Denise was annoyed. Could her grandmother really have parted with her grandfather’s belongings? The photos from the war, the pistol, the medals and military badges? And if she had, what could they use as a threat if they were caught red-handed with the loot? The situation looked bleak. She had at least expected to find a box of jewelry, stocks and bonds, or some cash in a plastic bag from the days when her grandmother jetted about on package holidays with her decrepit husband. But all they had found was crap, as Jazmine put it.
“That’s the only place left to look,” said Michelle, pointing at the balcony, which resembled a junkyard full of pots and plants still in their wrapping, and garden furniture waiting for warmer days that their owner would never enjoy. A few years ago, sliding glass partitions had been installed on the balcony with the intent of being opened once in a while. Now they were so dirty that you could hardly see out of them.
“Allow me,” said Jazmine.
Denise looked at her with growing admiration. Compared to Michelle, she looked slight and delicate. But if anyone could match Denise’s resolve, it was Jazmine.
A moment later, she was out on the balcony. The sound of clattering and banging, accompanied by exclamations that were anything but feminine, told them that she was hard at work.
“I think what we’re doing is wrong,” said Michelle.
Then sod off home back to Patrick, thought Denise. If only she would shut up. While Denise had to admit that it was due to Michelle that they had joined forces, she now seemed extraneous.
Once they had robbed the bloody nightclub, she and Jazmine would have to discuss Michelle’s role.
They heard a sigh from the balcony and saw Jazmine get up from the floor with her hair tangled and lipstick smeared on her cheek.
“Come out here and help me,” she said.
—
All the things were hidden in a heavy, rectangular, sun-bleached haybox, covered by women’s magazines from the eighties.
They knelt down around the box to look at what Jazmine had found. Denise had never seen the box before but knew what it must contain.
“This stuff is really old,” said Jazmine, pulling out piles of Neues Volk, Der Stürmer, Signal, and Das Schwarze Korps from the box. “Isn’t this Nazi stuff? Why would anyone keep stuff like this?”
“Because my grandfather was a Nazi,” answered Denise. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone outside the family since she had blurted it out to a teacher when she was ten and received a couple of slaps to the face, against all regulations. Strangely enough, it didn’t mean anything to her now. The dust had settled and now she was in charge of the legacy.
“What about your grandmother?” asked Michelle.
“What about her? I guess she was—”
“Ewww, what’s this?” said Jazmine, dropping a couple of photographs on the floor, which made Michelle jump.
“God, they’re horrible. Let’s not look at those,” Michelle moaned.
“That’s my grandfather,” said Denise, pointing at a photo where he was placing a noose around the neck of a young woman who was standing on a stool. “Nice guy, right?”
“I don’t like it, Denise. I don’t like being here knowing that that sort of people have lived here.”
“We live here, Michelle. Get a grip.”
“I don’t know if I can go through with tonight. It just seems so scary. Do we have to do it?”
Denise looked at her angrily. “What else do you propose? Do you expect me and Jazmine to provide for you? Do you think we enjoy doing what we do just to keep you fed? Would you spread your legs for our sake, Michelle?”
She shook her head. Of course she wouldn’t. The little Goody Two-shoes.
“Here’s a flag,” said Jazmine. “Bloody hell, Denise. It’s a Nazi flag.”
“What?” asked Michelle.
“There’s something heavy wrapped in it.”
Denise nodded. “Allow me.”
She carefully unfolded the flag on the sitting room floor, exposing a hand grenade with a wooden handle, an empty magazine and a whole box of cartridges, and a greasy pistol wrapped in fabric.
“Look,” said Jazmine.
She held up a piece of cardboard with drawings of the pistol they had just unpacked and with “Parabellum 08” written on it.
Denise looked attentively at the drawing, which had a cross-sectional view and instructions, and held out the empty magazine with room for seven cartridges in front of her. She weighed it in her hand and pushed it up into the butt of the pistol. There was a satisfying click, and suddenly she could feel that the weapon had the right balance.
“This is the same pistol that he’s using there,” she said, pointing to a photo of her grandfather executing a prisoner with a shot to the back of the head.
“Ugh, that’s disgusting,” said Michelle. “You’re not bringing that thing with you.”
“There aren’t any cartridges in it, Michelle. It’s just to scare people.”
“Look!” said Jazmine, pointing at a device on the top left side of the pistol. “The drawing refers to it as a Sicherung, so if we want to fool anyone, Denise, we’ll have to click it up.”
Denise found the safety and flicked it up and down. When it was down the word “Gesichert” could be seen engraved in the metal. It was so simple and cool. She weighed it in her hand once more. It felt exactly right—as if she were on top of the world and could decide everything.
“It’s a real pistol, Denise,” said Michelle sulkily. “They come down hard on you if you threaten someone with one of those, so we aren’t taking it with us, are we?”
But they did.
—
Michelle was silent in the taxi, clenching her handbag against her chest. It was only when they were dropped off a few hundred meters from the closed-down factory building where the Victoria nightclub was located that she finally revealed her state of mind.
“I just feel so lousy. I don’t understand what we’re doing. Why don’t we just go home again before it’s too late?”
Neither Jazmine nor Denise answered. They had gone over this already, so what did she think?
Denise looked at Jazmine. The lipstick, fake eyelashes, huge black eyebrows, dyed hair, masses of eyeliner, and just as much foundation made it almost impossible to see who was underneath. It was an efficient disguise created with the minimum of resources.
“Goddamn it, you look cool, Jazmine. How about me?” Denise turned her face up toward a streetlight.
“Perfect. Stunning, like an eighties film star.”
They laughed while Michelle pointed at Denise’s handbag.
“Are you absolutely sure that the pistol isn’t loaded? Because if it is and things go wrong, it’ll cost another four years in jail. At least!”
“Of course it isn’t. You saw yourself that the magazine was empty,” answered Denise, straightening the scarf around her neck and observing the traffic on Sydhavnsgade. If it stayed as busy as it was now, it would take only a few minutes after it was all over before they were sitting in a taxi again.
“I know I’ve told you that Patrick and the others usually don’t frisk girls, but I don’t like this. I really don’t like this . . . ,” repeated Michelle over the next fifty meters. If only she’d swallow her tongue. That chickenshit!
When they turned the corner, they followed the crowd to the entrance. The mood was high and many people were laughing. The pre-parties had done their job.
“I think we’re the bloody oldest people here,” sighed Jazmine.