One morning the form teacher came in for the first lesson, dropped down heavily on the chair behind his desk, surveyed the class and said:
‘Today you must pray to God, for today there may be a nuclear war.’ He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and said:
‘Nuclear war,’ one more time, his double chins shaking, and silence fell on the classroom.
Nuclear war.
Arvid had heard them talking about it at home, and of course he knew what it was. It was the end, for everyone, no joke.
Uncle Rolf had dropped by, and his voice was excited and out of control downstairs in the living room that evening. Uncle Rolf hated the Russians almost as much as he hated farmers, and Arvid had crouched at the top of the stairs, where he would sit when he wanted to listen without being seen, and Dad didn’t think the Russians were such bastards, not the way Uncle Rolf did, but he wasn’t too cocky either, you could tell from his voice. It didn’t cut through the room like Uncle Rolf’s did.
Arvid didn’t know where Cuba was, it hadn’t come up in geography yet, and he didn’t know what went on there, but it didn’t matter, it was the end anyway, no joke.
After the lesson was over he went home. He unhooked his satchel from the desk, held it under his arm when they walked out for break and slipped quietly and unnoticed through the school gates.
There were four lessons left that day, but he saw no reason to stay at school if there was going to be a nuclear war. If it was all over he would rather wait at home with his mother.
He trudged homewards. He had his high rubber boots on and they were turned down and had Elvis written on the lining, even though it was his mother who liked Elvis, the blue jumper with the zigzag pattern and the cap he always wore, in the summer too sometimes. It was a blue cap with a white stripe along the edge and a white bobble on top, like the ski jumper Toralf Engan wore, and everyone else for that matter, and he used to pull it down over his forehead because it looked tough.
He wasn’t frightened, his body was just so suddenly tired that he had to concentrate on every step he took, and the tiredness grew and grew until it lay like lumps beneath his skin, he could almost feel them with his fingers, and his boots were heavy, as if filled with blue clay. He didn’t cry because he and his dad had agreed he would not do that so often now, but his face felt as dry as old cardboard and just blinking was an effort of will.
When he got home so early, his mother gave him a puzzled look but said nothing, and he thought that was fine, for when you’re about to die there’s really nothing to discuss. Even so, it was odd that she was cooking, but then again there was no need to go hungry while you were waiting, so he sat down at the kitchen table, and she gave him two slices of bread with peanut butter and a glass of milk. He said:
‘Thanks,’ and then he didn’t say another word for four days. His body was frozen, he couldn’t understand why nothing happened, why no one was concerned, and it took him a long time to thaw, it was as though his body had to be cracked open before things could be as before.
He didn’t pray to God, because he didn’t believe in God, but he thought that maybe there were others in his class who did. He lay in bed staring at the wall listening to the morning service downstairs in the living room, he heard his dad go to work in the morning and come home in the afternoon, he heard them argue in the kitchen in the evening.
He just lay there and would not get up, and in the end his mother became worried and took him to the doctor although Dad said it was a waste of time. He was a strange doctor, for he didn’t look down his throat or listen to his chest or anything, he just talked. But Arvid felt better afterwards even though he was often very tired and could fall asleep in the middle of the day.