‘No.’
‘Why would you say such a thing?’
‘Because I cry, Silje. Every time I kill one of them, I weep like a child.’
His shoulders fell and a sigh escaped his lips. ‘And I have not killed many; I have killed one.’
‘Magnus…’
‘No, that is not true. I have shot one, but he lived. He lay in the mud, suffocating from the hole I made in his neck. One of the others slit his throat for me.’
‘Cut his—?’
‘Ammunition is scarce,’ Magus said flatly. ‘We cannot afford to waste it.’
Silje fetched him a tankard filled to the brim.
‘We lost two men during that raid, and when we returned to the forest, I made some excuse about going to kill our meal. I walked for two miles, Silje – and I wept every step.’
She did not know what to say.
‘The worst of it is that I did not shed a tear for Toril and Gunnar; I cried for myself. Dear God, I cried for the German.’
‘You cried for the life taken, because you are a good man.’ She sat next to him and put her arms around his broad shoulders. ‘This war has already made us into things we are not, Magnus. You are not a killer, and I am not… I am not what people say I am.’
‘I said I did not mean it.’
‘It does not matter whether you meant it or not; you said it and you cannot take it back.’
He opened his mouth to protest, but Silje was having none of it. ‘But you will stay, yes?’
He nodded. ‘For a while at least.’
‘And then you will go back to your Resistance because that is where you left your pride.’
‘Now who is being cruel.’
‘I am being honest.’
Magnus sniffed loudly and rose to his feet. ‘The oak will not cut itself,’ he said on his way to the door.
‘Freya is very fond of you. She will be heartbroken if you leave us again.’
‘It is you who she is fond of, Silje, even though you treat her badly.’
‘That is not true.’
He left in silence, leaving Silje alone, wondering if it were the Nazis or the Resistance driving them apart.
She spent a fruitless hour tending to her chores: the stove cleaned, but not polished; the pantry cleared, but left unorganised; the goats fed, but not petted; everything done in half-measures and accompanied by the disquieting notion that her world was shifting beneath her feet. The day is broken, she decided, throwing down her aprons and cloths, so it will be the day I repair a ruined thing. She put on her sandals and her coat and set off for Fólkvangr.
It was uncomfortably warm for April, the last of the snow having melted from the earth. The sun rested on top of the mountain, sending white shafts of light to pierce the forests. Magnus’s words still stung her, but when she pushed them aside, Freya replaced them, and along with Freya came fragments of a dream: Erik, Freya, herself, and the barn. Junges Fehn’s barn if she was not mistaken, home to her many sins of falsehood and flesh.
One of the mountain’s innumerable goats joined her for part of her journey, walking alongside her in the hope she was carrying food to the village.
‘I have nothing,’ she said to the goat, and was alarmed when it seemed to understand; it stopped, looked back, and trotted away. A strange day indeed.
Thoughts of Freya pressed against her until she reached Fólkvangr’s arch. Her father had said that one day the Jewess would leave, and though she knew he was right, it was one of the many truths Silje lacked the courage to face, though Freya’s silent haunting of the cottage – the child could walk on eggs without breaking their shells – and her refusal to work on one day of the week were incessant, gnawing frustrations.
She thought back to the movement of the world under her feet and found it was here again, with the villagers. Far from the solid mountain greeting she had come to expect from them, they regarded her coolly. Some stared through her as if she were made of glass; others simply averted their gaze; none came to engage her in conversation.
And the morning will worsen, she thought as she neared the monument to her mother. Marit waited near the circle of orchids, sitting on the stone seat inscribed with the poem Silje’s father had written seven days after her mother had slipped into the afterlife.
‘Are you waiting for me, Marit?’
Marit Ohnstad carried a copy of The Orchid, open and folded back. She smiled and waved the newsletter under Silje’s nose. ‘I have always said it; you are truly your mother’s daughter.’ She pushed the newsletter against Silje’s chest.
‘I do not have time for your hatred today, Marit. If you wish to punish me for my father not loving you then perhaps another time.’ Silje noted, with a glow of satisfaction, that Marit’s cheek twitched, and one of the gnarled veins in her neck bulged and throbbed.
‘You are an evil child,’ Marit whispered. ‘And you are a whore, like your mother before you.’ She struggled to her feet, every twist of her limbs causing her to catch her breath. She stood before Silje, their toes almost touching. Her breath reeked of sour wine and a lifetime’s despair. ‘But at least your mother only whored herself to Norwegians.’
Silje felt her words as keenly as she would feel a blow to her chest. A small crowd had begun to gather around them.
‘Read your handiwork, Silje Ohnstad. Read it and ask yourself if your mother would be proud of what you have done.’
The fatal strike. Silje ground her teeth together to prevent herself from weeping. ‘Leave me,’ she said. ‘I will have no more of you.’
Marit smiled, a twist at the corners of the mouth that conveyed satisfaction, if not victory. ‘Read it,’ she said and then made her way through the crowd.
The sea of grey faces looked solemnly at Silje, as though they expected more of her, more than she had already given.
‘I do this for you,’ she said loudly. ‘I do this for Fólkvangr!’
The crowd exchanged glances, remaining silent until Alrek, the tanner’s son, found his voice: ‘It was not something we asked you to do, Silje.’
The crowd rumbled its agreement.
She drew herself up to her full height, and still wished she were taller. ‘I will do it all the same, because you are my friends and you are family.’
She waited for their agreement. None came. ‘I see. Well, I am sure you all have more important things to do than spite me.’
They looked at one another, and with the occasional shrug, slowly began to drift away.
As the last soul departed, Silje looked down to read the page Marit had left open for her, a single sheet embossed with the image of the Reichsadler and written in scissor-cut prose she felt sure belonged to General Gruetzmacher himself.
The page welcomed Germany’s Norwegian allies to The Orchid, and promised recipes, stories of romance and heroism, household hints and news of the War For Scandinavia which was all but won. The General’s tone was curt, fatherly, non-threatening – until he saw fit to mention the Resistance and the Jews. Anyone found helping a terrorist or a so-called ‘child of Abraham’ would be dealt with as a traitor to both Norway and the Fatherland. The punishment would be swift and final. He called the Jews demons and witches and things that were ‘not of this earth’.
It was not the first time Silje had read the statement; indeed, she’d received a copy of the newsletter a day before the distribution. At the time her only thought was that the entry somewhat spoilt the carefree appeal she was trying to cultivate.
Now it seemed so different with Freya uppermost in her mind.
Freya, born of witchcraft and incest.
It simply wasn’t true, and if that was a lie then how could she trust anything the General said? She could taste the alcohol in his every word. A weakness – ripe for exploitation.
‘Is that you, Silje?’
The lilt of her voice made Silje’s heart fold outwards in a fashion she found as alarming as it was sudden. She looked up from the newsletter and saw she had walked the breadth of Fólkva
ngr’s main thoroughfare without realising it. ‘Freya,’ she said hoarsely.
Freya was cleaning the windows of Fredrik Bergström’s grocery establishment, standing on the sill with her feet bare, holding the frame with one slender hand so she could reach the furthest corner of the glass with the other. Silje watched her, thinking that she could travel to Bergen with her father on his next flower delivery. There was a cotton importer near the docks; perhaps he would let her have some of his off-cuts in return for her favours. Then she could make Freya a new dress. The one she wore did so little for her.
‘You are quiet today, Silje. That is most unlike you.’ Freya strained to reach the edge of the pane and almost lost her footing. Silje’s heart skipped again. She sighed to herself; the sensation was becoming tiresome.
‘I was waiting for you to tell me how you knew I was here.’
‘You know how.’
‘Then I was waiting for you to tell me that it was the smell of the orchids that gave me away, and not the smell of the goats.’
Freya laughed and almost slipped again.
‘Come down before you hurt yourself.’ Silje was surprised when Freya did as she was asked.
‘I am perfectly safe. You worry far too much about me, you know.’
‘You are my responsibility, Freya, and I take my responsibilities very seriously.’
‘Orchids,’ Freya said, now standing close enough for Silje to inhale her. She did so, in spite of herself, and found that the Jewess carried no scent at all. If she closed her eyes she would not know if she was speaking to a young woman, or simply listening to a voice carried on the mountain breeze. ‘You will always smell of orchids; now you have no need to ask me again.’
Though she knew she was being teased, Silje felt profoundly grateful.
‘You called out my name last night,’ said Freya. ‘Four times. You called for me to come back, though I have no idea where you thought I was going.’
‘It was a dream,’ Silje said. ‘I dream a lot. Especially at night.’ I am babbling, she thought. Why am I babbling?
‘Silje, it was more than a dream.’ Freya reached out and ran the back of her hand across Silje’s cheek. ‘You are concerned for me because you love Fólkvangr. But fear not. I will not run away because I understand what will happen if I am captured.’
‘Please do not say such things.’
‘I will be tortured and I will break, and you will all pay dearly for the kindness you have shown me.’ She stood on her toes and kissed Silje curtly on the mouth. ‘I will not see that happen to you or Mr Ohnstad or Magnus or the villagers. So do not have nightmares about me; there is no need. I will stay hidden and keep you all from harm.’
Silje stood rooted to the ground, her lips tingling, her stomach burning. She opened her mouth and wanted to say a hundred different things all at once. Instead, she took a moment to cleanse her thoughts. ‘When this is over – the war I mean… When it is over, where will you go?’
Freya raised an eyebrow. ‘You wish me to leave.’
‘No! That is not what I meant at all. I meant that if you want to, if you have nowhere else to go, then you can stay here, in Fólkvangr, with us. If you have somewhere else to go then you are still welcome to stay with us. We will clear out my mother’s room and you will have space of your own for as long as you wish. I do not say this because I am kind, or because I wish to protect you, or protect the village; I say this because you are— Ah, you are crying. Please don’t cry. I hate it when you cry.’
Freya sniffed loudly and said she was sorry. ‘I cannot help it. You make little sense to me, Silje Ohnstad. I do not know what you will be like with me from the moment you wake to the moment you rest. I sometimes think you hate me more than anything else in the world, and then there are other times when you seem to care for me so much that I think… I do not know what I think.’
‘Think that I worry about you. That is all.’
The two women stood motionless while the world breathed between them. Silje was grateful when Freya broke the maddening silence.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, wiping her eyes.
‘Erik,’ Silje replied. ‘I am going to see Erik, to settle things between us.’
‘It is good that you set things right.’
Silje nodded.
‘Silje?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry; I sometimes forget.’
Freya parted her lips to speak, and the window she had been cleaning only minutes before shattered. Without thinking, Silje pulled her to the ground.
Fólkvangr changed in the same instant; a crowd of villagers appeared from beyond the square, running towards them, shouting. On the roof of the church, a hundred feet away and another thirty feet upward, young Jesper Bergström waved his catapult and pointed north – the direction from which the crowd was running.
‘That was a foolish joke, Jesper,’ cried Silje. ‘You could have hurt Freya. I will have words with both your father and your mother!’
Jesper waved and pointed, more frantically than before. The villagers began to spread out, joining others in sudden conversations and performing a strange ballet of going-about-one’s-everyday-business.
Freya inclined her head to one side and then the other, searching for vibrations carried on the breeze. ‘Germans,’ she said. ‘They’re almost upon us.’
Mr Bergström, a round, reddish man possessed with a shock of wiry grey hair, burst from his shop and took Freya roughly by the arm. ‘Inside!’ he shouted. ‘And you too, Silje.’
‘No, I will speak to them.’
Freya called to her, even as Mr Bergström pushed her inside the shop and slammed the door. A moment later he appeared again to make a show of examining his broken window.
A single staff car rumbled past the square, flanked by two riders and a small detachment of paratroopers on foot. The villagers swept back to the pavements and doorways to let them through. They removed their hats and bowed their heads as the car rolled to a halt in front of the grocery store.
Mr Bergström whispered to Silje, ‘I do not know what I am supposed to do.’ He was sweating. Silje hoped that Gruetzmacher would mistake him for a man scared for his life rather than a man with something to hide.
‘Do nothing. I will talk. Just agree with everything I say. He is here for me, not you.’
Gruetzmacher stepped from the car. He smiled and saluted the villagers, who looked at one another, taking his affability as some sort of trap. He tousled the hair of Jesper Bergström who was running back to the store. A stern look from his father sent him scurrying back towards the square. The General appeared to be out for a morning stroll; he greeted the petrified villagers with a warm handshake and a cold, ill-rehearsed smile. He appeared calm, sober, and this worried Silje greatly.
‘Come on,’ Silje whispered through her teeth. ‘The sooner we start this, the sooner you are gone.’
But Gruetzmacher was in no hurry; the soldiers took positions at every point where the cobbled streets met, and occupied empty doorways where they crouched down and shielded their eyes from the sun. Four men accompanied Gruetzmacher as he wandered from store to store, leaving frightened Norwegians in his wake. Each man, woman or child looked desperately to Silje as soon as he left them. What was worse, some of them looked anxiously towards the grocery store.
‘We look as guilty as the devil,’ Mr Bergström said.
Silje told him to be quiet. She looked across the street and was unfortunate enough to catch the General’s eye. He feigned a look of pleasant surprise, though Silje believed he must have seen her as soon as his car rolled past the square. He walked across the road with his escort, his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Fräulein,’ he said, and shook her gently by the hand.
‘General.’
‘I must say I find your mountain air a little too crisp for my suburban constitution.’
‘You will become accustomed to it, General,’ said Silje, hoping that he would never feel the need to.
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br /> He pointed to the newsletter. ‘You have a copy with you, I see.’
‘Of course.’
This seemed to please him. ‘I think you have done a marvellous job.’
‘Thank you.’
Mr Bergström tried to shuffle sideways, away from the waves of terror that seemed radiate from the General’s person.
‘And who might you be?’
The grocer waited for Silje to answer for him. When she didn’t, he uttered his name under his breath.
‘Speak up,’ the General said.
‘Bergström, sir.’
‘And are you the owner of this establishment?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘And what happened to the window?’
‘We were just discussing that when you arrived,’ said Silje.
Mr Bergström nodded, and continued to nod until Silje took his hand and gently squeezed it.
‘Childish high spirits, perhaps,’ said the General. ‘It is a problem common across the region, I fear.’
‘I’m sure that the young reprobates meant no harm, sir,’ said Mr Bergström, the fear in his voice ever more pronounced.
‘Of course, of course; but these high spirits can be counter-productive.’ The General nodded towards the empty window pane. ‘The energy of Norway’s children must be tempered, moulded, harnessed, into more worthwhile pursuits.’
‘Like the Youth Programme.’
‘Indeed, Fräulein Ohnstad, like the Youth Programme. It has wrought wonders in Germany. I think that a similar initiative would do the same for Norway. What do you think?’
She glanced nervously at the grocer, who had nothing to offer. ‘I think,’ she started cautiously, ‘that our respective youth are designed for different pursuits.’
The General smiled. ‘Well, we shall see.’
Silje steered the conversation back towards the light. ‘Lieutenant Klein is not with you?’
‘Ah, I did wonder when you would ask. It is his duties that have kept you apart, so I feel somewhat responsible for the troubles in your relationship.’
Mr Bergström stared at Silje.
‘But you will see him soon enough. He is at your home as we speak, talking to your brother.’
The Quisling Orchid Page 16