The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

  ‘We were acting, Silje,’ Erik said. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘Who do you think I am, Silje,’ said Lisbeth, ‘you?’

  Silje looked at her father, shocked. ‘She does not know what she’s talking—’

  ‘Now is not the time, Silje. Both of you, go. And not a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?’

  They climbed from the bed, but as they left the room, Lisbeth whispered to Silje: ‘Everything the General said about me, that is what the village says of you.’

  Silje stared ahead, her fists clenched. It was clear her father had heard every word.

  ‘I will fetch water,’ he said, ‘for the cuts to your foot.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ Silje could not look at him, and so was grateful when he took his leave.

  Freya gazed at the stark wall as though it stood on the horizon, and Silje stared at Freya, pained to think that she was almost lost to them.

  ‘I will leave,’ the Jewess said finally. ‘Someone can take me to the edge of the hills and I will make my way east.’

  ‘You are being ridiculous. You cannot even find your way around a small room. The Germans will capture you in minutes.’

  ‘Then perhaps that is best. I am a danger to you, your family, your entire village.’

  ‘If you are captured, the Germans will want to know how a blind Jewish girl evaded them for weeks. They will torture you—’

  ‘I will not tell them anything!’

  ‘They will torture you, and you will tell them everything. Then they will come for me, my father, my brother – wherever he is – Erik, Lisbeth… No, you cannot leave now. It would be too dangerous for all of us.’

  Her father returned with a large pitcher of water, a small basin and a jar of white vinegar. He smiled, filled the basin with water and lit his pipe.

  ‘Not in here, Father.’

  ‘Ah, right. I shall return shortly with more water.’

  ‘Father, I think we need to talk.’

  ‘I do not wish to speak of it now, Silje. Perhaps tomorrow, after we have all rested.’

  He left the room, making solemn footfalls down to the kitchen.

  ‘Sit,’ Freya said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I will clean and dress your foot. Now sit.’

  It was one of the rare occasions when Silje did as she was told. ‘Are you sure that you are able?’

  ‘I am more than able.’ Freya knelt in front of her and felt for the basin and the bottle. She poured vinegar into her hands and into the water. Silje placed her foot in the basin. The water changed colour, and the room became hot and shrank away from her.

  ‘What colour is it?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The water. Is it pink or red?’

  ‘Pink, mostly.’ Silje felt quite sick.

  ‘Then the cut is not serious. It has probably dried.’ Freya ran her fingers over the sole of Silje’s foot, making the marrow of her thigh tingle. ‘I have it. There is a small stone lodged in the cut.’

  ‘Perhaps we should call my father.’

  ‘Perhaps you should keep still.’ Freya held the stone between her fingernails; Silje ground her teeth.

  ‘I will count to five,’ said Freya.

  ‘This sounds like one of my father’s tricks. You will count to three and then pull the stone when I am not expec—’

  Freya twisted the stone and pulled it free.

  Silje’s whole body spasmed; she opened her mouth and began to pant rapidly; she squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her wrist against her teeth.

  ‘That wasn’t so very painful, was it?’ said Freya. ‘I need to dry your foot. Can you tell me where your father left the cloths?’

  ‘He didn’t bring them.’ Silje wiped her eyes. ‘They needed boiling after…’

  ‘After cleaning me.’

  ‘I am sorry, I did not mean for it to sound like that.’ Silje cursed herself for her thoughtlessness, though she seldom cared so much for anything she said to anyone.

  ‘It does not matter.’ Freya pulled at the strings that kept her braid. Her hair fell free.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Making do.’ She wrapped her tresses about her fist.

  ‘You do not have to—’

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘There is no need.’

  ‘You may stop talking any time you like.’

  Her hair felt coarse, though not unpleasantly so. Less than a caress, Silje decided; an efficiency of care that reminded her of her mother’s gentle ministrations, clearing her chest after she’d caught a chill. She swallowed and felt her stomach tighten. ‘It feels nice.’

  ‘I am glad.’

  ‘Familiar.’

  Freya tilted her head to one side. ‘How so?’

  ‘I am not entirely sure,’ said Silje.

  ‘Perhaps you have read of such a thing in your bible.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’ She looked at Freya’s eyes and thought how easily – with a little work, weight and colour – she could be a thing desired by any man of the mountains.

  Chapter 11

  Silje did not rise from her bed on the day that followed General Gruetzmacher’s visit. When her father knocked on her door to see why the livestock had not been fed that morning, she moaned theatrically from under her bedcovers and complained of cold perspiration, a painful stomach, headaches, pins and needles, blurred vision and flatulence that was as mortifying as it was excessive.

  ‘Temperament aside, you are no warmer than usual,’ Jon Ohnstad said, placing his hand on her forehead. Nevertheless, he immediately fetched Dr Lomen, the village physician who also specialised in animal husbandry. The doctor was a stout man in his sixties who still possessed flame-red hair and a magnificent moustache of the same extraordinary colouring. He’d been widowed just once, during the birth of his fifth son, but had recently taken a second wife, a portly woman of thirty-two years from a neighbouring village. When she was fourteen, Silje had toyed with the idea of marrying him herself, but had quickly decided against it; Doctor Lomen always seemed to smell of horses.

  He performed a thorough examination, during which he smiled congenially, made encouraging noises and regaled an unsettling blow-by-blow account of her birth. Silje often claimed that the doctor was the first face she could remember, and Magnus would laugh and say it wasn’t true. After all, he was born a few moments after her, and he remembered nothing.

  ‘Then perhaps all your brains left Mother’s womb with me.’

  That was usually enough to stop him laughing.

  After ten minutes, Doctor Lomen announced he was done. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said cheerfully. He patted Silje on the head; she rolled her eyes and opened her mouth so he could place a lump of sugar on her tongue.

  ‘Physically there is nothing wrong with her,’ the doctor said to Jon Ohnstad, over a mug of ale and a plate of goats’ cheese in the Ohnstad kitchen. His final diagnosis was ‘emotional exhaustion’ precipitated by the events of the previous evening.

  Jon Ohnstad narrowed his eyes. ‘What events?’

  The good doctor finished his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Can I see her?’

  Jon Ohnstad replied, ‘See who?’

  ‘The Jew,’ said the doctor. ‘Can I see the Jew?’

  ‘Who told you we have a Jew?’

  The doctor recoiled, seeing the alarm in Jon Ohnstad’s eyes. ‘I have told no one else,’ he promised.

  ‘I am more concerned with who told you! Was it Erik? Or Lisbeth perhaps.’

  Doctor Lomen confessed that he’d heard the tale from Lisbeth’s father. And during the conversation it became clear that most of the village already knew about the ‘Jew in the goat shed’.

  ‘We are not keeping her in the shed.’ Jon Ohnstad groaned and put his head in his hands. ‘My God, we are undone.’

  ‘Nonsense! As your daughter is so fond of saying, Fólkvangr is a family. The Jew is as much our problem as yours. Now, can I see her?’

 
; ‘Why?’

  ‘I should examine her. In fact, after her ordeal, you should have brought her straight to me. She could have the chills, malnourishment. She could have dysentery or lice or measles. She may have contracted—’

  ‘This way.’ Jon rose from his seat and made his way to the stairs as though he bore Fólkvangr in its entirety on his shoulders.

  * * *

  ‘May I come in?’

  Silje thought it odd that Freya didn’t knock on doors; she arrived, announced herself, and waited – or simply walked in. ‘You may.’

  Freya entered, smiled in Silje’s direction and then proceeded to take measured steps across the room. When she reached the window, she turned herself one quarter and measured the room’s breadth in the same way.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Silje asked.

  ‘I am finding my bearings. I may be here for some time so it is better that I know where everything is.’ She bumped into Silje’s old rocking horse. ‘Doctor Lomen is a strange man.’

  Silje said that Fólkvangr was full of strange men.

  ‘He gave me a lump of sugar.’

  ‘He does that for all his patients,’ said Silje. ‘How do you remember where everything is?’

  ‘Without difficulty, thankfully.’ Freya felt along the rocking horse’s head, along its flank and then ran its tail through her fingers. ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘From when I was a child,’ Silje answered guardedly.

  ‘And you have kept it all this time?’

  ‘I am not that old.’

  ‘Though perhaps too old for a rocking horse.’

  ‘Is there something else you wanted?’

  ‘Well, I did think that perhaps there was something I could do for you.’ Freya knocked an oak chair sideways. She found it and moved it back to the precise same spot.

  Silje decided against hot soup, and asked instead for a mug of water. She thought the poor girl must spend her days tending bruises.

  ‘I will return later.’ Freya left the room, steering past the rocking horse and finding the door without a moment’s hesitation.

  And so for the rest the morning, Silje stayed wrapped in her bedclothes. Her father went out to deliver his vegetables and orchids, but she could hear Freya moving about the cottage. The blind girl cleaned, cooked, tidied away bowls and utensils. Silje did not hear a single crash, or the sound of a table or chair in collision with a sightless Jew. Just after midday, the rear door opened and closed, leaving the cottage in silence.

  A few moments later, Silje heard the sound of wood being split in the meadow behind the cottage. Alarmed, she threw back the bedclothes and ran to the window.

  Sure enough, Freya was chopping wood. It was a laborious process: a carefully selected log placed on the block, then a slow measure taken; a deep breath, a cry and the drop of an axe. The wood split first time.

  Silje found herself consumed by admiration, but did not feel inclined to say so. Still, she thought it would be remiss of her not to say something, so she opened the window and called out, ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Thank you. I will.’ Freya split another log and smiled up at her.

  And such a pretty smile, Silje thought, and such good teeth.

  She watched Freya from the window until nightfall, shouting instructions and guiding her to the blocks of wood that fell astray. Silje thought that there could perhaps be advantages in having no sight; the lack of sunlight didn’t concern Freya; she could work just as well in darkness as she did during the day. Silje began planning a new farm routine that included midnight milkings for the goats. She wondered how Freya knew when it was time to go to sleep.

  ‘When I’m tired,’ Freya said, much later on, at the kitchen table, ‘and when I can no longer hear the birds singing and when I can hear the mice in the grass and when I can feel the pull of the moon.’

  ‘You must have the senses of a witch,’ Silje said. She placed a steaming mug in Freya’s hands and thought how sharp her words must sound.

  Freya winced as she took hold of the mug. ‘My father was in wonder of my hearing, and my sense of smell, and how I could discern the age of silk simply by touching it.’ She sipped at the mug. ‘He never called me a witch though.’

  ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to say that you were—’

  ‘I am teasing you,’ Freya said. ‘This drink you have made, what is it?’

  ‘Melted chocolate, honey and goat’s milk,’ Silje replied, feeling oddly hurt. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Very much.’ Freya placed the mug on the table, and rubbed at her palm with her thumb.

  ‘Let me look.’ Silje took her hands and peered closely at the joints where her fingers met her palms. ‘Raw blisters,’ she said. ‘Welcome to the mountain. I will soak and clean them for you.’

  ‘You do not have to do that. I am more than able to—’

  ‘I know I do not have to,’ said Silje. ‘I want to.’

  She filled a basin with water and added a splash of white vinegar and nettle oil. ‘Tomorrow, I will take you into the village. It would be good for you to meet other people.’

  ‘Are you sure that is wise?’

  ‘Not really, but we have little choice. Erik will have stayed silent, but Lisbeth Fehn has a mouth as broad as her hips; she will tell her father and he will tell his bitch wife and she will tell the world.’

  Freya giggled softly.

  ‘I have no idea why you think this is funny. We must talk to the villagers and explain why it is important that knowledge of your presence goes no further than Fólkvangr.’

  ‘Come sit beside me.’

  Silje swallowed. ‘Why.’

  ‘Because I would know what you look like.’

  Silje made her way back to the kitchen table and pulled a chair opposite Freya. She sat, slowly.

  Freya reached out with both hands, searching the air until she found Silje’s right cheek. She brought her hands together, starting at Silje’s hairline, tracing her finger across her forehead and then down either side of her nose. Her fingertips felt hard and callused.

  ‘Close your eyes.’

  Silje did as she was told and Freya ran her thumbs over her eyelids.

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What colour are your eyes?’

  ‘Blue,’ Silje said, and then added, ‘light-blue, like the sky – which of course you have not seen. Sorry, I am speaking nonsense.’

  ‘I remember blue.’ Freya’s fingers pressed into Silje’s cheeks. ‘It smells like glacier water.’ She moved to her jawline, feeling behind her ears and tracing forward to her chin. She leaned closer and breathed in.

  ‘And your skin is less than white, but not quite pink.’

  ‘I think you are teasing me again.’

  ‘Your scent is not as dark as your father’s; you are more like a butterfly orchid, which is not surprising.’ She leaned back and declared, ‘You are very beautiful, Silje Ohnstad.’

  Silje blushed violently.

  ‘And that is surprising for one with such a barbarous tongue.’

  To tear a hole in someone with just a word, Silje thought. So that is how that feels.

  Jon Ohnstad opened the door, and Silje lurched ungracefully from her chair. ‘Father!’ she cried. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I live here,’ he said, dropping a basket of vegetables and two fresh mountain hares on the table. ‘Are you all right?’

  Silje looked nervously at Freya, who stared at the door with a look of puzzlement on her face. ‘We were just… That is to say, Freya was—’

  ‘Seeing what you look like, I know. Hello there, young Freya.’

  ‘Mr Ohnstad.’

  ‘It is Jon, please.’ Jon Ohnstad placed his palm on Silje’s head. ‘Odd, you are warmer than before. Perhaps you should still be in bed.’

  ‘Did you remember the chocolate?’ Silje said, moving her head from beneath his palm.

  ‘You did not ask for chocolate.’

  ‘In future, tr
y to get chocolate. Freya likes it.’

  Freya said, ‘Please do not put yourselves to any trouble on my account.’

  It is a little late for that, Silje thought, but surprised herself by not saying so out loud.

  * * *

  The following morning, as she had promised, Silje took Freya to meet the people of Fólkvangr. There was a spring chill in the air, and a light snow had fallen during the night. Silje fussed Freya into an extra coat and kissed her father goodbye before they set off from the cottage and walked down into the village.

  ‘Do you think they will like me?’ Freya asked.

  ‘We are Norwegians,’ Silje replied. ‘We like everyone.’

  ‘Except, perhaps, the Germans.’

  ‘Yes, except the Germans.’

  As they approached the road into Fólkvangr, young Ingrid Haug raced out on her bicycle to greet them.

  ‘Is this the Jew?’ she demanded, almost dizzy with excitement. Ingrid was a slim, dark-haired girl of nine years whose large green eyes now shone with feline curiosity. She rode her bicycle in tight circles around the two women while they walked. ‘Oh Silje, she is so pretty!’

  Silje looked at Freya and said, ‘Is she?’

  ‘You know she is! And she is blind?’

  ‘As a bat,’ said Freya.

  Ingrid’s jaw dropped. ‘She can speak!’

  Silje asked, ‘Ingrid, do you know the difference between dumb and blind?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ingrid replied indignantly. ‘I did not expect her to speak, that is all.’ She peered closely at Freya on her next circuit, and on the one after that she stuck out her tongue. Freya stuck out her own in retaliation, and Ingrid almost toppled from her bicycle. She righted herself and rode quickly back towards the village. ‘I will tell everyone that the Jew is on her way!’

  ‘Thank you, Ingrid,’ Silje called after her. ‘And please stop shouting “Jew”!’

  They walked on in silence, Silje feeling an apprehension most uncommon to her, as though she were about to introduce her betrothed to her family. She looked at Freya who was chewing nervously at her lower lip. ‘They will like you.’

  ‘How do you know?’