The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

  The General’s eyes swivelled to the floor and he fixed a smile to his face. ‘I hope you are prepared to have your palette educated this evening.’

  Silje took her seat without saying a word. There was a moist sheen to his skin, and the smell of whiskey exuded from his pores.

  ‘I have travelled much, thanks to my duties with the Reich, so I have been fortunate enough to sample—’

  ‘Why am I here, General?’

  His smile vanished, replaced by a flash of confusion, then rage, and then the smile was restored. ‘Down to business I see. I like that.’ He did not, clearly. ‘Conversation, Fräu Ohnstad. That is all.’

  He is quite, quite drunk, Silje thought, and wondered if this placed her in more danger, or less.

  ‘I am sure you can find much more interesting dinner companions closer to Bergen.’

  ‘I could indeed,’ he said, ‘but I wanted to speak to you specifically.’

  A waiter arrived with the first course: a very thick soup and rolls of freshly-baked bread. The scent of herring and shellfish wafted from the bowl, making Silje’s nose twitch.

  The general swelled with satisfaction. ‘I thought you would like it. I have a Norwegian chef in my employ.’

  She doubted his use of the word ‘employ’.

  Gruetzmacher ate slowly, allowing each mouthful of soup to rest on his tongue before swallowing, and then after every fourth mouthful he dabbed effeminately at his lips with his napkin. Silje slowed her pace so she would not empty her bowl first. She was worried that the soup would grow cold before she finished it, which she decided would be a tragedy as it was the finest soup she’d ever tasted.

  ‘How is your soup?’ the General asked.

  ‘Passable.’ She tore a bread roll in two.

  The General frowned. He tapped his spoon on the table while watching her with measured disdain. He dropped his spoon in the empty bowl, and the door behind him opened. A troop of waiters filed out and began clearing the table.

  ‘I have some changes planned for The Orchid.’

  ‘I thought you were happy with the newsletter.’ Silje tried not to sound alarmed.

  ‘Indeed I am, and High Command is also pleased with your efforts, but they are concerned that newsletter doesn’t align with our efforts.’

  ‘I’m afraid I do not understand, General.’

  ‘Of course.’ Gruetzmacher rose to his feet, and Silje was unsure if he meant Of course; I have not explained myself well or Of course you do not understand; you are an ill-educated scion born of an inferior race. When she looked up, the General was standing over her, holding out a single sheet of paper, immaculately typed. His breath, laced with whiskey, washed over her in shallow waves.

  ‘My proposals,’ he said, returning to his end of the table. ‘You have time to read it before the second course.’

  He wrote much as he spoke: directly, succinctly, with nothing spared for sentiment, his words not so much written as scratched out with a razor blade.

  ‘You cannot do this,’ she said.

  ‘I can,’ he replied. There was no anger, no air of superiority or entitlement; he was simply stating a fact.

  ‘You are dropping the Historical Norway page.’

  ‘We are simply changing the newsletter’s focus. We believe that a history of Fascism in Norway is more in keeping with the times.’

  ‘And this conundrums page?’

  ‘Puzzles that will encourage young minds to think creatively.’

  ‘These are questions about Hitler.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Why would our children know such things about Hitler?’

  ‘Our children do.’

  ‘And what is Traitor’s Gate?’

  ‘Ah, that is a new section where traitors to the Reich will be named prior to transportation or execution. Collaborators and Jew-lovers mainly, but we will expand our coverage as needs demand.’

  Silje gripped the edge of the table to steady the room.

  ‘We will also detail incentives and rewards for handing over Jews who are hiding from us. Would you like some water, Fräulein? You look a little pale.’

  ‘I am fine, thank you, General. You think there are many Jews in hiding?’

  ‘A great many. There always are. You would be amazed the lengths these people will go to avoid processing: living in attics and basements, like rats; in caves and woods; hiding in sewage pipes and privies like – I cannot begin to think what that is like.’ He shook his head. ‘They have no pride in themselves. They will survive and live without integrity or honour. They are cowards. They are worse than cowards. They are evil, by design of the devil himself.’ He clapped his hands and the second course entered the room. The serving staff forced smiles at the General as they laid the dishes. None spared her so much as a glance. The plate that landed heavily in front of her was beautifully presented: a warm meat, delicately sliced and adorned with potatoes, and a swede and parsnip puree garnished with a thick mound of pickled cabbage. Silje’s nose twitched again; the meat was very familiar.

  ‘It is goat,’ the General said as the serving staff departed. ‘My deepest apologies. Our supplies are somewhat constrained due to the actions of the Resistance.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘They are but an annoyance, an inconvenience.’ He began to eat, without waiting for her.

  ‘You do not strike me as an emotional man, sir.’ She tried a mouthful of the pickled cabbage and was forced to swallow it.

  ‘Passionate, yes.’ Gruetzmacher tried to smile, and Silje felt her skin trying to crawl away from her bones. ‘Emotional, no. Emotion clouds the thinking. What is your point, Fräulein?’

  ‘Your hatred of the Jews goes far beyond passion, General. Hatred is an emotion, and if I am not mistaken, you hate them very much.’

  Gruetzmacher eyed her for a moment and then dabbed his mouth with his napkin before taking a sip of wine. ‘Astute,’ he said. ‘I believe I have said that of you before. Yes, I hate them. I have reason to.’ He put down the glass and loosened his collar.

  Silje waited.

  ‘Before I joined the Party, I thought as you Norwegians think. I thought the Jew was harmless. I thought the Jew was a person, like you or like me. I bore them no malice, I wished them no harm. I even welcomed the Jew into my home.’ He sat back and crossed his legs, appearing to have lost his appetite. ‘Two of them in fact, a woman and her daughter. The woman worked well enough, though perhaps she was prone to slacking when unobserved. And the daughter was a playmate for my children. My wife was a teacher, you see, and I often worked late at the ministry. Believe me, Fräulein, I would have done what I could for them once the transportations began. I would have pleaded their case, stated that they were vital to my household. I would have done these things and more, if not for…’

  He stared at the wine glass.

  ‘The daughter,’ he said, speaking as though a block of stone had been lifted from his chest. ‘The daughter was a witch. A Jew demon that turned me away from my wife and my family.’

  ‘Perhaps you should not be telling me such things, General.’

  Gruetzmacher waved a dismissive hand in her direction. ‘Do not concern yourself, Fräulein. My fall from grace is common knowledge. Three years ago, I was the talk of Berlin. It almost ruined me. My wife left and I was branded a traitor, a Jew-lover.’ He drained the wine glass and poured himself another. Then, as an afterthought, he got up and hurried over to Silje to charge her glass. ‘Do you know who saved me?’

  Silje said she could not begin to imagine.

  ‘Hitler,’ Gruetzmacher replied proudly. ‘Adolf Hitler himself saved me, my career.’ He sat on the edge of the table and Silje found herself leaning back to remove herself from his shadow. ‘He came to me after a rally, after news of my bewitchment had reached the ears of the Party. I thought he would castigate me, berate and humiliate me in front those who were once my peers. He did not. Do you know what he did, Silje – may I call you Silje? We have known eac
h other for some time now and I think we are beyond such formalities as “Fräulein”.’

  ‘If that is your wish, General.’

  ‘But of course, you will still refer to me as “General”.’

  ‘I had not supposed otherwise.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ He looked at his wine glass; it was empty, and this seemed to disappoint him more than it should have. He filled it the brim and pressed on. ‘Where was I? Yes! Hitler! He embraced me, Silje! He took me in his arms like the prodigal son. The other Party members were astounded. One had the audacity to whisper to him, “Mein Führer, do you know who this man is?” Of course he knew! And he told me that he knew the true reason for my downfall. He said that I had fallen foul of Jew magic.’ Gruetzmacher leaned back and left his revelation festering above the dining table.

  ‘Jew magic?’ Silje echoed.

  The General nodded with a maniacal vigour she found most disturbing. ‘He took me under his tutelage; he showed me papers, documents, treatises and speeches he had yet to show to anyone else. Can you imagine the sense of honour, Silje? To share his knowledge of semitic witchcraft. He told me I had been seduced by a demon, a demon that had ripped everything away from me.’ He drained his glass, and he glanced down at his breeches, scowling at whatever they contained. ‘But under the Führer, I was reborn, restored.’

  ‘Witchcraft,’ Silje intoned. ‘You said… witchcraft.’

  ‘My beliefs surprise you, do they not?’

  ‘I was raised to believe there is no such thing, sir.’

  ‘And so was I. I am a man of learning. Indeed, during the months I travelled with him, the Führer found my lack of vision frustrating. He often had cause to thrash me until my eyes opened.’ He leaned closer, and Silje found she could not move any further away. His breath was strong enough to intoxicate her.

  ‘He told me there is a guile about the Jew, a cunning in its dealing with man and the devil. Science demands we examine the semite and learn how it communicates with the forces of darkness.’

  She thought that perhaps it was a trick, that the General was playing games at her expense, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw only the truth – his truth.

  ‘The Führer assembled Iscariot to examine Jew witchcraft and gave me unimpeachable control over it. I immediately ordered experiments on the mother and the child to see if this magic could be turned against the semite menace. Would you like some more wine?’

  Silje placed her hand over the glass and shook her head. ‘You dissected them?’

  ‘Nothing so gauche,’ he said with a smile. ‘A Jewess so powerful that she could enslave an officer of the Reich. She was only seven years old, Silje. Can you imagine the power she would wield as a grown woman? I sought to harness it. You have known Jews, yes?’

  ‘No! I have never—’

  ‘Come now, there is no need to tell me lies. Norway was overrun with them. You must have known one or two. Perhaps a young man who caught your eye when you came into Bergen?’ The General began to nod his head, very slowly, staring into her eyes. ‘I am right, am I not.’

  Slowly, fearfully, Silje began to nod herself. ‘There was one,’ she whispered.

  The General shot to his feet, making her heart lurch inside her chest. ‘Hah! I knew it! And did you feel drawn to him, in spite of yourself? Did your heart thunder whenever you heard his voice? Did he make you feel as though your soul was no longer your own?’

  Silje said yes, and saw that he appeared to be weeping. He saw her staring back at him and turned away. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.

  ‘Jew magic,’ he said, his voice cracked and pitched higher. ‘You were a victim of Jew magic, as was I.’

  ‘Or perhaps,’ Silje said, ‘I was merely in love.’

  ‘With a Jew? You do not strike me as the kind,’ said Gruetzmacher. ‘And neither was I.’ He sniffed loudly and trembled. ‘Jew sorcery. And I can tell you have been touched in the same way.’ He turned back to her and inhaled deeply through his nostrils, swaying as though caught in a strong breeze. He held onto the table to steady himself; Silje feared if he let go he’d lose his grip on what little was left of his sanity.

  ‘I appear to be quite exhausted,’ he said. ‘It has been a trying day. You must excuse me.’

  ‘Of course, General. Are you unwell?’

  ‘I think that perhaps I am.’ He walked unsteadily towards the far door. ‘The Sergeant will take you home. A great pity; you would have enjoyed dessert. And I think you will come to appreciate the changes I have proposed for the newsletter. Together we will defeat the Jewish witches… and warlocks, you shall see. We shall be heroes, you and I.’

  Chapter 25

  Staff Sergeant Krause had little to say on the journey back to Fólkvangr. She stole glances at Silje through the mirror, and halfway between Bergen and the village, she asked how Silje had found the meal.

  ‘It was very nice,’ Silje replied. ‘Though the General did not appear to be quite himself.’ It occurred to her that perhaps Gruetzmacher was himself, and everything she’d seen of him up until tonight was a carefully staged performance.

  ‘Do not judge him harshly,’ Krause said.

  ‘I shall try not to.’

  ‘Something happened to him, years ago; it haunts him.’

  ‘Do you know what he did? To the mother, her child?’

  The Sergeant nodded and tried to push her hair further inside her cap. Silje imagined her shaven, her eyes sunk, and her frame stripped of its mass and its dignity.

  ‘All this talk of secret projects and witchcraft. He is clearly insane.’

  ‘He is not insane,’ Krause shot back. ‘He is troubled.’

  ‘He drinks whiskey as you and I drink water.’

  ‘Many of our senior officers drink. They bear a great and terrible responsibility. In spite of his many faults, Silje, he is still the finest man I have served under.’

  ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to—’

  ‘Perhaps it would be best, for both our sakes, if we did not discuss the General any further.’

  Silje tried to catch her eye through the mirror, but the Sergeant remained steadfastly focussed on the road ahead. She mistrusts me, Silje thought. Perhaps Inge Krause was not the hapless weakling she first believed her to be.

  ‘Did you speak to the Lieutenant?’

  Krause nodded. ‘He was very polite, very kind. He said that he was flattered, but he still hoped that you and he would one day be reconciled. He asked me to tell you this.’

  ‘Then I do not think that was very kind.’

  ‘No, he was being honest. I know unkindness when I see it.’

  They were the last words spoken until Sergeant Krause brought the car to a halt outside the Ohnstad cottage.

  ‘I have enjoyed your company this evening, Fräulein,’ she said, ‘and I sincerely hope you have enjoyed mine. Perhaps we can do something together in a less formal setting. You could show me your charming village, or we could see a film. I understand that Chaplin is very popular here, in spite of our attempts to ban it.’

  ‘I do not think that—’

  ‘I was not attempting a romantic overture, Silje.’

  ‘Why would I think such a thing?’ said Silje, though it was the first thing that came into her head.

  ‘I find my solitary existence unbearable. Please say you will consider it.’

  Silje lied and said that she would. And she could tell by the flash of disappointment in the Sergeant’s eyes that she knew they would not be taking walks through the mountains, or watching Chaplin at the Bergen Picture House. But at the same time, Krause seemed grateful that someone would spare her feelings.

  She is lonely, Silje thought, and this could perhaps be useful. She would have liked to have learned more of the General’s life before Norway, more of this Iscariot and his plans to defeat Jewish sorcery.

  The Sergeant smiled and put the car into gear. ‘We shall probably meet again.’

  Silje replied, ‘O
f that I have no doubt,’ and wondered if she could bewitch Inge Krause in the same way Freya had bewitched her.

  ‘Until next time then.’

  Silje waited until the sound of the car’s engine faded from the wind and then ran as fast as she could down the hill towards Fólkvangr.

  * * *

  She did not stop to speak to the group of women talking outside The Mottled Goat; she didn’t stop to exchange pleasantries with the gaggle of men smoking outside the village hall.

  She did not stop to fix the orchids that surrounded the monument to her mother, or to chastise young Ingrid Haug for riding her bicycle across her path. Silje didn’t stop running until she reached the door of Mrs Tufte. She was about to pound on it and demand to speak to Freya, but stayed her fist when she heard voices coming from inside. One belonged to Magnus, her brother; the other was English in origin and a voice she’d heard before. She withdrew from the door, and after making sure she was unseen, scaled the wall at the side of Mrs Tufte’s cottage. She dropped heavily into a bracken patch, swore loudly, and then crept to the back door. Like most villagers, Mrs Tufte left the rear door unlocked for the free movement of livestock. Silje slipped inside and made her way through the kitchen, noting with a twinge of avarice how much bigger Mrs Tufte’s cottage was than her own. Small wonder that Freya was reluctant to come home.

  She slowly pushed open the door and peered into the front parlour.

  Mrs Tufte held a full house. Freya was sewing furiously in one corner of the dark room while Mrs Tufte herself served tea and biscuits to the two men squeezed together on the parlour’s twin seat: Magnus – and Gunther the English spy.

  ‘You are too kind, Mrs Tufte,’ Gunther was saying.

  Mrs Tufte reddened and said something that sounded very much like ‘Oh pish’.

  Magnus laughed, and as he threw back his head he caught sight of Silje glaring at him. He shrieked and leapt to his feet. Gunther rolled from his seat and crouched on one knee, pointing a small pistol, conjured from nowhere, at Silje.