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Herr Schmitt entered the bar. He wasn’t the usual clientele, but this was close to the only place left in Oslo where there wasn’t a GeStaPo agent sure to take note of the patrons’ every movement. It wasn’t a real bar either. More of a basement where moonshine was sold for cheap. No one looked too close at each other. The men and women who were huddled away in the shadows spoke quietly, if at all.
“Is this chair free?”
“It is for you, Schmittchen.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name, you picked it yourself.”
“Because I had to, captain.”
“That’s Hauptmann! You should know that by now. Soldier’s ranks are to be said in German.”
The Hauptmann’s voice was raised in indignation. Other patrons began to turn to him.
“Hauptmann Hammer.”
Herr Schmitt mumbled as he poured himself a small glass of liquor. Even though he had spend quite a few evenings drinking with the man, he had never gotten a good look at his face.
“How is the factory treating you? Are you sick of it already?”
“I would rather spend the rest of my life chained to a table, assembling bullets than take orders from a German.”
“Ever the rebel. Have you picked a new first name yet? With how you resist every step of the way, you’ll have to change it soon.”
“You changed your name of your own volition, traitor.”
“Don’t call me a traitor, coward.”
Even through the shadows, Herr Schmitt could see the angry twinkle in the Hauptmann’s eyes.
“I don’t need to be arguing with you today. I’m having a wonderful day for the first time in three months.”
“If they ever find out what you let the recruits do to you, you’ll get more than three months hard labor.”
Herr Schmitt looked at the photograph under the Hauptmann’s hand. It had been folded, unfolded, kissed and wept over many times through out the last three months.
“He will come back tomorrow, we will win the war. Everything will be good again.”
The Hauptmann smiled.
“If I may interject:”
The Oberleutnant spoke up.
“What if it won’t?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve never seen those camps from the inside, have you?”
“No. Why would I? I obey the law, I assimilated, I have served in the army for 10 years.”
The Hauptmann emptied his glass and poured a second one.
“He refused to assimilate.”
“Anyone with eyes can see that they’re flailing. Eriksen is a perfectly Germanic name.”
“We will win and you will see the glorious future the party will build for us.”
The Hauptmann turned to look at the clock.
“We should leave now.”
He spoke loud enough that everyone in the room heard him. The barman began to pack up the bottles. The patrons put their money on the tables and quietly made for the door. Outside, they dispersed quickly, like they didn’t even know each other.
The Hauptmann crept through the backdoor of his house and into his bedroom. A cold, empty bed awaited him.
In the morning, he was awoken by the smell of thin coffee. He put on his best shirt and a pair of neatly pressed slacks. The Hauptmann sat at the table and the woman poured him a cup of coffee. There was only bread, butter and a jam.
After breakfast, the Hauptmann headed to the train station. He sat on a bench that overlooked the platform and began to wait. Through contacts into the GeStaPo, he found out that his name had been changed for him to Georg Bauer. In the end, it was almost the same name. The Hauptmann was sure that he had learned his lesson. He was clever and adaptive.
Train after train passed through the station. He wasn’t on any of them.
The Hauptmann grew impatient. Where the three months not over yet? He told himself that he would wait for one more train. The next train came from the far north of the country. The people that stumbled out of it looked less like men and women and more like walking corpses. Their cheeks hollow, their eyes bleak. Many of them couldn’t be as old as they looked.
Finally, the Hauptmann spotted him.