Egholm and his God. Buchholtz Johannes
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Johannes Buchholtz
Egholm and his God
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066154776
Table of Contents
I
Sivert stands leaning his elbows on the window ledge, digging all ten fingers into his curly hair, and looking down at the muddy court below.
Not a soul.
He looks at the wet roofs, and the raindrops splashing tiny rings in the water all along the gutter.
Not so much as a sparrow in sight. Only the sullen November drizzle, flung now and then into gusts, and whipping the panes with a lash of rain.
But that is enough for Sivert. He looks out into the grey desolation, highly amused at it all.
Now he purses up his lips and whispers something, raises his eyebrows, mutters something in reply, and giggles.
Let him, for Heaven’s sake, as long as he can, thinks his mother.
And Sivert finds it more amusing still. Wonderful, so much there is going on inside him. He shakes his poodle mop of hair, and gives way to a long-drawn, gasping laugh—simply can’t help it—leans his forehead against the pane, thrusts both hands suddenly deep into his pockets, and gives a curious wriggle.
“You great big boy, what’s the matter now?” says his mother gently.
Sivert turns his head away and answers with an evasive laugh:
“All that rain … it tickles so.”
Fru Egholm does not question him again; for a moment she really feels as if the boy were right. And, anyhow, it would be no use asking him. If only he can find his little pleasure in it, so much the better.
And there’s no saying how long … Egholm had said it was time the boy found something to do, now he was confirmed. Find him a place at once. And Sivert, poor weakly lad—how would it go with him?
Fru Egholm shakes her head, and sends a loving glance at the boy, who is plainly busy in his mind with something new and splendid.
Then suddenly his face changes, as if at the touch of death itself. His eyes grow dull, his jaw drops; the childish features with their prematurely aged look are furrowed with dread as he stares down at something below.
“Is it Father?” she whispers breathlessly. “Back already?”
She lays down her sewing and hurries to the window; mother and son stand watching with frightened eyes each movement of the figure below.
Egholm walks up from the gate, lithe and erect, just as in the old days when he came home from the office. But at every step his knees give under him, he stumbles, and his wet cloak hangs uncomfortably about him. At last he comes to a standstill, heedless of the fact that his broad boots are deep in a puddle of water.
Once he looks up, and Sivert and his mother hold their breath. But the flower-pots in the window hide them. His head droops forward, he stands there still. A little after, they see him trudging along close to the wall, past his own door.
The watchers stand on tiptoe, pressing their temples against the cold glass, straining to see what next.
Egholm stops at the Eriksens’ gate, glances round, and kneels.
Kneels down full in the mire, while the gale flings the cape of his ulster over his head. Now he snatches off his hat and crushes it in his fingers; his bald head looks queerly oblong, like a pumpkin, seen from above.
“He’s praying!”
And the two at the window shudder, as if they were witnessing some dreadful deed.
“Where am I to hide?” blubbers Sivert.
The mother pulls herself together—she must find strength for two.
“You need not hide to-day. Take your little saw and be doing some work. You’ll see, it will be all right to-day.”
“But suppose he counts the money?”
“Oh, heaven … !”
“Hadn’t we better tell him at once? Shout out and tell him as soon as he comes in, and say Hedvig took it?”
“No, no.”
“Or go and kill ourselves?”
“No, no. Sit still, Sivert dear, and don’t say a word. Maybe God will help us. We might put something over the bowl … no. Better leave it as it is.”
Heavy steps on the stairs outside. Egholm walks in, strong and erect again now.
He hangs up his wet things, and fumbles with a pair of sodden cuffs.
“Didn’t