She imagines a car attracting other cars.
‘And that wasn’t very practical where we lived.’
‘Where is he now?’
Markus looks away at first, then he meets her gaze. ‘Do you believe the rumours?’
It is her turn to look away. She watches the people at the neighbouring table. A woman bursts into laughter at something a man says. He chews on his pipe stem and continues talking with the pipe clamped between his teeth, and she laughs even louder. Ester says she isn’t in the mood to talk about rumours. ‘No rumours,’ she repeats.
They sit without speaking, and when the buzz of voices and laughter rises in the room, she feels that she and Markus are the only ones who don’t fit in here and that they never will.
He asks if she goes to synagogue.
She shakes her head.
‘I never used to either. Before.’
‘But you do now?’
He nods.
‘Why do you go now?’
‘I want to understand.’
They exchange glances, and it is there again – the sense of shared experience. She doesn’t need to ask him what it is he wants to understand, and says: ‘Do you think it’s possible?’
‘I do,’ he smiles with embarrassment. ‘I believe that if there’s something I don’t understand myself, I have only God to rely on. I have to rely on someone.’
She looks down and sees her grandmother’s heavy earnestness in this belief. Ester has always connected religion with a heaviness. But now almost everything’s different. She thinks that feeling you can control your own life is a form of self-deception. There are outside forces that keep subjecting you to new tests, whether it is war or escape or…
But does that mean Markus is right? She doesn’t know and prefers not to commit to one side or the other. In a way it seems too simple to leave wonder, mystery and doubt to what Markus calls God.
He looks at her. ‘What do you think about hope, Ester?’
She doesn’t understand what he means.
‘It’s a feeling, isn’t it. A feeling one has from time to time, but only from time to time.’
She nods. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Hope exists,’ Markus says, warming to the topic. ‘It’s very specific. It’s in the synagogue. Hope is with God.’
She is thinking that the fellowship she shares with Markus has its limits, too. But this doesn’t upset her. She likes to discover these things.
People are scurrying this way and that past the windows. She lifts her cup and holds it with both hands. It warms them. ‘Coffee’s good for something then,’ she says, and smiles to him across the table.
Oslo, October 1967
1
Sverre Fenstad is at work before anyone else, as usual. He unlocks the door, holding the morning edition of Aftenposten under his arm. He has read the newspaper on the tram so he puts it on Pia’s desk in reception. The building is utterly still. He continues into his office, and switches on the lights as he moves through the room. The first thing he does when he sits behind his desk is to go through the appointments book for the day and the rest of the week, then he looks at his paperwork, putting aside everything that can wait.
Half an hour later he hears Pia letting herself in. As usual, she arrives half an hour later than him and a quarter of an hour before the others. He hears her moving around in the kitchenette, making coffee. When it is finally quiet he presses a button on the intercom and says: ‘Fru Moløkken.’
‘Coming.’
A cupboard door closes. Then there is the click-clack of her heels on the parquet floor in the corridor. As usual, he is surprised. Thigh-length skirt today; knee-high boots with a fringe. Her footwear reminds him of the shaggy hooves on brewery dray horses in the old days. ‘Good morning,’ he says.
She reciprocates and goes to the window.
‘I don’t have to go to court until Thursday.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Would you mind cancelling all my appointments after lunch today?’
She turns and looks at him in surprise.
‘It was a simple question, so just give me a simple answer.’
‘Not at all.’ Pia Moløkken opens the window a fraction. ‘The air’s a bit stale in here.’ As she stretches up to undo the top clasp, her skirt rides up perilously high, revealing a strip of white flesh above her stocking tops.
Sverre likes what he can see. ‘Thank you.’ He places a hand on the telephone receiver.
‘There we are.’ She pulls her skirt down. The leather fringes dance around her calves as she walks. Sverre takes a deep breath. Pia Moløkken really is a breath of fresh air in the office, he thinks, waiting until she has closed the door before he picks up the phone.
2
The straps hanging from the bars over the central aisle swing slowly backwards and forwards. The whole carriage rocks as the tram races down the street alongside Frogner Park. Sverre is sitting alone on a seat, thinking that, actually, he doesn’t need the stick. On a sunny day like today the pain in his hip is almost non-existent. However, in a way, the stick has become part of me, he muses. Something to lean on. In a metaphorical sense, that is. One probably needs it. I might, anyway. For a fraction of a second he has eye contact with a youth leaning against the stanchion by the door. He is wearing dark flared trousers with a tight-fitting jacket. His hair is uncombed, falling over his shirt collar, and his wispy beard ends in sideburns by his ears.
This is what the war did to us, Sverre thinks, his gloved hands resting on his stick. When peace came it was trivia that took over the public consciousness. Now life isn’t about being on the right side, ideologically or nationally. Now it is all about you, your body, whether the length of a man’s hair or the length of a woman’s skirt.
He catches a glimpse of a Fiat advertisement at the top of a functionalist building by Frogner square. He waits until the tram has passed the entrance to Vigeland Sculpture Park. Then he pulls the cord and gets up. Holding one of the straps as the tram slows down. When the tram stops in Frogner square, Sverre Fenstad is the only passenger to alight. He waits until the tram has departed. Again he can confirm that the pain in his hip is less than expected. Again he thinks that the stick is redundant. Nevertheless, he leans on it when he comes to a halt in front of the entrance and scans the names on the board by the doorbells. He rings one, opens the door and goes in. He can hear a door open higher up in the building. He can visualise her waiting in the doorway but not raising her head until he is almost there.
Then he takes in the sight of her. Ester hasn’t changed much. Her facial features are sharper. But it suits her. Her hair is black, no grey streaks, and her figure is still wonderful. She is wearing a red-and-yellow outfit that brings out her golden complexion.
He is slightly out of breath and rests on the top step. There is the sound of a piano coming from her flat.
‘Ester,’ he says.
She smiles quickly and, as always, he is fascinated by the glimpse of a front tooth that is a little longer than the one next to it.
Sverre takes the last step onto the landing. They observe each other for a few seconds, then Ester turns and holds the door open.
The hallway is airy and impersonal. A large oval mirror covers almost a whole wall. On the opposite side there is a hat shelf. On the floor beneath, a red school satchel.
He hangs his coat on a hook above the satchel.
Ester holds a door open for him. ‘Please take a seat for a moment. I have a pupil, but she’ll soon have finished.’
He enters what must be the sitting room. It is simply furnished – a sofa and two armchairs. The furniture is heavier and bigger than is the modern fashion. The table is low and made of teak. He is taken aback by the sight of the grand piano. The tones from the adjoining room tell him she has two rather large instruments in a relatively modest flat. There must be a very special explanation. Sverre is fond of dwelling on this kind of mystery.
On
one wall hang a woven rug and two framed photographs. One shows a young man in uniform in front of an armoured vehicle. Sverre studies the picture. He has met the soldier once, in Jerusalem, when he was still a young boy. He has become a good-looking young man. His still immature face has inherited his mother’s clean features and eyes. In the other photograph he is younger. He and his mother are standing side by side in a busy street. He is looking into the camera with an uncertain expression. Ester has a scarf tied under her chin. The dress and sunglasses make her look like Jackie Kennedy.
Sverre goes to the window. A woman is taking her dog for a walk in Thomas Heftyes gate. A car turns in from Bygdøy allé, drives past in the street below and disappears down Eckersbergs gate. Sverre tries to follow the staccato piano notes from the next room. Recognises the tune they are trying to recreate. A slow, somewhat fractured version of the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata. The sequence of notes stops. He hears Ester and the pupil talking in low voices. He imagines Ester sitting down on the bench to show the pupil how to play. And so she does. Some beautifully clear melodic lines follow. The sequence is repeated three or four times. Then it is the pupil’s turn. Slower, out of time. Then there is silence. A door closes. Sverre Fenstad looks out again. Waits. The front door below opens. A girl steps out. She must be twelve or thirteen and has blonde hair and plaits. Her satchel bounces up and down as she breaks into a run. He watches her go down the street. She grips the satchel straps and disappears from view under an awning. Sverre keeps watching. He doesn’t turn away until he hears Ester. The door opens. She backs into the room, carrying a tray. She puts down the tray and places cups on the table.
He runs his fingers over the smooth, shiny wood of the grand piano: ‘You don’t let your pupils play this one, do you?’
‘That’s my private piano.’
He waits for her to continue. She doesn’t.
He watches her pour tea from a brown pot into the two cups. She puts down the pot and tells him to come over and take a seat. She chooses the sofa. He sits opposite her in the broad armchair.
He wastes no time: ‘I received a surprising visit the other day.’
‘Like me today,’ she says.
He arches his eyebrows.
‘We haven’t seen each other for ages, Sverre.’
‘There was a man at the door. Gerhard Falkum.’
He tries to read a reaction in her face. Concluding that if there is one, it is invisible.
‘Were you surprised?’
For an instant she smiles and reveals the irregularity in her teeth. ‘It was you who received the visitor, not me.’
‘At any rate, I was surprised.’ He thinks back and adds: ‘Surprised that he was still alive.’
Ester straightens her back and gazes into the air for a few long seconds. At length she clears her throat. ‘Do you take sugar?’
‘Yes. Please.’
She goes out.
He lays the stick beside the chair and leans back.
Ester returns with a bowl of sugar. Puts it on the table and sits down.
He takes the bowl and puts a spoonful into his cup. He stirs with downcast eyes, then tastes the tea. It has body and a kind of smoky taste. ‘Lapsang?’
She nods and slants her head. ‘Are you a tea man, Sverre?’
‘That’s putting it a little strongly. But I’ve tasted this one before.’ He puts the cup down.
‘As Gerhard is alive, someone else must’ve died,’ she says.
He nods.
They look at each other.
‘It’s a creepy thought,’ she adds.
‘A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then, Ester.’ Sverre looks up, searching her eyes.
‘I was supposed to go with Gerhard,’ she says.
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes. Gerhard and I. We were supposed to take the car together. To the house. I thought about what happened. A lot.’
‘What were you supposed to do there?’
She looks up. Her eyes are suddenly sharp.
He takes a slightly bigger sip of tea. The silence continues for so long that it becomes slightly uncomfortable.
Sverre becomes aware of a ticking sound. He lifts his head. There is a clock on the wall beside the window. A white dial with black roman figures. ‘He lives in America and his name’s Gary Larson now.’
Ester smiles, broad and captivating this time.
Sverre angles his head, curious.
‘I was the person who gave him the new name and passport. Gary’s presumably another version of Geir. It was a new identity for Stockholm: Geir Larsen.’
‘He wouldn’t tell me how he arrived there, in the States.’
She looks up. ‘Did he say anything about what happened that evening?’
Sverre shakes his head.
‘Did you ask him?’
He nods.
‘Did he say anything at all?’
‘He said he came here to find out who killed Åse Lajord. He thinks someone close to him must’ve done it.’
‘I can see why he might think that.’
‘Åse had a visitor the night before she was found,’ Sverre says. ‘The Gestapo made a big deal of finding a bottle of Scotch, a bottle of English sherry and the butts of American cigarettes in the flat. Our theory at the time was that she was killed by a Norwegian Nazi or a German officer. After all, the only people who had access to such goods were the Germans themselves or high-ranking Norwegian Nazis.’
‘So you carried out your own investigations?’
‘What could we do? The police force was a nest of Nazis. The only conclusion we could come to was that the goods were brought into the flat by the enemy.’
Ester looked at him from the corner of her eye. ‘Do you believe that? That a German would drink with Åse in her home, kill her and run around free afterwards? They meted out tough justice, even to their own.’
‘That was why we leaned towards the theory that it was a Nasjonal Samling Norwegian. They did absolutely incredible things to incite reactions. Just think of those traitors Rinnan and Pisani.’
Ester raises her eyebrows.
‘Rinnan was—’
‘I know,’ she interrupts. ‘But Pisani?’
‘A crook who had a relationship with Elna Bruun.’
‘Who’s Elna Bruun?’ ‘The wife of Petter Bruun, who was one of the men involved in blowing up the labour exchange in forty-three. Pisani was an informer and a scumbag; it was his activities that led to the arrest of Kåre Brubak. He was almost tortured to death, then sent to Sachsenhausen. Elna Bruun was also arrested.’
‘But what’s the connection with Åse?’ Ester pours herself more tea, lifts the pot towards him with a raised eyebrow.
He shakes his head. ‘Still got some, thanks. Pisani used brandy and cigarettes to get close to Elna Bruun – and succeeded. He was a guy she met in the street after her husband had gone underground.’
Ester shakes her head firmly. ‘The Åse I knew was not the type to get involved with strangers in the street. I believe it’s more likely she opened the door to someone she knew well.’
Silence.
In the end it is Sverre who breaks it: ‘Why do you think Gerhard’s here now?’
Ester eyes him. ‘Didn’t you just say why?’
‘He’s talking, among other things, about meeting his daughter.’
‘That’s a legitimate reason – and extremely understandable.’
‘But why only now? A lot of years have passed. It’s a long time to wait to be reunited with your child.’
Ester shrugs. ‘Don’t ask me.’
He takes a pouch of tobacco from his jacket pocket. Rolls a cigarette. Lights it with a silver lighter he finds in his other pocket.
Ester gets up, goes to the window and opens it.
Sverre reacts. ‘Sorry. I didn’t ask.’
‘No, no, feel free,’ she says. ‘I like the smell of tobacco.’ She goes to the sideboard by the wall, and from one cupboard t
akes an ashtray, which she places on the table. ‘The smell reminds me of my father. He smoked a pipe.’
He studies the ashtray. It is a minor work of art. A carved mermaid wound around a shell. ‘Gerhard hasn’t contacted you yet?’
Her eyes widen. ‘Yet?’
Sverre puts the ashtray down on the table. ‘You were our liaison person in Stockholm for Gerhard.’
‘Is that what I was?’ She shakes her head. ‘No, he hasn’t been in contact.’
She goes to the window and looks out.
He gazes at her back. ‘You lost all your close family, Ester. And on top of that, Åse.’
She turns. ‘I don’t want to discuss the loss of my nearest and dearest with you, Sverre. Please don’t take it personally.’
‘Not at all.’
‘So you think Gerhard may be right,’ he says. ‘Åse was killed by someone she knew?’
‘Yes, I believe that’s possible.’
‘What do you base that on?’
‘Other things that were happening at the same time. There was so much going on at once. Perhaps that was why I finally decided to cross the border. My cover was blown. I walked straight into an ambush, if I can put it like that. It was pure luck that I got away.’
She sits down on the sofa again.
He flicks ash into the ashtray and waits.
‘There was a delivery,’ Ester says. ‘London News. I took the newspapers as always. But the police were waiting for me where the handover was meant to take place. My contact was a woman. That morning she turned up on the wrong platform at Valkyrie plass station. I think she did it on purpose to give me a chance. The police pretended to be passengers. Just as they spotted me the train arrived. I jumped on and escaped. I was able to do that because she’d led them to the wrong platform.’
‘Do you think this incident has anything to do with Åse being killed?’
She thinks before answering. ‘There’s something about it. I walked straight into the police that day.’
She lifts her cup. It is empty. She puts it back on the table without bothering with a re-fill. ‘Two or three days later I was driven over the border in Rolf Pettersen’s lorry. That was a dramatic trip, too. The sacks of kindling for the generator went up in flames – just outside the German camp in Kjeller. Rolf jumped down and did a Nazi salute.’ She imitates the straight arm. ‘German soldiers put out the fire while twenty-odd Jews lay quaking under the tarpaulins.’
The Courier Page 10