The Door

My first story, in 3 parts, taking place here in Stockholm

This photo was taken last winter as i waited for the bus to take me to work. As you can see it's of a normal entry into a normal apartment building.  The outside was covered up with scaffolding and netting at the time because they were putting a new facade on.  I started to wonder who lived there? What stories do they have?  I'm going to use this door to tell their stories. Just a couple of paragraphs or so for each tenant together with a new edit of the pic, the lady who turns 100, the angry young man, the asylum seeker. I hope you find it intriguing

The first story in the sequence, The Door, part 1, Gunbrit

Early morning 25th of November,  a cold wet morning, Gunbrit awakened and thought back in time. Tomorrow would be her 100th birthday and she wondered if anyone would remember. Bengt, her husband had passed long ago, and she had not spoken to her only child, Ole, in years. She remembered the last conversation they had together. It was the First of May, International Workers Day. She had just found out that he was going to demonstrate with the Nazis. She told him she was ashamed of him and never wanted to see his face again. Those words haunted her as she faced the morning, as they had every morning since then. Sweden was, to her, the most free country in the world and her pride in that reputation was enormous. She had been a lifelong member of the left party, strong and proud in her belief in the equality of all, a fact which no doubt fueled her adamant refusal to make amends with her son. She had, in fact, not spoken his name in years.
Though she was fragile of course, at her advanced age, she was still spry mentally and maintained a semblance of self sufficiency surprising for someone at 100 years. She got out of bed and went to start the day. Her home assistant would be there soon to help her with breakfast and all that went into her increasingly limited existence. She rarely left the apartment anymore for health reasons she felt  her world was collapsing in on it's self.  She turned on the radio, the volume very high so she could hear it, Always station P1, she hadn't missed the program "God Morgon Världen" in a very long time, she felt like she was friends with the hosts. It brought her pleasure to hear their voices. She remembered the flower shop that she and her late husband had opened down the block. They had owned it for 30 years before retiring. The money the had made selling it went to travel. They both loved life and always went with the moment, a fact that she never regretted even though she had precious little money now.

In the many years in the neighborhood she had made many friends, but sadly she had outlived those who had not moved on and she was always bad at staying in touch. That meant that there was no one around that she felt close to, that she could talk to or invite to a fika. Her upcoming birthday was a reminder of her isolation.

Maria was to be her assistant that day, she tried to be nice to Gunbrit but it was difficult. With her own problems to deal with and the work conditions, constant under staffing causing the most unreasonable demands, Maria didn't have the time or energy to do what the job required. Gunbrit loved the flowers she brought, but always wished that Maria could stay longer. Maria had made plans to have a small celebration for her birthday tomorrow, a princess cake and a card together with flowers, but that was tomorrow. Today, she was running late and trying hard to get there on time. She knew that Gunbrit, even with her stubborn self sufficiency needed much help.

Digging her keys out of her handbag, Maria opened the door to find Gunbrit on the floor. She rushed to determine what had happened and if she was breathing. As she leaned over, she heard Gunbrit mutter a word with her last breath, a word she hadn't said in decades, "Ole"

AZIZ, PART 2

It wasn’t the noose, it was the bullet.

I looked around the flat for meaning. It was sparsely furnished, with only a couple of side chairs, a table and a sofa, three seat, blue in colour, with a warm yellow woollen blanket and a pillow on it, it served as his bed. Together it barely filled an otherwise empty space. A chair lie overturned in the middle of the floor next to the broken coffee table, oak, matching the parquet floor. The length of rope dangled ominously across the chair and table. On the floor I found two pictures in wooden frames. I had seen them before, Pictures of his beloved family. Aziz showed them to anyone who came to visit, but few ever came.

The day tried to peek its way in through the windows, casting what seemed a cruel light upon what lay on the floor. As I set the telephone back into the charger, I thought back to our conversations. They often revolved around his family. How his father had taught him to be a handyman, but also pushed him to become a doctor, and he did, a very good doctor in fact. His father told him that if a man is good with his hands, if he can find the patience to work well with wood, then he has the mindfulness to do anything. He had intended to pass that along to a son but was denied the chance.

Aziz never finished telling me what happened on August 27th, 2012, around noon. They knew about the fighting that had started but it hadn’t reached Damascus yet... The unrest in the poorer areas had grown and gross violence was becoming the norm. He told me the shelling started on the other side of the city at around 8:00 a.m. They started to grab what they could quickly. Aziz went downstairs to secure the transport when the mortar hit. His eyes filled with tears when he told me about his wife and two daughters, who did not survive, and all he could do was to wave me away, unable to say more.

In the ensuing days, he tried to use his considerable skills as a doctor to help the injured but realized he had to leave Damascus when a colleague of his was kidnapped by the fighters for a 100,000£ ransom. This is not an uncommon occurrence, he tells me. He left his office, his practice, everything behind for the Zaatari refugee camp in Jordan. The camp had been established about a month earlier and was already overpopulated. Protests were held daily about the lack of food and accommodation. Not long after his arrival he met a man who claimed that for a substantial fee he could offer him passage to Europe.

Unable to put the loss of his family behind him, Aziz was hoping for a new life here. Raised in an upper class environment in Damascus, he had never been subjected to racial harassment before. His Muslim beliefs simply did not allow for such thought, he believed. The fact that he was still waiting for his immigration paperwork to finalize when he first heard the taunts didn’t help, he knew he couldn’t react in any way or risk being sent immediately back to Damascus, which would mean certain death. This once proud man became only a shadow of his jovial, funny, intelligent self. I often wondered what his life had been like earlier in Damascus, but now he rarely left his apartment.

One Tuesday, about a month ago, he ran across a flier on the bus seat advertising a rally in support of refugees from Syria, although he didn’t speak Swedish, he was able to understand the meaning. In a rare moment, he decided to attend. It was an October afternoon, a Sunday, when the rally was held at Medborgarplatsen here in Stockholm. About 350 showed up and speeches were made, in Swedish. Although Aziz couldn’t understand, it moved him to see this. Perhaps he was misjudging Sweden, perhaps it was the open minded country he had heard about after all. Then everything changed. A group of about 25 skinheads decided to show up. What started as shouting and fist waving soon turned very violent. Aziz tried to get away, but was stuck in the crowd. Bottles and rocks were being thrown and Aziz went into a panic. Visions of his homeland overcame his logic as he started to fight back. Grabbing a stick, he swung at two of the Nazis, hitting one, Ole, across the back. Ole turned and they stood almost face to face. Fortunately, the police arrived, Ole turned away to avoid another arrest, and Aziz ran to safety. Ole made a permanent memory of Aziz, however, vowing to revenge.

Aziz was devastated. I had no idea, until I read his notes, just how deeply his sorrow rooted itself. He told of the nights of darkness, nightly visions of the explosion and the loss of his family. The aloneness and isolation he felt here in Sweden made so much worse by the fracas with Ole. He had no way out. He couldn’t practice medicine. It would take seven years to become certified, and he felt completely trapped. He had decided to end it all.

The police arrived and the ambulance, no one could understand the noose around his neck or the bullet hole in the window. What was the connection?

OLE, PART 3

It was the hatred long before the bullet.

Ole woke up angry, the same as any day over the last who knows how long. How long had this been going on? Hell not even he kept track anymore. He'd lost the days and the years.  He looked around his small studio flat. The paint cracks, the dirt, the noise, he felt as though he deserved this. He'd felt that way for a long time. He was never the type to dwell too much on his life. Maybe that was a weakness but he felt instead as though it empowered him. Empty, ragged, moody, brooding and impulsive, he was never popular. Even those who didn't know his politics were often afraid of him on the street. There was always something else inside of him, a part of him that never could make friends or find peace.

There was something about the date, Nov. 25th, that made him think, something buried deep inside. He thought about it as he got dressed. What was it?  He got annoyed at the thought of something being so evasive, but so simple. As usual he shrugged it off.  He had other things to think about and an appointment to keep. A police car drove by slowly, Ole took a step backwards, into the shadow. The last thing he needed was them interrupting him, not today.

He knew he was on his own with this, but that was okay with him. That was how he wanted it. If it went sour, then only he was to blame. He'd lived his entire life alone so why worry now? He looked at the address, something familiar about it. There was something about this whole thing that he couldn't shake but couldn't identify either. What he was about to do was for the benefit of all Swedes, he thought. He never doubted his principles.

Ole hopped off the tube, making sure not to make eye contact with anyone. The brim of his cap pulled low over his forehead, hiding his eyes. The bag on his shoulder closed tight, his hand tight on the shoulder strap to control the contents. As he got closer, he began to sweat. Odd for November in Stockholm, he thought.  All he wanted to do was to get it over with, and get home before anyone saw him. The bus stop on the other side of the street was partially hidden by construction. There were piles of scaffolding and replacement windows waiting for their appointed time. They made a perfect hunting blind. Ole could watch the windows without being seen.

He would know Aziz in a glance. As the only Syrian in the neighbourhood he was easy to spot. Ole remembered the night before. He and Jimmy had spotted Aziz and they watched him walk home with the bags full of groceries in the heavy rain, three heavy bags with enough food to last him for at least 2 weeks. Aziz hated going outside. He felt the eyes of the blonde haired blue eyed Swedes on him all the time and he always felt self conscious and afraid. The two taunted him, asking him at first if he needed help, then laughing and asking him out loud "Why doesn't Allah just send someone to help,  you f*****g svartskalle?" But that was the night before.

He spotted Aziz in his apartment window and jumped to attention. Reaching slowly into his bag, he drew out the pistol. Never letting him out of his sight, he twisted the silencer securely into place. Drawing the pistol to the top of the scaffolding pile, he carefully scanned the area to ensure he wasn't being watched. He aimed carefully. Squeezing the trigger he fired one shot through the window.  His aim was true.

Ole watched in a mix of amazement and joy as he saw Aziz fall. He knew he'd done the job. He laughed at the thought of one less Arab in the world. Mocking Aziz and his belief in Allah, he started to demount the weapon when his eyes caught a sight he'd rather not have seen. A face in the adjacent window!! An old woman had seen this!! Frozen for only a second, he immediately knew what he had to do. There could be no witnesses!! He entered the front door of the building and to his surprise the door to her apartment was open. He had no way to know that the old woman was awaiting Maria, her helper. He entered the flat, instinctively drew his weapon and before even he had even a moment to think, he fired the second shot of the day. The old woman fell to the floor and he felt safe. There would be no witnesses. Not today.

As he turned to run out the door, something caught his eye. There was something very familiar about the art on the walls. But then lots of Swedes had these. Copies of Carl Larsson paintings, not at all unique. No, wait, it was the photos. The faces. faces with names.  He knew he had to run, but he was captured. He leaned in to have a closer look. It can't be!! Was that HIM? Ole saw faces that he had forgotten and buried many times over many years. The horror of the moment seized him. Who was this old lady and why was she so familiar?

He froze as he heard the old lady try to speak his name. How did she know his name? She called to him, crying, shaking and bleeding. Ole took one longer look at the photos and knew that his life had come full circle. In a moment, all of his pain had finally taken its toll. It was no strangers’ face he had seen in the window. It was no stranger that he had condemned to a hasty death. It was his mother.

He thought back to the day she told him to leave. He hadn't given it a thought since. It was typical of him to bury his thoughts. The angry always do. 30 years of anger and hatred, unfocused and unrepentant. To say his life was leading to this moment is of course a cliché, but he knew it to be true. Every racist taunt he had uttered came back to haunt him. Every neo Nazi chant he had screamed. All the abuse. All the hatred. All the pain.  He saw Aziz fall dead again and again, a hundred times in a minute. He heard his dying mother gasping for air.

Outside the front door, he heard Maria swearing at herself as she tried to find her keys. Just before she opened the door, he put the pistol to the underside of his chin and pulled the trigger.

Author's Note

my first attempt at fiction, I purposely tried to keep it short, feel free to give me advice! Thanks for reading!!

Reviews

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OOOOOOOOOOOhhhh man whata dark twist . words get very deep with story of human need. Human at crisis need our help not hatred. DARK LIKE WINTER NORTH NIGHT. GLAMOUR LIKE OPEN MOUTH OF WOMEN. BITTER LIKE SUICIDLE. AWESOME WRITING OF YOURS KEEP IT UP.

[daninstockholm]

Marketa,, thank you thank you thank you!! I'm soooo very happy that you liked this!! Your review means a great deal to me! It IS dark, indeed, very sad. I was surprised by the tone myself, but thought it was really what I had in mind.

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Good you expres your feel and emotions and turn to creativity.