Cast No Shadow

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  “It must have been Gunnar,” said the little doctor. “He was a fisherman before the war. I never met a man who could splice a rope better than Gunnar, but I wouldn’t trust him to bandage a cut finger.”

  Kelly chuckled. “No, you’re probably right. It doesn’t look like something Sybilla would have done.”

  The doctor stopped removing the bandages and looked steadily at Kelly for a moment, then without a word continued with the task. The bandages removed, the doctor opened his bag and produced a black bottle and some wadding.

  “This will hurt for a moment,” he said as he began to gently apply the liquid to the soles of Kelly’s feet.

  Kelly sucked in a breath. It hurt for more than a moment.

  As the doctor worked, he talked to Kelly about England and his adventures there as a young undergraduate and later when he had returned to carry out postgraduate research. To their mutual amusement they found that both had attended Cambridge. The doctor had an easy manner and interposed his anecdotes with questions to Kelly about the areas he was describing. “Has it changed?” “Is such and such a shop still open?” “What was the name of that street that leads off from the main road?”

  After cleaning the other injuries and bandaging Kelly’s feet, the doctor re-arranged the bed clothing and called for Sybilla.

  He spoke to her in Norwegian. “Now then Nurse,” he said indulgently, peering over his glasses at her. “Your patient is doing well. The injuries are minor and superficial.”

  “Does that news please you, Dan?” he asked reverting to English.

  “Sorry,” Kelly asked, “what news?”

  “Why, that your injuries are minor and superficial.”

  “Oh yes, indeed,” Kelly answered. “I thought it wasn’t much. Sore, but not much real damage, eh?”

  The doctor turned so that Sybilla was between himself and Kelly and held a conversation with her in their native language. He was speaking to the woman, but he was watching the young seaman intently.

  As he started to walk out the room, he turned abruptly and snapped something in Norwegian directly at Kelly, ending the sentence with a clearly interrogative “Dan?”

  Kelly shrugged his shoulders and raised his arms slightly, palms upper.

  “I’m sorry doctor,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t speak a word of Norwegian.”

  “Of course you don’t, my friend,” Amundsen nodded. “Why should you? It is not exactly an international language. Goodbye Dan.” With that he walked out, following Sybilla onto the street.

  Sybilla closed the door behind them and furtively glanced around. “Well?” she asked.

  “You really should rest, Sybilla,” he replied, loud enough for an approaching cyclist to hear. “Take the rest of the day off. I will inform the works doctor. You have only a slight chill, but you must rest.”

  By now the cyclist had passed. Amundsen grasped her arm and slowly walked her down to the crossroad a few yards from the corner of the house. From here they could see all four lanes and anyone who might be approaching. They were quite alone.

  “Well?” she asked again. “Is he English?”

  “One of the few things he isn’t, is English. An extraordinarily complex young man. Irish father, Serbian mother. Born in Wales, raised in Scotland where his Father worked in the shipyards after leaving the Welsh mines. A very bright young man. He won a scholarship to Cambridge you know. That apart, in attitude, beliefs and convictions he is most definitely British! No question about it.”

  “How can you be sure?” she asked.

  “There are lots of things,” Amundsen replied. “His accent, the idiosyncrasies of his speech, his mannerisms, his knowledge, the things he knows and particularly the things he doesn’t know.”

  “The things he doesn’t know?” she queried.

  “Yes,” responded the doctor. “He freely admits he doesn’t much care for cricket and he can’t remember the score of the last Calcutta Cup rugby game before the war, though he does remember who won and by roughly how many.”

  “What does that prove?” she asked incredulously.

  “Consider,” said Amundsen, “would any German spy posing as a British Officer with a Cambridge background admit to not liking cricket, and wouldn’t they take the trouble to memorise something as vital as the score of the last Calcutta Cup rugby match?”

  Sybilla looked bemused for a moment, then she persisted. “But is he a spy?”

  “Impossible to say for sure, but I think it is unlikely. I think he is what he says he is. A poor wretched shipwrecked mariner, yearning to be comforted.”

  She angled a glance at him as he said the latter, but he wasn’t looking at her. He seemed to be speaking to the ground.

  “Sometimes we have to believe what our hearts tell us,” he continued. “What does your heart tell you, Sybilla?” This time he was looking at her. Intently.

  She looked away. “I think, like you, that he is simply a shipwrecked British sailor. I don’t believe there is anything sinister here. However, it does leave us with a minor problem.”

  “No,” said Amundsen as he walked away shaking his head “it doesn’t leave us with anything. It leaves you with a huge problem. Good day, Sybilla.”

  Sybilla returned to the house and tapped gently on the door of Kelly’s room. Without pausing she opened the door and popped her head round.

  “The good doctor has decided I am sick today and must stay off work for the afternoon,” she told him, smiling broadly. “So, I will be able to look after you if you need anything.”

  “I’m sure I will be fine now,” Kelly said, almost biting his tongue as the words left his mouth. He could think of nothing better than being nursed by Sybilla Thorstaadt. “You have been very kind,” he added.

  “Don’t mention it. You are a very good patient.” She retreated from the room.

  Shortly afterwards Kelly heard a bath being run. He fervently prayed it was not for him. He wasn’t sure if he could endure any further water torture. After a few minutes Sybilla re-entered the room wearing a towel around her body. The towel covered her breasts and reached midway down her thighs.

  “Excuse me,” she said brightly, “I need another towel.” She had her back to Kelly and was rummaging in a high cupboard. She was on her tiptoes and had to stretch to reach the article with the result that the towel raised itself up, leaving half of her buttocks uncovered.

  “I’m sorry to be a nuisance,” she said as she finally retrieved the towel. Kelly desperately wanted to make a reply, but could not trust his voice to remain calm. Instead, he watched in wondrous admiration.

  After a few moments Kelly heard the sound of splashing coming from the bathroom and shortly afterwards, the sound of Sybilla singing. It was a soulful melody, beautifully sung by a beautiful woman.

  Dan Kelly lay back and thought about Sybilla Thorstaadt.

  The Enigmatic Sybilla

  Kelly had fallen asleep thinking about Sybilla, and had been awoken by the sound of the outside door being opened. Before he had time to react, he heard the voice of Gunnar Thorstaadt calling his wife’s name and heard her reply.

  Kelly caught brief snatches of conversation, none of which he could understand, before the bedroom door opened slowly and Gunnar peered round. Seeing Kelly awake, his face lit up in a bright smile. He walked over to the bed and vigorously shook Kelly’s hand.

  He said something in Norwegian, grinning broadly as he did so. Kelly took it to be a greeting and responded cheerfully in English. Gunnar Thorstaadt was a big man. He was over six feet in height with broad shoulders. Even allowing for the clothing he was wearing, his arms were as thick as most people’s legs and the calloused hand that shook Dan Kelly’s was huge. His deeply tanned face contrasted starkly with the shock of white wiry hair on his head and the grizzled salt and pepper beard. Gunnar Thorstaadt was every inch an arctic seaman.

  Yet the face that peered into Kelly’s was not that of a hard, uncaring person. There was a gentleness about the broad
smile and wrinkled weather-beaten face, and a childlike innocence in the dull powder blue eyes.

  Gunnar called for Sybilla. She entered the room wearing a tight white roll neck sweater and light blue figure-hugging slacks. The couple arranged themselves on opposite sides of the bed and sat down on their respective sides. Kelly wondered momentarily about the wisdom of Gunnar bringing his full weight to bear on the wooden bed, but inwardly reassured himself that the quality of Norwegian furniture would withstand even this test.

  Gunnar spoke directly to Kelly in Norwegian and waited for his wife to translate. Kelly responded similarly by answering Gunnar directly, but in English, then waiting for Sybilla to interpret. They exchanged pleasantries to start with, with Gunnar telling Kelly how excited he was that he was now looking so well and how worried they had both been. Kelly thanked Gunnar and Sybilla for all their help. He made it clear that he was in no doubt that they had saved his life. Gunnar waved away this acknowledgement from Kelly.

  “It is because,” he said through Sybilla, “we are on the same side. We must get you back to your comrades somehow.”

  Kelly pricked up his ears. “Do you have a plan?” he asked, the hope clear in his voice.

  “I have some close and trusted friends. We have discussed your situation and there may be a way, but it will not be easy.”

  “I’m willing to give it a go,” Kelly replied with enthusiasm.

  Before Sybilla had even begun to translate, Gunnar’s face had exploded into a huge grin. He chuckled, nodding as the translation confirmed his understanding of the reply. “We never doubted that for a moment, Dan,” Sybilla translated, Gunnar beaming broadly all the while.

  “Doctor Amundsen?” asked Kelly. “Is he one of your group?”

  The smile waned on the big man’s face. “We are not a group,” he explained. “Simply a few friends. Amundsen is the family Doctor, nothing more.”

  “Of course.” Kelly felt chastened. “That was an insensitive question. I’m sorry.”

  The big Norwegian acknowledged the apology gracefully. “We have to be so careful,” he warned, “what we are doing is very dangerous.”

  Kelly nodded apologetically. The Norwegian’s smile returned.

  “Come!” he said. “We will eat together. Let us see if Amundsen’s magic has worked this time. Erik has donated some clothes. He is about your size. Call me when you are dressed, and I will help you into the kitchen.”

  Kelly, wondering who ‘Erik’ might be, slowly and painfully dressed in his new clothes. He certainly wasn’t the same size. Erik was taller by at least an inch and perhaps a little thinner. Nevertheless, it was good to get into clothes again. The garments were old but in good repair and consisted of a faded blue shirt, a pair of corduroy trousers with a brown leather belt and a dark blue ‘Guernsey.’

  Kelly called out to say that he was ready.

  Gunnar entered and sat on the bed beside him. Then, with a gentleness that belied his size, he took Kelly’s left arm and hung it around his neck, clamping his own left hand around Kelly’s wrist. Gunnar then placed his right arm around Kelly’s waist and grasped the leather belt. Having secured Kelly in this way he stood up, lifting Kelly as he did so. Gunnar gently lowered him until his feet touched the floor. Kelly winced slightly and was immediately hoisted up once more.

  “It’s alright,” said Kelly, “you can lower me.” He signalled with his free hand and Gunnar lowered him once more. Kelly was able to withstand most of his weight on his feet and only needed light support from Gunnar to walk into the kitchen.

  He sat down at the wooden kitchen table where three places had been laid, and Sybilla served. The meal was a simple fish dish, herring Kelly surmised, served with potatoes, green beans and bread but, despite its simplicity, it was delicious. During the meal there was limited conversation and Kelly had a chance to observe his hosts. The contrast between them could not have been greater. Beauty and the Beast, thought Kelly briefly, then mentally chastised himself. The comparison was not just. Sybilla was certainly a beauty, but Gunnar was no beast. He sensed a depth of kindness in this simple man.

  There was something about the interchange between the two that Kelly could not fathom. Not so much a coldness as a stiffness. No lack of warmth between the two, but no hint of intimacy. This was not a marriage based on love, thought Kelly, but if not love, then what?

  Just before noon on the following day, Kelly was gingerly padding round on his bandages, feeling much better and pleased with himself, when he heard the door being unlocked. He was about to jauntily walk into the hall when he froze.

  “Billa! Sybilla!” called a male voice. Seconds later Kelly heard the sound of running feet.

  “Jürgen!” he heard Sybilla exclaim, followed in German by, “What are you doing here? I thought you were away for three more weeks.”

  The two must be standing at the outside door. Kelly slowly sank to the floor, gently pushing the bedroom door closed. He dared not latch the door for fear the noise would be heard.

  “I came to see you of course,” said the German speaking in his native language. “Will you not ask me in?”

  “No!” exclaimed Sybilla quickly, then with tenderness, “Not today.”

  “Why on earth not, dearest?” The German sounded disappointed. “I have come a long way to see you. Do you have a new lover? Are you hiding someone in there?”

  “Of course not!” responded Sybilla, too quickly. “It’s just that I don’t feel too well.” She sounded unconvincing, thought Kelly.

  “Then let me comfort you, as I always do,” soothed the German.

  “Come in,” she said resignedly.

  They walked past Kelly’s door as he sat frozen on the floor. He heard the main bedroom door close. As the bedrooms were adjoining, Kelly could hear muffled sounds coming from the room. He felt an impulse to hear more. Looking around the room his eyes alighted on a tumbler by the side of the bed.

  Rising, he shuffled across the room and retrieved the tumbler, the bandages on his feet ably masking any sound. Silently, he moved to the adjoining wall, placing the open end of the tumbler against the wall, and his ear against the base of the tumbler. It was as if a radio had been instantly turned up. He could hear quite clearly now, but what he heard made his heart sink.

  It was perfectly obvious what was taking place in the next room. He lowered the tumbler reluctant to listen further, but was suddenly struck by the notion that perhaps Sybilla was being taken against her will? He would rescue her! He listened again to make sure. No, Sybilla was definitely a very willing partner, judging by the sounds he heard.

  Kelly shuffled back to the bed and noiselessly lay down. He didn’t bother to hide himself. His stomach twisted and turned. At that moment he would not have cared less if he had been captured. After a while, the sound of muffled voices came again. Picking up his hearing device he moved across to his listening post once more.

  A conversation was taking place, most of which he could distinguish, but he found it difficult to understand. The topic appeared to be ‘heavy water’.

  “But I don’t see the point of heavy water,” Sybilla was saying. “Water is heavy enough. I know. I used to have to fetch it from the pump in Bergen!”

  “It’s part of a process,” the German answered. “They will use it to create heat.”

  “But how can water produce heat?” asked Sybilla. “You can’t burn it.”

  “I don’t understand the process myself. Something to do with atoms. Anyway, the whole thing is top secret, so don’t breathe a word of this, alright?”

  “As if I would!” responded Sybilla. “What would I tell everyone?” She adopted a mock conversational tone. “Yesterday lunch time while I was having sex with Herr Hauptman Meyer, he told me all about heavy water.”

  They both laughed.

  “I don’t think so Jürgen, do you?”

  “No, I suppose not,” he said, still laughing. “Anyway, I must go. As always, Billa, I have greatly enjoyed your company.�
��

  Kelly eased himself back to his hide position behind the door and waited until he heard the outside door close. He then moved to the bed and sat down, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

  Presently Kelly heard the bath running and the sound of splashing. A sound that had been so pleasing and provocative only twenty-four hours ago was now almost obscene. After an eternity, his door opened and Sybilla walked slowly in. She was wearing a loose-fitting light cotton dress which reached almost to her ankles, her hair was wet and her face was set hard as a stone.

  “I suppose you heard?” she said, ice in her voice.

  “It was hard not to,” answered Kelly quietly.

  “You don’t understand—”

  Kelly cut in. “It’s none of my business.”

  “You are right!” she snapped. “It is none of your business. I don’t know why I am even bothering to explain to you!”

  Kelly should have let it go but couldn’t. “In your husband’s bed!” he exclaimed.

  “We were not in my husband’s bed!” Her voice was raised now. “We were in my bed! You are sleeping in my husband’s bed!” She started to leave but turned abruptly to face Kelly, her eyes flashing. “And what is more Dan, my husband knows!”

  With that she pivoted on her heel and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Dragan Kelly stared after her, his chin resting firmly on his chest.

  The evening meal had passed with little conversation despite the efforts of Gunnar to generate light-hearted banter. Kelly had been determined to take part but Sybilla was sullen and quiet and without her help as an interpreter, the attempt at small talk was doomed.

  Later as the three sat around the fire, Gunnar spoke quietly but seriously. His wife immediately picked up on this and became more alert.

  “We have a plan,” she translated, “to get you out to the Russians.”

  Kelly, reclining and enjoying the warmth of the fire, sat upright with a start. He motioned for Gunnar to continue.