She glances up at the façade of Sirena Hotel. There are only darkened windows. She walks into the lobby. The lift is on its way down. The heavy weights and the cables holding them rise slowly. Then the lift floor comes into view through the glass wall. The lift creaks. There is a shadow behind the glass. A man. The lift thuds to a halt. The door opens. And she looks straight into the eyes of Kolstad, the bodyguard.
Kolstad looks down, hurries past her and out.
Ester turns and watches the front door close behind him.
Why didn’t he acknowledge her?
She has a bad feeling. The little lift reeks of Kolstad’s after-shave. A pungent smell of lemon mixed with alcohol. Again she has problems with the door. It won’t close properly. She gives up. Leaves the lift and uses the fire escape instead. The sound of footsteps is muffled by the threadbare carpet on the stairs. At the right floor, she follows the corridor to Gerhard’s room.
Stops a few metres from the door. Recognises the pungent smell.
Kolstad has been here.
The bad feeling grows. She goes to the door, raises a fist and knocks.
The corridor is absolutely still. She knocks again. No answer this time, either. She tries the handle warily. The door isn’t locked. There is an audible click and the door opens. She pushes it and freezes. She finds herself looking into the muzzle of a gun. Gerhard is sitting on the bed and aiming at her.
They stare at each other without saying a word.
Finally he lowers the gun and lays it on the bedside table.
She doesn’t move. Everything is unfamiliar. His eyes, the atmosphere.
‘Come inside or go, but shut the door whatever you do.’
It is only now that she can feel her heart throbbing. Feel fear numbing her hand. She pushes the door to with her back. ‘Isn’t it better to keep the door locked than to risk shooting visitors?’ Her voice is tremulous.
He eyes her without speaking.
‘Didn’t you hear me knock?’
He leans back against the bedhead. From this position he stares at a point in the ceiling above her head.
The room feels hot. She unwinds her scarf. Takes off her mittens, unbuttons her coat. ‘Who’s the man who was here?’
She might just as well have fired a shot. Gerhard recoils, swings his legs to the floor and stands in one movement. She backs towards the door. He follows her. His nostrils vibrating. ‘Man? Who are you talking about? Answer me. Which man?’
They stand eyeball to eyeball. Ester is nonplussed by the situation. It is obvious that Gerhard hasn’t had a visitor. What Kolstad is up to has nothing to do with her. But Gerhard’s address is secret. The fact that one of the legation’s people has been here is a matter she will have to take up with Torgersen, not Gerhard.
Gerhard grips her arm. Hard. It hurts. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘The one from the cinema,’ she says. ‘Let me go.’
He releases her arm.
She pulls up her sleeve and rubs her forearm. ‘Your so-called blackmarket pal.’
‘Oh, him.’ The tone is lower, uninterested. Then he looks up again. ‘So-called?’
For a fraction of a second she feels like throwing everything into his face. The lies, telling him she knows the man works for the British secret service, that they practise at the same shooting range. But Gerhard seems depressed. His face has taken on a desperate expression. He turns away from her and walks to the window. He looks out. His back is stooped. He seems lonely as he stands there, and she has the impression something has happened: the gun, the suspicion and now this back-turning and despair.
Dejectedly, he gazes out of the window as he continues: ‘It’s not the police I’m most worried about, Ester. Not the Swedes, not the British – they’re not the ones who make me uneasy.’
He walks to the bed, lies down on it. Silent and despondent.
She takes off her coat and hangs it on the hook on the back of the door. ‘What is it that worries you, then?’
When he looks at her again it is with eyes she hasn’t seen before. ‘I’m not sure you’re the right person to discuss my worries with.’
She is not sure she likes what is going on in his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Forget it.’
‘Forget what? You imply things and talk in riddles. I’m waiting. Please talk to me.’
As he doesn’t answer, she puts her hand into her coat pocket and takes out a folded sheet of paper. ‘I’ve received a letter from Norway. From Åse’s mother.’
He doesn’t seem to have heard what she has said.
‘She isn’t any better. But Turid’s fine. A young couple in the village, two people who knew Åse well, are taking care of her now, because Åse’s mother’s in hospital.’
Gerhard sighs with an expression reminiscent of contempt.
‘What is it?’
‘Who?’
She is confused. ‘What do you mean?’
His voice is hard. ‘Who’s so kind that they’re taking care of my daughter?’
‘I don’t know who they are.’
‘So she doesn’t give a name?’
‘Yes, she does, but I don’t recognise them. Erik Heggen and Grete Sandvik, his partner.’
He pulls a face.
‘What is it?’ Ester asks.
‘Erik Heggen and Grete Sandvik.’ He jeers. ‘A couple.’
‘You know them?’
He doesn’t answer. He swings his legs onto the floor and sits up. ‘So Åse’s old mum writes to you, does she? Why doesn’t she write to me?’
‘You know she’s ill. You mustn’t blame her. She’s doing the best she can.’
‘But she can write. Why does she write to you and not to me?’
‘No one in Norway knows where you are. It’s all about security.’
He laughs now. It is a harsh laugh. ‘Security? And no one knows where I am?’
She scrutinises him, unsure what he means by this cold sarcasm. ‘I have a letter from Sverre.’
‘Sverre? Sverre Fenstad?’
She regrets mentioning this. Everything that happens at the office is confidential. But the name just slipped out. After all, Gerhard knows Sverre well. But she is still afraid she has said too much. Feverishly she racks her brains for a way to change the topic.
‘Sverre? Is he in Stockholm?’
‘It’s the message that counts, not the messenger.’ She holds out the letter. ‘Read it yourself.’
‘Answer me! Is Sverre in Stockholm?’
‘No.’ She isn’t lying, because she knows he has returned to Norway.
Gerhard still doesn’t make a move to take the letter. She folds it and puts it back in her pocket.
She leans against the wall, looking at him. ‘Actually, I’m here for another reason,’ she says.
He is miles away, lost in unknown memories, and she realises he hasn’t been listening. ‘Actually, I’m here for another reason,’ she repeats.
‘What reason?’
Ester looks down. The atmosphere feels wrong. She has to search for the right words.
‘Why are you here, Ester?’ His eyes are cold and appraising.
‘I’ve come to organise something with you.’
‘Organise? A dance at the German embassy maybe? Or Christmas dinner with the Stockholm police?’
‘With that attitude, nothing’s going to get any better.’
His face softens. ‘Come on then.’
‘A briefing. You’re going to Britain.’
The desired response fails to materialise. ‘Briefing?’ He repeats the word. His voice is dismissive, as if she has told a bad joke.
She shrugs. ‘My guess is they want to form an impression of you.’
His eyes are still sceptical. ‘Who do?’
‘Actually I don’t know.’ Ester again feels hot.
‘You want me to go to some interview and you don’t know who it’s with?’
‘You’re the one who’s been pushing for it. N
ow it’s happening. They’re planning to move you to a base in Scotland.’
‘Surely you can tell me who’s running this interview. You’ve come here with the message, after all. Well, who am I going to meet?’
‘The resistance committee will take care of that. They just say you should go on Friday. I’ll be there too. After work. You can hire a taxi and pick me up, then we can go together.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere in Huddinge.’ She roots through her pocket for the piece of paper. This conversation has gone very differently from how she had imagined it would. When she finds the note she has almost shredded it. She hands it to him without a word.
He reads it. ‘What sort of place is this?’
She shrugs. ‘Never been there. I’m not in charge of these things. We take a taxi. We go there.’
He puts the address in his pocket. ‘We’ll see,’ he mumbles.
‘This is what you’ve been pushing for, for weeks. Are you going to say no?’
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at her. Full of suspicion.
She sighs and kneels down beside him. Looks into his doleful face. Raises a hand and strokes his hair. Unable herself to understand how she can be so bold. ‘Gerhard,’ she whispers. Her hand is trembling, and she thinks he can see that. He can feel what is going on inside her. ‘You’re a shadow of yourself,’ she says.
He grips her hand.
They look into each other’s eyes, and she thinks, here we go. Her heart is pounding so hard she can’t hear anything else and she has to swallow, sure he can hear it too. ‘Tell me you’ll pick me up on Friday.’
He searches her eyes, but doesn’t answer.
‘Afterwards we can go to Berns,’ she says. ‘Celebrate it as herr and fru Larsen.’
He lets go of her hand and holds her face with both of his, pulls her to him and kisses her.
Ester responds to the kiss with closed eyes. Her hand drops. Her whole body is heavy, but she manages to raise her hand again and put it behind his neck.
When he lifts his head she stays on her knees.
Gerhard looks away. ‘We have a deal,’ he says curtly. ‘Friday. I’ll pick you up.’
Ester gets to her feet. Takes her coat from the hook, finds her mittens and long scarf. Heads for the door. Turns and watches him. His eyes are still averted.
‘Friday,’ she says in a voice that is close to cracking.
She leaves without closing the door after her. Takes two steps and has to lean against the wall. Åse, she thinks, please forgive me. Forgive us.
Friday, she thinks again. That is in two days’ time. Two long days.
She walks to the lift. Two days. Presses the button. Two nights. Watches the arrow slowly moving in a circle on the wall.
The lift stops with a bang.
Ester doesn’t open the door. Instead she turns and walks back. Looks down at the carpet and walks to the end of the long corridor. The door to Gerhard’s room is still open. She looks up. He is leaning against the door frame, watching her. As they exchange looks he backs inside. She follows him. Kicks the door shut behind her.
‘But afterwards,’ she says. ‘Are we going to Berns or aren’t we?’
She doesn’t hear his answer. When he pulls her to him she folds both hands around his neck and smothers his wry smile with her lips, completely, as though that is what they were meant for.
Oslo, November 1967
1
Ester keeps an eye on Gerhard at every step of the flight. She stops on the last. Still with her hands in her pockets.
He doesn’t turn round.
He knows I am standing here, she thinks, and moves nearer. She stops by the bench.
He looks up at her without speaking. Then he puts a hand in the paper bag and passes her a bread roll.
She takes it. The ducks waddle around their feet. Ester leans against the railing and tears the roll into pieces. Then she throws them to the ducks.
‘You haven’t changed much,’ he says.
‘Actually, nor have you.’
‘Not from the outside maybe.’
Now he finally looks at her and says: ‘You never know what goes on inside people.’
She doesn’t answer.
‘If things had been different,’ Gerhard says. ‘Can you imagine it? Me sitting there with a newspaper on my lap and tired feet on the pouf. A father of a grown-up girl, good job in Gerhardsen’s Norway and a photo album full of great memories.’
She throws the last bit of bread. A mallard with a fine, shiny-green head sticks its beak out and gobbles it down. Ester brushes the crumbs off her hands. ‘The prime minister’s name is Borten, not Gerhardsen.’
She regrets both her sharp comment and the tone at once. ‘Sorry,’ she says and looks at him until he lifts his head and meets her eyes again. ‘So you don’t have any other children in your new life?’
He continues to look at her, in silence.
‘I assume that’s a no,’ she says at length.
‘I could’ve spent time with my dad during the last years he was alive. I don’t know when he died or where he’s buried.’
I don’t know that kind of detail either, she thinks.
‘I was a little surprised when I saw you up there,’ he says. ‘At the time you said you’d never return to Norway, not after what happened to your family.’
‘I waited a long time.’
Gerhard stares into the distance.
‘In that respect we have a fair amount in common, Gerhard.’
‘In that respect?’
‘Those years, the waiting, the ambivalence.’
The ducks have lost interest in them. The last ones swim away, their yellow feet paddling furiously under the surface.
Gerhard straightens up. ‘Why did you follow me here?’
‘I wasn’t certain.’
‘Certain about what?’
‘If I wanted the conversation we still haven’t had.’
‘What would you and I have to talk about, Ester?’
She smiles to herself. ‘Yes, what do we have to talk about?’
‘Make a suggestion,’ he says, in such a curt, dismissive way that she has to take another look. She says: ‘About 1942, for example.’
‘Stockholm?’
‘Yes, Stockholm,’ she says, feeling somewhat bewildered, before this feeling gives way to irritation. ‘Or what happened here in Oslo. We were infiltrated.’
He eyes her in silence. Waits for her to go on.
‘I was centimetres from being arrested. Literally. The day after you left Åse and me in Hermann Foss’ gate.’
She pauses.
‘Is that all? You were almost arrested?’ he says.
She doesn’t answer.
‘Why are you saying this?’
Because she is beating around the bush, she thinks, but doesn’t say so.
‘I’ve talked to you lots of times, Ester, in my mind, and do you know what we talked about?’
She shakes her head.
‘I’ve asked you a question: why were you willing to lead me to the scaffold that December in Stockholm?’
‘My version of this story’s a little different,’ she says.
‘Ester, it was a set-up. You know it was. And what else do we know? Gerhard Falkum was a problem. One that could be solved in a number of ways. But you and the others tried to solve it the dirty way.’
‘Me?’
‘Don’t tell me you still insist it was a briefing that was due to take place that night.’
‘Perhaps it was a set-up. You know more about that than me. But one person died. And, OK, it wasn’t you. But who was it? And what happened to you afterwards?’
He stretches out his legs and sticks his hands between his thighs, without answering.
‘Who was waiting for you there, for us?’
He sits, gazing into the distance, still.
‘Have you forgotten that the two of us were supposed to go there?’
He is silent
.
‘The war’s over, Gerhard.’
His overbearing smile morphs into a scornful grin.
‘What’s important now is trust,’ she says.
‘Trust? Now? Unlike then?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘Do you remember when you wanted to organise a meeting for me, but you didn’t know who I was going to meet?’
She is suddenly annoyed again. ‘What do you imagine would have happened if I’d been with you? Do you think I would’ve stood waiting at the gate while you were gunned down?’
She locks onto his eyes. ‘This isn’t the conversation I want to have with you,’ she says.
‘You can start by being honest,’ he says.
‘Honest?’
‘Listen to yourself. Was the nice little Jewish girl in the organisation going to be sacrificed? Who do you actually think you’re talking to?’
I don’t know, she thinks. In fact I do not know. She tries to lock onto his eyes again. ‘I’m talking to the only person who knows what happened. Someone died. Who was it? Why did they die?’
‘That’s what you want to know after all these years?’
‘Is that so strange?’
He sends her an odd look.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘You believe all the clichés, don’t you?’
She doesn’t understand where he is going with this. ‘Clichés?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘In those days, war. Now, peace, with the Iron Curtain between East and West. And behind the barricades stands Ester with her trust and loyalty, her faith in the motherland and the baloney about freedom from tyranny.’
She scrutinises his face, trying to comprehend the meaning behind these words.
‘I tried to find some something I could rely on in your eyes the day you knelt down and begged me to pick you up by taxi. I waited a while and was curious who would play the Judas role. It was tough to accept it was you. Well, I could’ve guessed they would try. But you taking the job was a lot to swallow then.’
‘Judas role?’
‘He might be a character in the New Testament, but I think even you know what he stands for.’
‘Start getting ideas like that, Gerhard, and they’ll soon spiral out of control.’
‘Do yourself a favour and shut your mouth. When you knelt in front of me on the floor in Hotel Sirena, I wasn’t in Stockholm anymore. I was back in Brunete in thirty-seven. There’s one thing you know when you have a bullet in your body and you’re bleeding to death. You know you came into this world alone. You live in it alone and you die in it alone. You might think you’re different. But you weren’t then. You rattled around alone, Ester. You didn’t give a damn about me. You didn’t give a damn about my child. You carried out your job without any thought of the consequences.’
The Courier Page 21