The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

  ‘He sold me,’ I said quietly, ‘to save his own life.’

  ‘For a short time, yes.’

  ‘But it’s not me you want, is it?’

  He stopped working and looked first at me and then to his companions standing behind me.

  ‘May I speak?’ I said.

  Again, he looked to the others before nodding. ‘What is on your mind, Miss Fossen?’

  ‘You can’t carry on like this forever. You will be caught and you won’t see the light of day again.’ I waited for his reaction; he didn’t say anything, but he didn’t kill me. ‘But before that happens you want the greatest prize after Quisling. You want the Traitor of Fólkvangr.’

  He smiled, and put down the knives.

  ‘And no matter how angry and how psychotic you want me to think you are, I don’t think you will hurt me. You know I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Then why are you here, Miss Fossen?’

  ‘Because you want me good and scared so I will agree to betray my father.’

  The others began to whisper and I think at least one of them sighed with relief.

  Cleaver himself remained still. I began to think I’d passed some sort of test, that I would get out of this alive, then he took a fresh knife and walked around the table towards me.

  One of the others shouted ‘Bergström!’ but no one made a move to stop him. I closed my eyes and held my breath.

  Probably the throat, Monica had said. If the Cleaver takes you, that’s probably how he’ll do it.

  I could feel the heat of his skin, and when I slowly opened my eyes, his face was only a few inches from mine, the tip of the knife pressed into the flesh just below my left eye.

  ‘You said that I wouldn’t kill you because you are innocent. Let me tell you how I see the world, Miss Fossen. It is very simple; you are guilty or you are not guilty. Anyone who refuses to aid me in my endeavour is guilty.’

  His breath smelled like raw meat.

  ‘Is that clear enough for you?’

  I would have nodded, but if I did the knife would burst my eye. I swivelled my eyeballs to look down at it. He looked down at the knife too and moved it away.

  ‘When you find him – if you find him – then you will bring him to me. Do you understand?’

  I said I understood.

  ‘It would be unwise to disappoint me, Miss Fossen.’

  ‘I have no doubt of that.’

  ‘If you disappoint me I will find you.’

  I didn’t doubt that either. He stood watching me for longer than I could hold my breath, examining every line, every imperfection, every bead of sweat. He was satisfied after a while, or just bored; I wasn’t sure which. In any case, he returned to the table and carried on butchering the carcass.

  The disciples came forward and hauled me to my feet. They looked as relieved as I felt.

  * * *

  Cleaver’s men left me where they’d taken me, just outside the alley leading to Mr Klein’s apartment building. There were still signs of a struggle, but a fresh layer of snow had covered the blood. Another snowfall would cover the vomit I left on the pavement as soon as his men had driven away. The good people of Oslo gave me a wide berth as I knelt there, weeping. One man did approach, but I held out my hand and told him to keep away.

  I was still crying when I entered the building and took the stairs to Mr Klein’s apartment. I stood outside for a few minutes and tried to compose myself. ‘Enough now, Brigit’ I said, speaking in Monica’s voice. ‘That’s enough.’ It seemed to work. I opened the door and stepped inside, ready to eviscerate him. I even planned my speech as I waded through the papers and notes littering the hallway.

  How could you?

  No, I couldn’t start with that.

  You treacherous fuck!

  Not much better.

  I wasn’t particularly fond of Mr Klein, but I thought we had an understanding, a camaraderie in our solitude.

  I pushed on the lounge door so hard I shattered a hinge. ‘You lying piece of shit…’

  Then I saw that Mr Klein had tidied the room. All the papers were neatly stacked with a small bound folder on top of each one. He had swept the floor and put away all his pens. He had moved his favourite armchair so it faced the window. Mr Klein had put on his only suit and brushed his hair, and then he’d sat in his favourite armchair and shot himself in the mouth.

  Chapter 20

  In the days that followed, Silje’s world shrank. No matter how far she roamed, her remorse was there, beating at her heels.

  She avoided the village by day and took to spending the warmer spring evenings with Erik when she knew that Freya would be at home. She would return to the cottage late at night when she knew she would be asleep. She had listened at Freya’s door on one such night and heard sobbing.

  The day after, they chanced upon each other on the cross-roads between the village and the cottage. Silje saw her approaching using her hands to read the bushes and trees that would guide her home. She thought about hiding, then remembered the best way to avoid drawing Freya’s senses was to remain perfectly still.

  The slightest sound, she reminded herself. That is all she needs.

  Freya was more than twenty feet away when she stopped and sniffed at the air.

  Silje breathed a silent curse, realising she was downwind of her.

  Freya inclined her head to the left, listening with her better ear. ‘Silje? Is that you?’

  Silje dared not turn her head.

  For more years than she could remember, her father had used this path to ferry orchids to the village. He often dropped some, and over the years wild flowers had sprung to life along its course. Silje stood between pools of orchids to her left and to her right, their scent mingling with her own. It occurred to her that Freya may not be sure she was there. She wondered how often the girl stopped at this very spot and called her name.

  ‘Silje, I know you are there.’

  Clearly, she did not. Silje smiled and hated herself for doing so.

  Freya waited and listened. She closed her eyes, which Silje had never seen her do before. Strangely, she had no memory of seeing Freya blink.

  ‘If you are here, Silje, then please do not be cruel. I am sorry for what I did. It was sinful, and my own god will see me punished for it. But if you forgive me, Silje, I swear I will never—’

  ‘Make a promise you cannot keep.’

  Startled, Freya turned to face her.

  ‘It has happened, Freya; it cannot be undone and it is as much my fault as it is yours. But I cannot live with it. I cannot live with you, not for the moment at least.’ Silje breathed deeply, and Freya cried as though her words, as yet unspoken, were carried on the sigh.

  ‘Do not send me away, Silje.’

  ‘I will speak to Mrs Tufte. You can stay in the village with her. She adores you as much as I.’

  ‘I do not want to live with Mrs Tufte! I want to live with you and Magnus and Mr Ohnstad!’

  ‘It is only for a short while. I think we need time apart, to think and repent.’

  ‘If you hate me so much, then why do you not just turn me over to the Germans?’

  ‘Freya, I do not hate… That is a horrible thing to say!’

  Freya gathered the hem of her skirt in her fist and stumbled and tripped her way to where Silje stood. To Silje, it seemed Freya’s second sight deserted her in times of distress. She reached out and took her hand, but Freya pushed her away.

  ‘I do not need your help!’ she cried, then locked her hands about Silje’s throat and pressed her mouth against hers.

  Silje melted, the heat of Freya’s body consuming her, turning her bones to ash, buckling her at the knees. She whispered ‘Stop’ even as her hands found Freya’s breasts and her teeth sank into Freya’s lip.

  Freya pulled away, wiping blood from her mouth. She staggered back and stood with her chin thrust forward. ‘I am blind, so tell me, Silje, have the heavens opened? Has the earth cracked under our feet? Has a flo
od washed away all mankind?’

  ‘Freya, I am sorry! I did not mean—’

  ‘Has God himself reached down and smote us for the sins we have committed under his sky? I am still breathing, Silje, so I think perhaps he has not. Or perhaps he has, and we are in Purgatory, awaiting his judgement. Please tell me, Silje, because I cannot see what is happening.’ Freya pushed past her. ‘At least the Germans would kill me quickly.’

  ‘Freya!’

  ‘And thank you, Silje. Thank you for everything!’ She walked on, her feet perfectly in line, her assuredness restored.

  Silje watched her until she disappeared from sight. She would have cried, but the sound would carry on the winds, and she did not want Freya to hear her weep.

  * * *

  Of course, Mrs Tufte was overjoyed when Silje asked her to take Freya for a time. She stood on her threshold and beamed, her hands clasped and her head bowed.

  ‘Mrs Tufte?’ Silje thought she might be praying.

  ‘Child, I have longed for companionship for more years than I can remember. Alone in this cottage since Mr Tufte passed away…’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Silje, though Mr Tufte was in fact living somewhere near Fredrickstad with his new wife and nine children. Mrs Tufte knew this; the villagers knew this; Mrs Tufte knew the villagers knew this, and yet it was one of Fólkvangr’s unwritten laws that the true fate of Mr Tufte was never to be spoken aloud.

  ‘It is only for a short while,’ Silje said, ‘so please do not put yourself to—’

  ‘I will make up a room straight away. And there must be a party. Yes, a birthday party! I will arrange it!’

  Silje hadn’t seen Mrs Tufte so animated in all the years she’d known her. ‘A birthday party?’ she echoed. ‘It is her birthday?’

  Mrs Tufte smiled broadly, pleased that she knew something that Silje did not; this was indeed a rare thing in the village of Fólkvangr. ‘Yes, she will be nineteen years on the fifteenth of March.’

  ‘Nineteen,’ said Silje. ‘Still so young.’

  ‘I am surprised she did not tell you.’ Mrs Tufte looked triumphant.

  Silje would have lied but had already played her hand badly. ‘No, she did not mention it.’

  ‘A party then. You are invited, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Perhaps you can put an announcement in The Quisling Orchid?’

  ‘That would be very unwise, Mrs Tufte. I think the Area Commander would have words if I were to announce a party for Fólkvangr’s secret Jew. And the newsletter is called The Orchid.’

  ‘Of course, you are right; forgive me.’

  Silje was unsure if Mrs Tufte was apologising for the idea or the slur on her newsletter, though she was sure the sly old woman wasn’t apologising for both. ‘And perhaps it would be disrespectful to hold a birthday party so soon after Mr Kleppe’s funeral.’

  ‘On the contrary, young Silje, I think a birthday celebration is exactly what the village will need after such a solemn event. But you are correct; we must keep it a secret, which will be difficult since your efforts have brought us an infestation of Nazis on most weekends.’ She tapped her lips thoughtfully. ‘I will think of something.’

  ‘Please remember, Mrs Tufte,’ said Silje, clenching and unclenching her fists, ‘that her living with you is a very temporary arrangement.’

  ‘Let us see how things go, shall we?’ And before Silje could answer she added, ‘Now I really must get on. I have much to do. Please feel free to deliver her at your convenience.’

  And then she closed the door.

  * * *

  Jon Ohnstad spared his daughter a sour look and continued to load Freya’s meagre belongings into the back of his truck.

  ‘There is no need to take her sewing machine! She is not going away forever.’

  ‘I do not understand why she is going away at all.’ He roped the sewing machine to the truck’s bracings.

  ‘I have explained,’ Silje said, making sure her lies fell in formation. ‘The Germans—’

  ‘Yes, you’ve said. The Germans visit our house far too regularly, and whose fault is that?’ A small suitcase followed, which Silje recognised as belonging to her late mother.

  ‘Do you think I have a choice in this?’

  ‘I just want to know the real reason, that is all.’

  ‘So, you accuse me of lying?’

  ‘I know you are lying. Have you fallen out? I do not understand. The villagers tell me how they often see the pair of you strolling through Fólkvangr, arm-in-arm, like an old married couple. This was not four days ago! And now you are sending her away.’ He shook his head. ‘I sometimes wish I could see the workings of your mind, Silje, and other times I am grateful I cannot.’

  ‘I am trying to keep her safe.’

  Magnus appeared from inside the cottage, carrying Freya’s collection of pebbles and stones. He ignored his sister and stowed the small trunk next to the sewing machine. ‘That is everything.’

  ‘And you,’ Silje said, her voice shaking. ‘You are supposed to stay in the village! What if the Germans had—’

  ‘The Germans come every fortnight. I will always return before they do.’

  ‘Always? So you plan to disappear again.’

  ‘I am not fighting, if that’s what you are worried about. I am helping in other ways.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘What have you done, Silje?’

  ‘I am doing this for her!’

  ‘You do nothing for other people, unless it is advantageous to you.’

  ‘You are wasting your breath,’ said her father, climbing into the truck’s cabin. ‘She will say nothing further.’ He started the engine, throttled it and let it settle.

  ‘I will fetch her,’ said Magnus, heading back inside. ‘She is in her room, crying.’

  ‘That is Mother’s room,’ Silje called after him.

  ‘He is right,’ her father said, ‘you do this for yourself.’

  ‘Then stop me. It is your house.’

  He looked at her, his jaw set, his eyes narrow and his hands clenched tightly about the steering wheel.

  ‘Because whatever my reasons, you know I am right. She is safer away from here.’

  Magnus reappeared, leading Freya by the hand. He was the only person from whom she would ever accept aid.

  ‘Freya, I am sorry.’

  Magnus helped her into the truck and then climbed in next to her.

  ‘It is only for a short time, I promise you.’

  Jon Ohnstad slammed the truck into gear and roared away in a cloud of dust.

  And now she was alone, Silje found herself swallowed whole by a sadness more profound than anything she’d felt since her mother’s passing.

  You are being foolish, she thought, wiping her eyes. She will be safe now. Safe from the Nazis. Safe from you.

  Chapter 21

  Without Freya as a distraction, Silje took to ravaging Erik Brenna whenever their paths crossed and time gave her the opportunity. He was, of course, delighted – and exhausted – after less than two days of her undivided attentions.

  ‘We could do more of this,’ she gasped and brought her full weight crashing down on his pelvis. ‘We could do this much much more.’

  Erik’s eyes bulged. He ground his teeth and said, ‘If I am honest, Silje, I don’t think I can do much much more.’

  ‘Of course you can.’ She raised herself by pressing down on his chest with her hands. She smiled wickedly at him. ‘Ready?’

  Erik shook his head and Silje brought herself down on him again, squeezing her thighs together as she did so.

  ‘Stop,’ he pleaded. ‘Please stop. I will ruin you and your father will kill me.’

  ‘How will you ruin me, Erik Brenna?’ Silje twisted her hips just to see his eyes roll into his skull.

  ‘You know how! You will fall with child, and your father will throw me from the highest ledge of the mountain.’

  ‘He would do no such thing if you were to marry me.’


  ‘Do not tease me, Silje. I am in enough pain as it is.’

  She leapt up and landed next to him in the bed of hay. Erik moaned, an odd sound that Silje guessed was both agony and frustration.

  ‘I am not teasing you. I think we should be married.’

  Erik winced, raised himself on one elbow and studied her eyes intently. ‘This is a very cruel trick, Silje, even for you.’

  ‘So you do not want to marry me,’ she said innocently.

  ‘I have wanted to marry you since I was eight years old. It is you who has cared little for the notion of marrying me. Why have you changed your mind?’

  She did her utmost to look horrified. ‘You think I am deceiving you?’

  ‘Why have you changed your mind, Silje?’ he asked wearily.

  She lay back in the hay and wondered what she could say. Will it even matter? she thought. Whatever I say will be a lie. ‘You are ready. Before you were not. Before you were just a boy. Then I asked you to stay in Fólkvangr, and you stayed. So – you are ready.’

  Erik rolled his tongue around his mouth. ‘So I am ready because I did what you said.’

  ‘That is not what I meant.’

  ‘Then what did you mean?’

  ‘Do you not wish to marry me, Erik?’

  Erik lay staring vacantly at the barn rafters while she sat up and stared at him in disbelief.

  He’s thinking about it!

  ‘Do you know what I find most peculiar about you?’ Erik said.

  Silje folded her arms. This was not turning out to be the marriage proposal she’d had in mind.

  ‘You bite people.’

  ‘I most certainly do not.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve done it since you were six years old. Do you remember when we first met in school? You walked up to me, pushed all my friends out of the way, and bit my arm. Then you said, “There! You are mine now.”’

  Silje tried to recall this, but could not.

  ‘You bite things you want to possess.’

  ‘That is so untrue…’