Ida Brandt (24 page)

“Kjær’s stealing, Kjær’s stealing,” came a shout from the other end.

“It’s becoming lively here,” said Ida; she was radiant as she went past Karl.

Nurse Boserup continued talking about the association: they were naturally not getting any backing from the King Frederik Hospital.

But Quam shouted from down at the end of the table:

“We don’t want to hear about that, we don’t want to hear about that,” and he banged his spoon on his plate.

“We don’t want to hear about that, we don’t want to hear about that,” they all chorused.

They all knocked their spoons on their plates – all except Nurse Helgesen and Nurse Kaas – and all the ladies laughed, while Boserup drew her chair back and said: “I didn’t know there were children here as well.”

“Well there are,” said Quam, and they all banged their spoons on their plates.

“Sshh,” said Nurse Helgesen.

There were two knocks on the door.

“Hush, the patients can hear us.” It was the night watchman.

They suddenly all fell quiet, with the same expression on their faces; and they heard the door again, the door in to the “noisy ward”.

“Never mind,” said Quam: “
They
damned well make plenty of noise often enough.”

But Nurse Kaas, taking advantage of the silence, rose, while Nurse Helgesen as though of her own accord moved up to the place of honour near the flowers, and Nurse Kaas tapped her glass.

Karl slipped past Ida. They had said little to each other, but it was as though he was always where she was.

“Are you not going to sit down?” he said.

And she seated herself on a chair close to where he was standing.

“Is it not hot in here?” she said, putting a hand to her forehead.

Although seemingly only speaking with half her voice, as though the night watchman’s knock on the door was still resounding in their ears, Nurse Kaas made a speech in praise of Nurse Helgesen as one of those who raised the standing of their profession.

“Now we must give three quiet cheers,” said Quam.

He beat the time with his hands and whispered “Hip, hip…” the others joining in, whispering in the same way, pouting their lips and laughing quietly.

“That was that,” said Quam: “That’s how loud you shout hurrah in Ward Six.”

“Now we’ll chink glasses,” he said, and, walking on tiptoe, with his glass in his hand, he led the way while the others tiptoed after him, treading carefully on the floor, in single file, up to Helgesen.

“Hurrah,” said Quam.

“And thank you for the Madeira.”

Sister Koch said: “Oh, I suppose I’ d better join in,” and she stepped in behind Ida, with an empty glass. But from down in her place Nurse Boserup said:

“You must excuse me for chinking from my place.”

“Well, it’s you I must thank first of all,” said Nurse Helgesen, chinking her glass with Ida.

“Oh,” said Ida, surveying the flowers and candles and everyone there. “This is such a wonderful evening.”

Josefine, who had been up to fetch more wine from Ida’s room, was standing down by the door with Nurse Kjær.

“She really has such a lovely face,” she said.

Sister Koch turned to her empty glass. “Have you got a drop more for me?” Josefine hurried to fill the ward sister’s glass. “Yes, thank you for looking after me,” said Sister Koch to Nurse Helgesen.

“This was where you were sitting,” whispered Karl to Ida.

And Ida sat down as before.

But Sister Koch thought it was time for coffee now, assuming they were to have coffee. Quam offered her a cigar, and Karl passed the cigarettes around while they all, secretly, looked at his fine silver cigarette case. “
May
we?” said Nurse Kjær looking at Nurse Helgesen. But Nurse Friis was a gifted exponent of the art of smoking and could blow blue smoke rings down among the white candles before they were dispersed.

“Look at that,” said Ida. She was watching the fine smoke.

“I think we should have a song now,” said Nurse Krohn.

Nurse Helgesen wanted to raise objections, but Nurse Krohn said: “We’ll only hum of course. We often do in our rooms.”

“Ida,” she said, “you lead. Let’s sing ‘Fly bird, fly’.”

They moved the chairs a little further back, and, half humming as they looked into the candles, they quietly sang:

Fly, bird, fly, o’er the darkening lake

Darkness descends on the ling.

Now will the sun the deep forest forsake

Day has once more taken wing.

They continued to sing in low voices, as though far away behind a closed door. Nurse Kjær gently rocked backwards and forwards, and Nurse Helgesen joined in, singing in her contralto voice. Josefine, who was standing at the door as though on guard, joined in as well, with her hands on her hips.

A singer am I and so must I know

The joys and the sorrows of love.

All that the heart can suffer of woe

That must I sing of, my dove
.

The singing ceased, but no one moved.

“Now they’ve bought Ludvigsbakke,” said Karl.

“Have they?” She turned half toward him. There were tears in her eyes.

“Yes.”

They started to sing again.

“Are they going to pull the big house down?” asked Ida slowly and very quietly.

“Yes,” said Karl.

The others went on singing, but Karl said, and Ida scarcely heard the words:

“We should have had it.”

Ida did not move.

But suddenly Quam interrupted the singing:

“If we’ re going to sing, we must have less light in here.” And he set about blowing out the candles in the candelabra, while Nurse Friis laughed and helped him. “Now,” said Quam, “the big lamps as well. But the stars must shine.” And he left Ida’s small lamps to burn on.

“But then we must open the door to the stove,” said Nurse Kjær. She failed to get it open and said: “Ida, come and help me.” Ida got up and opened the door. “Sit here,” said Nurse Kjær, pulling her down on the little pouffe.

“There,” said Quam. “Now the lighting’s right.”

They started to sing again, perhaps rather more slowly, with their faces turned towards the glowing coals. Ida had closed her eyes.

Fly, oh bird, fly o’er the waters’ dark surge

Now draws the night its deep sigh,

Whisper the trees with tremulous urge

Telling that morning is nigh.

The singing stopped. Round about in the darkness, the tiny glows of the cigarettes could be seen along with Sister Koch’s cigar, which was like a sort of lighthouse.

“Don’t you know a song about Jutland?” said Karl quietly but audibly over in the dark.

“Yes, Ida does,” said Nurse Krohn.

“Oh yes, sing one,” said Nurse Berg. Ida had not reacted.

“Sing,” whispered Nurse Kjær.

Looking up into the darkness, clearly but very gently, while it looked as though she was only half opening her lips, Ida sang the song about Jutland.

Jutland here betwixt two seas

Like a runic stone does lie…

She hardly stopped after the first verse, but continued to sing. Nurse Kjær had leant her head on her shoulder.

“That’s a jolly nice song,” said Quam when Ida stopped; but Karl said nothing, he merely sat staring at her face.

“Come on now, Eichbaum,” said Quam. “Now we’ re jolly well going to have a dance.”

There was subdued laughter and shouting in the darkness. “Are you mad, doctor,” said Nurse Helgesen, who loved to dance.

But Quam had lit a wax matchstick. “Be careful of all those things, be careful,” shouted Nurse Kjær, who had got up as though she intended to hold on to them herself. And in no time the table had been moved aside and the chairs were gone.

Nurse Kjær and Nurse Krohn sang, still quietly, over by the stove, while Quam swung Nurse Helgesen so the steps could be heard in the dark.

“Shall we?” said Karl with a bow. He chose Nurse Friis.

Ida joined in the singing. It was as though her voice led the others in greater joy than she herself realised.

“This is fine,” said Quam. He and Nurse Helgesen waltzed past in the semi-darkness like a pair of great shadows.
There
Karl glided past, so upright, with Nurse Friis.

“Let us,” said Nurse Kaas to Nurse Boserup, and they started to dance. Nurse Boserup led.

Quam nudged Josefine who had come forward a little to watch the ward sister letting herself go.

“This is lovely,” said Nurse Helgesen when they stopped.

No one was singing except Nurse Kjær and Nurse Friis now that Eichbaum had released her.

“Come on,” said Karl, and Ida followed him.

They did not speak as they danced slowly, in the darkness. Nurse Kjær, who was still sitting on the pouffe, sang more gently. The wicks in the small lamps fluttered a little until they went out.

“They’ve stopped singing,” whispered Ida.

All was quiet for a while, as though they were all tired, and the tiny lights from the cigarettes had gone out all around.

“Well, I think it would be best if we had our faces illuminated,” said Sister Koch, starting to light the lamps again. The ladies blinked in the glare as though they had just wakened.

“Well,” said Quam: “I think we should drink to Nurse Brandt. Damn it all, it was she who made the pudding.”

He drank to Ida, and Nurse Kjær ran around to ensure they all had glasses in their hands.

“Yes, she deserved that,” said Nurse Kjær.

Josefine, who was standing by the table putting the plates together, touched Ida’s back from behind and also wanted to drink to her, in secret.

“This is my first glass,” she said, and she had tears in her eyes.

Karl came over to Ida and chinked his glass against hers.

“Thank you,” he said.

It was not long before they broke up, but Ida wanted to stay and help Nurse Helgesen prepare for the night. She said goodbye to Quam, who was already standing in the doorway, and to Karl.

“Goodnight,” she said, taking his hand.

“Goodbye,” said Karl, still in the same tone.

Ida stayed with Nurse Helgesen. They put the flowers in water and they cleared the table. Ida put the sofa down and made her bed. Then she went.

All was quiet in the noisy ward and there was a light on for Nurse Petersen who was on night duty. Ida went slowly upstairs with her candle.

“It’s me,” said Karl suddenly from up in the darkness on the stairs.

Ida started and made no reply; her face was merely pale against the raised candle, but she opened her door and closed it behind them.

“Was it all right I came?” whispered Karl.

Ida smiled at him:

“Yes,” she said.

∞∞∞

Morning had arrived.

Karl sat on the edge of Ida’s bed.

“Ida,” he said: “Are you angry with me?”

Ida lay there with her eyes closed.

“Why?” was all she said.

And shortly afterwards she opened her eyes and said:

“I knew, of course.”

Karl remained seated on the bed and perhaps he really believed that he was in love, that it was the first time in his life he had been in love.

“Good night, my love,” he whispered.

Ida slowly moved her hand over her forehead:

“Kiss me
there
,” she said.

She lay there again with her eyes closed.

“Thank you. And will you promise me one thing” – she opened her eyes, but closed them again as though it pained her to see him – “that you will tell me when you leave me one day.”

Karl made no reply. Nevertheless, Ida took his hand and placed it against her cheek as though for a thousand caresses.

“Thank you,” she said again.

∞∞∞

The snow creaked beneath Karl’s feet.

“And why the devil shouldn’t we be able to get married?” he kept on saying to himself.

The real frost had arrived.

The mornings were bright with clear skies, with snow on the road and snow far out over the frozen lake. Ida stepped out confidently on the path – it was as though she asserted her presence more now – as she walked towards the sun, and the Nørrebro steam whistles were sounding and the machines clanking as though they were the bright morning’s pulse, while riders came in their twos and threes, trotting quickly from Østerbro on panting horses.

“Ooh,” said Ida to a boy who had fallen off a slide.

“Ooh,” he replied and then he was up and off again.

Two elderly gentlemen had also been watching.

“Up again,” said one of them, laughing to Ida: “Young people.”

All the elderly gentlemen taking their morning walk had to chat with Ida if there was anything at all to be said; and Ida nodded.

“Yes, Your Honour,” she said. She knew all these elderly gentlemen.

The two old gentlemen continued their walk, and one of them – he was wearing ear muffs – said slowly and clearly:

“You know it is really lovely to see a healthy face.”

The other stood there for a moment and watched Ida as she walked. It was as though there was a certain proud bearing about her, about her hips.

“Indeed, young people look splendid in the sunshine.”

Over by the working-class houses, Ida met Boserup and Kaas, who were wearing large galoshes.

“You are out on your walk rather late today,” said Nurse Kaas as she went past.

“Yes,” said Ida without stopping: “I prefer to go out when the sun is shining.”

“But isn’t it a lovely morning?” she said; she was already a few steps away from them.

“Yes, at minus eight,” shouted Kaas, who was wearing black mittens.

“Oh, the cold warms you up,” shouted Ida back.

“Not to mention the fur coat,” said Boserup, who had not stopped and was already some dozen trees further on. She said something to the effect that one ought to dress a little according to one’s position in life.

“Yes,” said Kaas, who was thinking about Ida as she went. It was as though Ida never had anything to say to her colleagues any more, and that hurt them.

“I must say she’s been putting it on recently.”

When she had almost reached Østerbro Ida turned and raised her veil. Yes, the channel was free of ice; and she went back, with the sun on her back, and dodged round the corner at Rørholm. The toothless old man opened the door to a private compartment as though he had been expecting her.