for the Holy Communion.”

“Let me have a look at that wound. You can’t let your wife see it, you know.”

“She won’t. There is absolutely no danger of that happening. She hasn’t seen me naked since June. We…” He hands her a glass of wine. “…don’t even sleep in the same room anymore.”

She sips the wine. Bites her lip. “It was close tonight.”

“Yeah.”

“You lost your hat. Your coat is ripped to pieces.”

“That kind of experience could make a man turn to religion.”

“So says the reverend.”

He kisses her in the hair. “So says the reverend…yes, he does.”

She rests her head against his chest, and for a brief moment, she’s nothing but a little girl hiding from the cruel world. He puts his arms around her.

“I shot so many Germans,” she mumbles.

“I know. You saved my life. And Borge’s life as well.”

“Tomorrow…”

“Don’t think about that,” he whispers, looking up at Jesus hanging on the cross.

The same Jesus he once believed could save the lost souls, but not in this world. Not now. The Germans have their own way of avenging dead soldiers. They simply shoot and kill the same number of innocent Danes in the streets. Terror against terror. An eye for an eye. You kill a German; you kill a Dane in the same shot.

Alis K shot five Germans tonight, Borge and BB easily as many. BB doesn’t want to think about tomorrow. The retaliation killings—and the reprisal bombings of Danish properties as revenge for sabotage of German factories—are done by a special corps of Danish SS soldiers called the Schalburg Corps; named after the Danish Nazi hero, Christian Frederik von Schalburg, who died on the Eastern Frontier in 1942. Hence, the retaliation terror is nicknamed Schalburgtage.

BB deliberately avoids reading any newspapers the day after a hit.

He empties the wine glass, using his fingers to wipe his lips.

“Hold me a little longer.” Alis K lowers her cheek back against his chest.

He hesitates for a second; he then places the glass on the altar and pulls her close. He senses that she wants to say something and he squeezes her even harder, hoping to stop the words from coming. If they begin to talk about the Schalburgtage, about the reprisal killings, he will not be able to think about anything else. Next time, he might restrain himself—and then he will get himself killed.

“Tell me about the first time you ever slept with a woman,” she says as he finally releases his grip.

“Excuse me?” A silly laugh, even to his own ears.

“You can tell me.” She looks at him with her big bluish-green eyes. He can see the orange flicker from the candles reflected in her pupils. Twenty-two years old. Not a single wrinkle anywhere. He feels old.

“I don’t remember.”

“Of course you do. Was it your wife?”

“No.” He pours another glass of wine for both of them. “It was a long time before I met her.”

“How old were you?”

“When I met my wife?”

“No, fool. The first time you made love to a woman.”

He swallows. “I might have been sixteen. It was in 1920. Why do you want to know?”

“1920? I wasn’t even born.”

“No.”

“Tell me. What happened? Was it the neighbor’s daughter?”

“If you insist. It was a maid down the street. Nothing worth remembering.”

“Was she nice?”

“Yes, she was nice enough. Her name was Gertrud. She got kicked to death by a mad horse the year after.”

“Where did you do it?”

“In the drying attic. What about you? How was your first time?”

“I think, we got betrayed,” she says, walking to the pulpit to get her overcoat hanging from a carved angel.

“Betrayed?” He feels lost, two steps behind.

“They were waiting for us…the Germans.”

“I’ve been thinking the same, but honestly, who could have betrayed us? As far as I know, there’s no one but the four of us who knew anything about tonight.” He helps her slip into the overcoat. It’s still wet from the rain.

“What about the guy who got you a copy of the key to the gate?”

“That’s one of Borges old comrades from the Spanish Civil War. Besides, he couldn’t have known when we’d be there and what we were planning to do. I can’t imagine the Germans waiting there night after night for a whole month.”

She ties her scarf. “Jens?”

“Jens?”

“Where was he when the Germans came?”

“Listen, Alis K…” he gently holds her head and looks into her eyes, “…Jens and I started this group. Jens is not an informer.”

“Then why wasn’t he where he was supposed to be?”

“I don’t know. Borge will talk to him. There will be a good explanation. Jens is the only one I truly trust.”

“What about me? I know your real name, Johannes.”

“And you, of course. And you.”

“Jens is a cop.”

“Yes, at least he used to be.”

“You can’t trust a cop.”

“Is that so?”

“Why didn’t he go to the concentration camps along with all the other police officers?”

“It wasn’t all the police that were sent…”

“No, some of them are in the Hipo.”

“I’m really not up to this. Go home and get some rest, Alis K.” He gently shoves her towards the door. “I’m too tired right now.”

“Can I have my money?”

“Your money?”

“We all got to make a living.”

“But I love you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He sighs, shrugs, and finds his wallet. “You will be the end of me.”