Page 42 - 2000 ICELAND

But then it happened.

Magnus turned to the Germans and asked them to sing. They looked very
uncomfortable and politely demurred. But Magnus would not take “no” for

an answer and prodded them further.

Finally they relented and broke out in a quiet folksong.

The room froze. Gleeful French faces gazing down from platform perches
turned to stone. A woman's face right above me contorted in what I could

only interpret as hate - never having seen such a look before. One second
before the first strains of the German's song, there had been laughter and

warm-heartedness in that vacation sleeping hut. One second after the first

Teutonic phrase, the past crashed onto the assemblage and the room
transformed before my eyes into a prison camp hut. Fifty-five years of

European peace was ripped away. The grandchildren of the combatants met
again and the old hatreds of WWII showed in the faces of the elders.

The young faces hanging above me were still smiling giving hope for the

future.

The “festival” ended shortly thereafter.

The Germans quickly finished their song; Magnus declined to ask for more.

Everyone in the room regained the ability to breathe and move again. The
Germans retired for the night to the smaller hut; the French divided up –

some to remain in their sleeping bags on the platforms – others to go up
into the loft.

Kay and I escaped outside into the streaming light and cold brisk wind to

spend a night out in the Sprengisandur for after realizing that we had been

assigned to sleep in the cramped loft with an unknown number of snorers
and sweaty smelly boots, Kay and I opted to sleep outdoors.

Earlier in the evening, we had grabbed two pallets from the loft and run

over to the porch of the new cottage to establish our sleeping quarters