Fritz is in his shirtsleeves. The colour of the field is in the air above the ripe corn.

The first time they had a visit from home, nearly eight years ago now, Marita fretted over the menu. Vegetables were plentiful, bread was once more freely available to buy, but meat was still scarce. Marita put on her light blue dress and went to the butcher’s. She came home head aloft, eyes a little wild, carrying double rations. Let it not be said of her house—of their house—that you left the table hungry.

Fritz didn’t begrudge her that. He said nothing.

He polished the silver dish and laid out all the cigarettes they had.

Then came the reunion, the dinner.

Marita waited till everyone had sat down before striding into the room with the roast. 131

Fritz steers the front wheel through some horse droppings and thrills faintly with glee.

Back home, boats delivering fruit and vegetables had been few and far between during the war, but there had been plenty of sheep and fish. The guests hacked unceremoniously at the precious meat, shovelling it down. The dish was soon emptied, while Marita clenched her fork. The potatoes and the butter-roasted carrots remained unfinished, left for them politely by the guests.

Coming to a slight dip in the road, Fritz lets the spokes whirl.

No, these days they want for nothing.

The garden is in bloom; he’s trying his luck with peas. The child has grown pretty. Fritz believes in progress, in the future Denmark. A nightmare is over. Denmark is free. All across the world, peace has made an entrance. He feels everything around him breathing light, fatness, calm. Only, it nags at him a bit, the trouble flaring up again back home in Klaksvík on Borðoy. That embarrassing story.

The north islands’ biggest fishing town is on the radio, in the papers. Even at the greengrocer’s, as it turns out, someone taps a copy and makes a remark.

Those Faroese. It’s clear enough what’s meant.

Fritz takes the packet of cigarettes from the counter, nodding his thanks. He hurries outside. Now, in the doorway, he almost bumps into the village constable, the only one in the area. Fritz steps aside, shoes scraping. He smiles 132more broadly than intended. The narrow blue eyes are soft as wool and a little evasive. Fritz notices that.

That morning there had been a letter.

‘Well, well,’ said the postman. ‘Looks like news from home.’ Fritz read it. He handed the creased sheet to Marita. Ragnar, bless him, wrote as he talked, in a gruff straightforward suður dialect.