The cutlery clinked against their plates as they ate. All three of them tried not to look at the empty chair at the dining-room table, but they couldn’t help themselves.
‘I can’t believe he had to leave again so soon.’ Gertrud frowned as she handed the bowl to Erik, and he put yet another potato on his plate, even though it was already full. It was easier to do that, otherwise his mother would keep urging him to take more food until he gave in. But when he looked down at his brimming plate, he wondered how on earth he was ever going to eat it all. Food didn’t interest him. He ate only because he was forced to do so. And because his mother kept saying that she was ashamed at how skinny he was. She said that people were going to think she was starving him.
Axel, on the other hand, ate everything with a healthy appetite. Erik cast a glance at the empty chair as he reluctantly raised the fork to his lips. The food seemed to swell in his mouth. The gravy transformed the potatoes into a soft mush, and he chewed mechanically to get rid of what was in his mouth as quickly as possible.
‘He has to do his part.’ Hugo Frankel gave his wife a stern look. But he too glanced at the empty chair.
‘I just thought he could have a few days of peace and quiet here at home.’
‘That’s up to him. Nobody can tell Axel what to do, except Axel himself.’ Hugo’s voice swelled with pride, and Erik felt a stab of pain in his chest, as he did whenever his mother and father talked about Axel. Sometimes Erik felt as if he were almost invisible, a mere shadow of the dazzling Axel, who was always the focal point, even though he wasn’t trying to be. Erik stuffed another forkful into his mouth. If only dinner would be over so he could go to his room and read. Mostly he read history books. There was something about all the facts, the names and dates and places, that he loved. Those things didn’t change; they were something he could rely on, depend on.
Axel had never been very interested in books, but he’d still managed to pass all his school exams with the highest marks. Erik got good marks too, but he had to work hard for them. And no one ever patted him on the back or beamed with pride as they boasted about him to friends and acquaintances. Nobody bragged about Erik.
Yet he still couldn’t bring himself to resent his brother. Sometimes he wished that he could. Wished he could hate him, despise him, wash away that stabbing pain in his chest. But the truth was that he loved Axel – more than anyone else. Axel was the strongest and bravest; he was the one worth bragging about. Not Erik. That was a fact. Like in the history books. Just as much a fact as the date of the Battle of Hastings. He couldn’t question it, argue about it, or change it. That’s just how things were.
Erik looked down at his plate. To his surprise, it was empty.
‘Father, may I be excused?’ His voice was filled with hope.
‘Have you already finished eating? Well, look at that . . . All right, you can go. Your mother and I will sit here a while longer.’
As Erik went upstairs to his room, he heard his parents talking in the dining room.
‘Don’t you think Axel is taking too many risks?’
‘Gertrud, you have to stop coddling him. He’s nineteen years old, after all . . . We should be glad to have such a . . .’
Their voices faded as Erik closed the door behind him. He threw himself down on the bed and picked up the book on top of the pile, the one about Alexander the Great. He’d been brave too. Just like Axel.