He danced for more than an hour. When he finally carried Esmeralda back to the spare room and put her to bed, he was sweating. He undressed, hung the suit in the wardrobe, and took a shower. It would soon be light, and he would be able to go to bed and sleep. He had survived another night.
He put on his dressing gown and made himself some coffee. The thermometer outside the window was still showing — 2°. He touched the curtains, and Shaka barked briefly out there in the darkness. He thought about the forest surrounding him on all sides. This was what he’d dreamed of. A remote cottage, modern in every way, but no neighbors. And it was also a house at the very end of a road. It was a roomy house, well-built and with a big living room that satisfied his need for a dance floor. The seller was a forestry official who had retired and moved to Spain.
He sat at the kitchen table with his coffee. Dawn was approaching. Soon he’d be able to get some sleep. The shadows would leave him in peace.
A single bark from Shaka. He sat up straight. Another bark. Then all was quiet. It must have been an animal. Probably a hare. Shaka could move around freely in his large pen. The dog kept watch over him.
He washed his cup and put it next to the stove. He would use it again seven hours from now. He didn’t like changing cups unnecessarily. He could use the same one for weeks. Then he went into the bedroom, took off his robe, and snuggled into bed. It was still dark, but usually he lay in bed as he waited for dawn to break, listening to the radio. When he noticed the first faint signs of light outside the house he would turn off the radio, switch off the light, and lie comfortably, ready for sleep.
Shaka started barking again. Then stopped. He frowned, listening intently, and counted up to thirty. No sound from Shaka. Whatever animal it had been, it was gone now. He turned on the radio and listened absentmindedly to the music.
Another bark from Shaka. But it was different now. He sat up in bed. Shaka was barking away frantically. That could only mean that there was an elk in the vicinity. Or a bear. Bears were shot every year in this area. He’d never seen one himself. Shaka was still barking just as frenziedly. He got out of bed and put on his robe. Shaka fell silent. He waited, but nothing. He took off his robe and got back into bed. He always slept naked. The lamp by the radio was on.
Suddenly he sat up again. Something odd was going on, something that had to do with the dog. He held his breath and listened. Silence. He was uneasy. It was as if the shadows all around him had started to change. He got out of bed. There was something odd about Shaka’s last barks. They hadn’t stopped in a natural way, they seemed to have been cut off. He went into the living room and opened one of the curtains in the window looking directly out onto the dog pen. Shaka didn’t bark, and he felt his heart beating faster. He went back into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of pants and a sweater. He took out the gun he always kept under his bed, a shotgun with room for six cartridges in the magazine. He went into the hall and stuck his feet into a pair of boots, listening all the time. Not a sound from Shaka. He was imagining things, no doubt, everything was as it should be. It would be light soon. It was the shadows making him uneasy, that was it. He unlocked the three locks on the front door and slowly opened it. Still no reaction from Shaka. Now he knew for certain that something was wrong. He picked up a flashlight from a shelf and shone it into the darkness. There was no sign of Shaka in the pen. He shouted for Shaka and shone the flashlight along the edge of the woods. Still no reaction. He quickly shut the door. Sweat was pouring off him. He cocked the gun and opened the door again. Cautiously he stepped out onto the porch. No sound. He walked over to the dog pen, then stopped in his tracks. Shaka was lying on the ground. The dog’s eyes were staring out and his grayish white fur was bloodstained. He turned on his heel and ran back to the house, slamming the door behind him. Something was going on, but he had no idea what. Somebody had killed Shaka, though. He turned on every light in the house and sat down on his bed. He was shaking.
The shadows had fooled him. He hadn’t caught on to the danger in time. He had always supposed the shadows would change, that they would be his attackers. But he’d been fooled: the threat came from outside. The shadows had persuaded him to look in the wrong place. He’d been misled for fifty-four years. He thought he’d gotten away with it, but he had been wrong. Images from that awful year of 1945 came welling up inside him. He hadn’t gotten away with it after all.
He shook his head and resolved not to give himself up without a fight. He didn’t know who was out there in the darkness, the person who had killed his dog. Shaka had succeeded in warning him even so. He wasn’t going to surrender. He kicked off his boots, put on a pair of socks, and took his sneakers out from under the bed. His ears were alert all the time. What had happened to the dawn? If only daylight would set in, they would have no chance. He dried his sweaty palms on the duvet. The shotgun gave him some sense of security. He was a good shot. He wouldn’t allow himself to be taken by surprise.
And then the house collapsed. That’s what it felt like, at least. At the explosion he flung himself onto the floor. He’d had his finger on the trigger and his gun went off, shattering the mirror on the wardrobe. He crawled to the door and looked into the living room. Then he saw what had happened. Somebody had fired a shot or maybe thrown a grenade through the big window facing south. The room was a sea of splintered glass.
He had no chance to think any further as the window facing north was demolished by another shot. He pressed himself against the floor. They’re coming from all directions, he thought. The house is surrounded and they’re shooting out the windows before coming in. He searched desperately for a way out.
Dawn, he thought. That’s what can save me. If only this accursed night would come to an end.
Then the kitchen window was shot out. He lay on his stomach, pressing down against the floor with his hands over his head. Then the next crash, the bathroom window. He could feel the cold air rushing in.
There was a whistling noise, then a thud right next to him. He raised his head and saw it was a tear gas canister. He turned his head away, but it was too late. The gas was in his eyes and his lungs. Without being able to see anything, he could hear more canisters sailing through the other windows. The pain in his eyes was so bad that he could stand it no longer. He still had his shotgun in his hands. He had no choice but to leave the house. Maybe the darkness would save him after all, not the dawn. He scrambled to the front door. The pain in his eyes was unbearable, and his coughing threatened to tear his lungs apart. He flung the door open and rushed out, shooting at the same time. He knew it was about thirty meters to the trees. Although he couldn’t see a thing, he ran as fast as he could. All the time he was expecting a fatal bullet to hit him. It was only a short run to the forest, but far enough for him to think that he was going to be killed — but he didn’t know by whom. He knew why, but not who. That thought was as painful as his eyes.
He barged into a tree trunk and almost fell. Still blinded by the tear gas, he staggered through the trees. Branches made deep wounds in his face, but he knew he must not stop. Whoever it was was somewhere behind him. Maybe several of them. They’d catch him if he didn’t get far enough away into the forest.