The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

  ‘Because I like you, and everyone in Fólkvangr knows I am a fine judge of character. It is one of my most often-forgotten qualities.’

  ‘Along with modesty. We must not forget your modesty.’

  ‘Well no, I never let anyone forget my modesty.’

  A crowd had gathered at the end of the mountain path, under the arch. Silje counted at least three dozen, shouting and waving with worrying enthusiasm.

  ‘Are there many people?’ Freya asked anxiously.

  ‘Not many, no.’

  More arrived, pouring from the cottages and houses and on to the path. Silje took Freya’s hand and said, ‘It is probably best for me to do the talking.’

  The villagers were boisterous, excited, yet gentle and friendly. The younger children wanted to touch her hair. While an alarmed Freya shook hands and thanked the villagers for their kindness, Silje called out instructions:

  —She was to be referred to as Freya and only Freya – never ‘the Jew’ or ‘the Jewess’ or ‘the hat-maker’s daughter’.

  —Her presence was not to be discussed with anyone outside the village (and Silje looked pointedly at Lisbeth Fehn when she said this).

  ‘And if anyone asks who she is then her name is Freya Ohnstad and she is a distant cousin who has travelled from Sarpsborg to see us.’

  The gathering looked to each other and agreed, some even calling suggestions of their own.

  Perhaps your cousin should stay indoors during the day.

  We could bring anything you need to the cottage.

  We need volunteers to man the old hay store near the foot of the mountains! They can warn us when the Germans are close by!

  Yes! This will give us the time we need to hide the Jew!

  Rolf, you idiot! What did Silje just tell you!

  It is an excellent plan. Can we find radio equipment?

  I have a contact in the Resistance. She will give us radios!

  Silje was glad to see the villagers getting into the swing of things.

  ‘I think that your cottage is not the best place for her,’ said Junges Fehn. He smiled in Freya’s direction and Silje saw him lick the corner of his mouth.

  ‘And why is that, Mr Fehn?’ she said, thinking how repulsive he was, and how she could have brought herself to do those things for him – even for the use of his printing press.

  ‘You are situated on the north road, the only road from Bergen to Fólkvangr. If the Germans come then they will reach your home before they reach the village.’

  The crowd nodded in agreement.

  ‘My house, which is much larger than yours if I may say so, is located further to the west. There would be plenty of time to hide Freya.’ He scratched his neck and smiled, somewhat unpleasantly. ‘And then there is the small matter of the work you will be doing for the Nazis.’

  This was news to many of those gathered. They began whispering amongst themselves, some looking at Silje with eyes she had not seen before and was not sure she cared for.

  ‘What work? What does he mean, Silje?’ asked Karoline Flom, the baker’s sister.

  ‘What I mean,’ said Junges, ‘is that Silje has been recruited by the enemy. Her newsletter will now carry propaganda written by General Gruetzmacher himself.’

  ‘Oh, for shame, Silje Ohnstad!’ a voice called out.

  ‘That is a lie!’ Silje cried. ‘Where did you hear such nonsense?’

  ‘From my own daughter.’

  ‘You should bleach her hair,’ said Lisbeth Fehn, keen to shift the subject of the morning back to Freya.

  ‘And cut it short,’ added Marit Ohnstad. Silje silently cursed the woman and her ungodly talent for materialising from nowhere. ‘No self-respecting Norwegian woman would wear their hair so long.’ And then she smiled and gave Silje a cool, penetrating look. ‘Though a slut might.’

  For her own safety, three of the villagers moved Freya to one side, as Silje set about Marit Ohnstad like a thing possessed. She screamed obscenities and lashed out with her fists and her feet. The old woman gave as well as she received, clawing for Silje’s eyes and heaping curses upon Silje and her unborn descendants. It took four of the strongest men present to bring the altercation to an end. Silje shook herself free of them, gathered her dignity and took Freya by the hand, leading her through the gathering and past the memorial to her mother. Marit Ohnstad’s taunts rang in her ears.

  ‘What was that? What happened? Silje, were you fighting? Who was that woman?’

  ‘Enough questions,’ Silje said. ‘And I think we have met enough people for today.’

  ‘I would like to see more of the village.’

  ‘You cannot see anything,’ Silje snapped, and this time was determined to ignore the tightening inside her chest.

  Freya pulled her hand away. ‘If you do not wish me to stay with you, Silje, I will understand, but please stop saying these unkind things to me.’

  It was a tone as strong and as sharp as any Silje had heard since her mother had passed away. ‘I am sorry.’

  Freya was so startled she hiccoughed, and then gave a sigh of surprise when Silje took her in her arms.

  ‘You are not to leave us, and you are certainly not to leave us for the Fehns.’ Silje stepped back and held her shoulders. ‘You are safest with us. The Germans trust us. They will be visiting our cottage often, so it is the last place they would think of looking for an escaped Jew.’

  She took Freya’s hand, and wished that she could see she was smiling. ‘I will take you to the baker’s shop. I know he has chocolate.’

  The rest of the morning remained cold, though Silje was untouched by it. The snow came again, lasting only a few moments. The villagers stopped to introduce themselves and say how happy they were to help in any way they could, the younger ones seeking to touch Freya’s dress and her hair. Silje and Freya took a narrow lane to the southern corner of the village, and ran into Jonas Kleppe, the lamplighter.

  ‘Freya, this is Mr Kleppe, the one I told you about; the one who lied about the ladder.’

  Jonas Kleppe wrung his hat in his hands. ‘You are not going to let me forget that, are you?’

  ‘Not until I understand why you did it. Why say you had stolen Mr Gundersen’s ladder when you had not? You made me look like a fool.’

  Freya whispered that it was only a ladder.

  ‘And I am sorry. And I am sorry that I do not know why I did it. That you will no longer accompany me on my rounds is punishment enough.’

  ‘That is not the only reason, Mr Kleppe. My work on the newsletter will not allow me enough time to—’

  ‘I will do it,’ Freya said. ‘I will accompany you.’

  Mr Kleppe’s face shone like daybreak. Silje was having none of it.

  ‘Do not be silly. You cannot help light the lamps. You are… You know what you are.’

  ‘And what better person to help light the lamps than someone who does not need them?’

  Mr Kleppe started clapping, and was quickly silenced with a stern look from Silje.

  ‘You said I should help around the village, Silje.’

  ‘Yes, but I meant—’

  ‘And I will get plenty of exercise and fresh air, which you tell me is the secret to your physical charm and flawless complexion.’

  ‘I do not remember using myself as an example…’

  ‘And I will learn to find my way around the village and I am sure Mr Kleppe will look after me.’

  He nodded with a vigour Silje had not seen in him since she was a child. ‘I swear I will guard her with my life, Silje. I will take good care of her.’

  She was not at all sure Mr Kleppe could take care of himself. She looked to Freya, who tried to look imploringly back.

  ‘I will ask my father,’ she said.

  Mr Kleppe and Freya screamed with joy.

  ‘And if he agrees, I will bring her to your house every second evening, and you will return her to the cottage before ten.’

  ‘I can find my own way, Silje.’


  ‘I would feel better if you did not wander around the mountains at night.’

  ‘I am not sure what difference the night would make,’ Freya said glumly.

  ‘You will do as you are told, Freya. Good morning, Mr Kleppe.’

  They parted company, Mr Kleppe barely able to contain himself.

  ‘He seems to have taken a shine to you,’ Silje said.

  ‘He would just like someone to talk to during his rounds.’

  ‘There are a dozen people in the village who would be far more suitable.’

  ‘And you would still be his first chosen. Do you know why he lied about the ladder?’

  ‘No I do not, and neither do you.’

  ‘He sought to make you happy.’

  ‘You have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘You have an extraordinary power over people, Silje Ohnstad. They love you without question or restraint, despite your many faults, and they hate to see you upset, or lonely, or disappointed. Mr Kleppe could not bear to sadden you, so he told you he had stolen the ladder. He said it to make you happy.’

  Silje wondered if a blind girl could truly see so much. ‘If what you say is true, it is nothing I do on purpose. I would not ask people to lie to me, or lie for me.’

  ‘I am sure. But it is a rare gift you possess, to make people want you to love them as much as they love you.’

  ‘Then I will use this gift to keep my village safe. And I will use it to keep you from harm’s way, if you will let me. It is what your father would have wanted.’

  Freya swallowed and turned her eyes to the ground. ‘I have no answer when you say such things to me. “Thank you” never seems enough.’

  ‘We are Norwegians,’ said Silje. ‘A “thank you” is all that is needed.’

  Freya nodded and held out her hand. Silje hesitated, gazing at her slender fingers as though she’d been invited to grasp a naked flame.

  ‘Take it,’ said Freya. ‘It won’t bite you.’

  Silje felt its inhuman warmth spread through her entire body. Demons, the General had said.

  They walked to the baker’s shop, hand in hand. Like sisters, Silje thought, realising how much she would have loved to have had a sister to share secrets with, to fight with. Of course she shared and fought with Magnus, but a sister would have been… different. They would be far more intimate with their deepest feelings; their sibling tensions would be far less—

  She stopped suddenly, pulling Freya to a halt.

  ‘What do you mean despite my many faults.’

  Chapter 12

  I spent the night in his hotel room. We drank and we talked; he told me about his wife and his daughter. He said he missed them, especially his daughter who resented him for tying up the phone whenever he called. He said he was still in love with his wife, though he'd only spared her every third thought when they were married.

  ‘So why do I want her so much now?’

  ‘Because someone else is sleeping with her.’ That came out wrong. What I meant to say was now you understand what you’ve lost. I knew it probably wasn’t true, but I was too drunk to lie.

  He didn’t seem to notice. He looked at me, blinked and let the vodka bottle fall to the carpet. ‘I guess we’re done talking then.’

  We took our clothes off without passion or urgency, and after a few minutes of dispirited fingering, I found myself staring at the ceiling while he guided his erection inside me.

  He screwed me with short, workmanlike strokes, expending more energy than he needed to; I wondered why the light fittings in his room were different to mine.

  He made a grunting sound in his throat and, somewhat impolitely, came inside me. To be honest I would have missed it if I hadn’t been listening out for him.

  We drank some more, talked some more, laughed self-consciously for a while, fucked some more.

  He fell asleep before I did, and when I finally succumbed I dreamt we were still having sex; though this time, when I looked for the light fittings, I saw Monica standing over us. She took a razor blade from under her tongue and rested its edge between the salesman’s heaving shoulder blades. I screamed without making a sound, while she scored a line down the centre of his back. His eyes glazed white and he split neatly in half.

  I woke with my heart pounding inside my neck. I tried to swallow, couldn’t; I turned over, half-expecting to find the salesman lying gutted beside to me.

  I didn’t find him at all.

  There was a note left on the pillow. When I opened it out, a hundred Krona note dropped from the folds.

  All it said was, Your share of the bet.

  * * *

  My head was thundering by the time I reached Reception. I settled the bill and turned to see Harriet walking away from the front desk. I called her name; she didn’t stop so I called out again. I chased after her, yelling her name across the lobby. She had quite a start on me, but she was wearing a mini-skirt that she had to keep pulling down over her thighs, and four-inch platform shoes that rattled like machine guns as she hurried towards the exit. I broke into a run and caught her, grabbing her by the arm and spinning her so hard she almost fell.

  ‘Did you know?’ I screamed at her. ‘Did you know what he was going to do?’

  She looked desperately around the lobby, hoping an escape tunnel would appear from thin air.

  ‘Well? Did you?’

  A leper’s circle opened up around us, the guests and staff giving us a wide berth.

  ‘Come back to the bar,’ she implored. ‘We can talk there.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere with you. He left me a note – a fucking note!’

  ‘It’s what he does. He doesn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s nothing personal. I’m glad to hear it!’

  Harriet took my hand and led me to a large faux-Roman architrave near the lobby entrance. ‘Sit.’

  I folded my arms to show her that I wasn’t simply going to do as I was told, and then I sat. She took the seat next to me and gestured in the direction of the bar. ‘He doesn’t mean to do it,’ she said, still looking over my shoulder and waving. ‘He’s had a rough couple of years.’

  ‘Who hasn’t.’

  She looked at me and smiled as though it hurt to. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Look, he’s not a bad person. He’s just bitter, that’s all. And when things get to him, he lashes out.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is that by sleeping with me, then leaving a note telling me he fucked me for a dare – that’s just him “lashing out”.’

  Her face gave no sign that she knew how ridiculous she sounded. ‘You don’t have to worry; there was no bet. He makes that part up just to—’

  ‘Twist the knife?’

  Harriet rubbed the back of her neck. ‘He sometimes needs to hurt people.’

  A waiter brought a pair of whiskey sours and placed them on the coffee table. He waited for Harriet to sign the chit and then quietly slipped away.

  Harriet downed her sour in one; I pushed my glass to one side.

  ‘How long have you been in love with him?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not in love with him, not yet. We just mess around.’

  ‘When he’s not lashing out.’ There was a faint bruise just behind her jawline. She saw me staring so moved her head to hide it.

  ‘One day though,’ she said, brightening suddenly, ‘if he can work it out of his system.’

  It’s rare that I run into someone whom I pity more than Monica and me. I stood up and tried to smile, but I think it came out as more of a grimace. ‘Look, Harriet, you seem like a nice person,’ I lied. ‘But really, this has nothing to do with me. Go with him if you want to; be happy. You don’t need my approval, or anyone else’s.’

  And that was a lie too; Harriet did need my approval. She needed the blessing of someone evil by virtue of their birth, someone connected by genes to the worst person imaginable, to tell her that her future life-partner – a man who used sex to hurt people and who, on at least o
ne occasion, had attacked her – was really an okay person, or would be once he ‘worked it out of his system’.

  Harriet was a special kind of idiot.

  She slid a business card across the coffee table. ‘I travel a lot but call me once in a while; maybe we can hook up.’

  Unbelievable.

  * * *

  The old man had promised me breakfast so I skipped my morning visit to the hotel’s restaurant and took a walk and a ride to Pløens Gate. I took the wrong tram but I didn’t mind; I got to see the cathedral and the National Theatre, and I figured the old man wasn’t going anywhere.

  I was about twenty minutes late when I arrived at an old tenement building nestled between a street café and an American diner. I rang the bell for his apartment, and he buzzed me straight in without asking who I was.

  I took the stairs to the third floor and he opened his door before I had the chance to knock. He looked at me with his faded watery eyes and said, ‘You’re late.’

  ‘But you’re surprised I came at all, Mr Klein.’

  His face fell and what little colour it had drained away.

  ‘That’s who you are, isn’t it? Gerbald Klein, First Lieutenant in the Scandinavian Expeditionary Force.’ A little too much drama perhaps; it wasn’t exactly a secret. The museum security guard had told me. He’d even shown me a book where I could read all about Gerbald Klein – The Penitent.

  ‘And you came anyway.’ He stood to one side so I could enter the apartment. He followed me, keeping a respectful distance which I found strange; we were both pariahs after all.

  The hallway opened out into a large living room with high ceilings and unpainted walls. The cornices were dark and spotted with mould. There was a musty smell that hung solidly in the air. And then there were the bookcases, dozens of them. Some found space against the walls, others stood free and out of place around the floor. There were a few tables of odd sizes and various eras which looked as if they’d been bought from second-hand shops, or culled from rubbish tips. There were three narrower passages; one led away to the kitchen – where he was cooking something that had my mouth watering; the others, I assumed, led to the bedrooms and the bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, the hallways were stacked high with bundles of newspapers, magazines, and documents with the Nazi standard stamped on their covers.