‘I am sure.’
‘Then we should go ahead?’
‘Are you asking me?’
‘No, I suppose I’m not.’ He drained his mug and wiped his mouth. ‘I shall contact London and recommend we continue.’ He took a notepad from his bag and began scribbling. ‘I shall need you to use this paragraph in the next editorial. I do not suppose you can convince the General to release The Orchid before next week.’
‘I cannot convince him to do anything these days.’
Gunther stopped writing and looked up at her. He placed his pencil gently on the table. ‘Does he still… hurt you?’
Silje shrugged. ‘He tries, but it is not me he seeks to hurt, which is a small comfort I suppose.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘While he does these things he pretends I am someone else. I see it in his eyes; they look at someone far away, much further away than Bergen.’
‘Berlin, perhaps.’ Gunther tapped his teeth.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Is it his wife he hates?’
‘No.’ Silje pushed her ale towards him, her thirst having left her. ‘There was a Jewish girl. He forced himself upon her. I think it is the child. I think I remind him of the child.’ When she looked up, Gunther had already finished the second jar. A second jar of Norway’s finest courage, she thought, and wondered what terrible sacrifice he was about to ask of her.
He stared at a small stained ring on the table. ‘We need to know as much as we can about Quisling’s movements when he is here. If you can get the General to talk while he is… while he…’
‘While he touches me,’ Silje said mildly.
Gunther nodded, his head bowed.
‘I will do what I can.’ She rose from the table and took Gunther’s notebook. He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘England thanks you, Silje, for your sacrifice. And Norway will remember you for your courage.’
‘Oh I have no doubt Norway will remember me,’ she said, ‘but not for this.’
‘You will be a hero; you’ll see.’
She took her hand from him. ‘There is something you can do for me.’
‘Name it.’
‘Gruetzmacher intends to follow Quisling like a lapdog while he is in the region. When you kill Quisling it is likely that the General will be close by.’
Gunther smiled. It was the same humourless smile she often saw Gruetzmacher wearing, but she liked it better on the spy.
‘I’m sure we can spare a second bullet,’ he said.
‘I don’t want you to kill him,’ Silje said. ‘I want him to live. I want him disgraced in front of his men and his emperor.’
‘If that is what you want.’
‘That is all I want.’
Chapter 39
Since Magnus had been returned, silenced and broken, a small detachment of German soldiers had been stationed permanently in the village. They had arrived the day after the attempt on Gruetzmacher’s life.
The soldiers had presented their orders to the village elders and then quickly commandeered two of the farm outbuildings belonging to Junges Fehn.
‘I am sure they are not supposed to do this,’ Fehn had complained. The soldiers wandered freely in and out of his kitchen at all hours of the day and night, helping themselves to his milk and his ale.
The General had told Silje that the soldiers, never more than five, never less than two, were there for her protection.
‘If they tried to kill me as an officer of the Reich,’ he’d said, ‘then they may come for you.’
Silje was sure that if this were true then the soldiers would be stationed at the Ohnstad cottage, not on the other side of the village.
The detachment brought a staff car with them, smaller than Gruetzmacher’s replacement and without a roof to keep out the cold – or bulletproofing to stave off an ambush. Every Tuesday morning, one of the soldiers would drive Silje to Reich HQ in Bergen which was now a fortress that rivalled anything the Axis had built in Berlin. There, Silje would be treated to a sumptuous breakfast after which she and the General would discuss the upcoming issue of The Quisling Orchid. There would be a light lunch followed by a walk around the gardens. Gruetzmacher would tell her what life would be like once the Reich ruled all and the Semite menace had been expunged from existence.
‘All will be as it should be,’ he’d say, picking a single flower from one of the boxes underneath the windows. He would take the flower and stand it in a glass of water on his writing desk. Sometimes he would pick a rose; sometimes he would choose one of the orchids grown from the stock gifted by her father. Silje could tell his mood by the flower he’d chosen, and this, in turn, would speak of her suffering that afternoon: a rose, and she would be given a basket of fruit and bread and sent back to Fólkvangr; but sometimes the General picked an orchid.
How she hated his orchid days.
‘Face the wall and raise your dress, if you please.’
On some of the orchid days she refused, and he would become angry; she could hear his teeth grinding behind his smile. He would shout, he would bellow, but he would never lay a hand upon her. On these days she was something delicate, something despised.
On the other days her defiance seemed to please him. His smile would be thin and weak. He would say ‘As you wish,’ and he would send her on her way without her basket of fruit.
But on some of the orchid days Silje would acquiesce. She would remove her undergarments, hold her skirt about her waist and place her free hand against the wall.
‘Part your feet, Fräulein.’
She would close her eyes and listen while he slipped his hand inside a glove. She would whisper ‘For the Resistance, for Norway’ again and again inside her head, feeling his hand upon her shoulder and the chill of his breath against her skin.
His fingers were cold, like serpents, penetrating, searching…
He would press her head to the wall and whisper into her hair: express his gratitude for her compliance, tell her she was perfection itself.
And Silje would cast her eyes downward, see the pearls of her emission falling between her feet; she would think her body had betrayed her – had betrayed all of Norway.
When he was done, the General would return to his desk and write his notes in a journal stamped with Silje’s name. She would wait, with her fist against the wall, for the sound of rustling pages and the scratch of lead on paper. If she turned too quickly their eyes would meet and the General would feel compelled to explain himself.
‘It is research,’ he would say, ‘just research, for the good of both our races.’
And his eyes would implore her to believe him.
Silje endured this because on the orchid days Gruetzmacher’s defences were at their weakest and he would often reveal the secrets he kept closest to his soul.
‘When Quisling comes,’ the General said on one particularly brutal day, ‘he would like to meet you.’ He stripped off his glove and threw it into the box labelled medizinische Abfälle.
Silje allowed herself to breathe. She opened her eyes and stood straight, thinking, as she often did, that if Gruetzmacher’s experiments were sanctioned then the box would be adorned with the Reichsadler.
Instead he had labelled the box himself, in charcoal.
She dressed quickly, though she wanted to bathe, to wash away the stench of him.
The General settled into an armchair and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘The Quisling Orchid has drawn favour with the Nasjonal Samling, and so naturally, the idiot Quisling wishes to be more closely associated with our endeavours.’
‘I thought the Reich supported him.’
The General lit a cigarette. ‘Oh we do. Though in many respects he has failed in his promise.’ He picked out a notebook, one of many, twenty in all.
‘And what promise was that?’
‘To deliver Norway to us without fuss, without all this mess.’ He inhaled and tapped the cigarette on the side of the armchair. ‘We thought allowing
one of your own countrymen to govern would facilitate the transition.’
‘It has not?’
‘No,’ the General said. ‘It has not. You Norwegians fight against insurmountable odds, and with a tenacity I have not encountered in any other theatre of combat.’
Silje asked if she could sit in the chair across from him. Gruetzmacher nodded, watching her as she sat on the edge of the seat with her knees turned away.
‘The Resistance has become a hindrance to our efforts here, and nothing he says in his broadcasts or his speeches has any notable effect on public opinion. In fact, Fräulein,’ he said, ‘it is my belief that most Norwegians hate him more than they hate us.’
She wondered if this were true.
‘It does not matter.’ He leaned back in his armchair and tried again to smile. ‘This country will break one way or another. The only question is, should the Reich continue to squander resources on this fool.’
He stared at her with steady, unblinking eyes. Silje realised he was waiting for her to answer him. With little time to think, the best she could manage was, ‘I am sure the Reich knows best.’
The General shrugged. ‘I am not sure we do anymore. The Norway situation is… perplexing. For the moment, Quisling fills a vacuum until someone more effective emerges from the fouled pool of the Nasjonal Samling.’ He chuckled to himself; Silje had no idea why. ‘In the meantime, what is, is.’ He leaned forward suddenly, causing her to lurch back.
‘I have a proposal,’ he said, ‘a plan that will end the bloodshed between our peoples, and you are part of it.’ He patted the notebook. ‘The work we have done together, in this room, have revealed something quite startling.’
The notebook belonged to someone named Isla W. The first pages contained notes about her age and her education, and pictures of her standing naked with her palms against the same wall.
She is young, Silje thought, so horribly young. She could not remember the General taking pictures of her. She looked to the wall behind his wine cabinet – a hidden camera perhaps. Gunther had told her of such things.
‘You are almost as perfect as our Germanic female,’ Gruetzmacher said. ‘and compatible with the Aryan male who stands above all races in terms of strength, stamina and intelligence.’ His breathing became short and hoarse, as it did when he examined her. ‘When Quisling comes I will present him with my proposal: a eugenics programme, cross-breeding Norwegian females with our finest men to produce a new, perfect Norwegian race.’ He sat back in his seat and threw the notebook on the table. ‘I have selected twelve women to be progenitors. After we have discussed plans for expanding The Quisling Orchid newsletter across Norway, I will ask – no – I will demand an audience with the Party. Think of it, Fräulein Ohnstad – living symbols of the link between our two races. A bond that will only strengthen with time. What do you think?’
Realising he intended to make a breeding sow of her, Silje chose to say nothing.
Gruetzmacher forced a laugh through his teeth. ‘You are a conundrum, Fräulein. In spite of your cleverness I often find myself disappointed by your lack of vision.’
‘Then I am sorry for that, General.’
He waved his hand dismissively as if to say You will see – and if you do not, it matters not.
‘And if it is all the same to you, General, I do not wish to be a part of this. I am soon to be married and I do not think—’
‘Have you been eating the fruit?’ the General asked.
‘The fruit?’
‘The fruit I have been giving you; have you been eating it?’
Silje thought long before replying, suspecting a snare of some kind.
‘Some of it, yes. Though I give most of it away to my family and my friends.’
‘Most generous,’ Gruetzmacher said, unimpressed. ‘But it was meant for you and you alone.’
‘It seemed such a lot for one person, sir. I felt sure you meant for me to share your gift.’
To Silje’s surprise the General beamed at her, as far as he knew how. ‘The fruit basket is not for sharing. You must eat all of it. Diet and exercise is the key to all of this.’
‘Then you have been giving fruit to all the women?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh,’ she said, making a show of appearing crestfallen.
This amused the General. He laughed again, a sound so weak it died without the slightest echo. ‘Fear not. Your work on The Quisling Orchid makes you more valuable to me than all the others. You are robust, and as I have said before, intelligent. That is why I have decided to include you in my Eugenics initiative, in spite of your age.’
‘Thank you, General.’
‘No, it is I who must thank you, for your cooperation.’ He rose from his seat. ‘I understand that my examinations are somewhat intrusive, but I assure you they are necessary. My aide will provide you with your fruit. Please remember—’
‘They are for me alone. Yes, I understand.’
But as she walked towards the door, the General spoke again.
‘Did you say you are taking a spouse?’
Silje’s chest tightened. ‘I did, General.’
‘Mmm.’ She heard him pacing around his armchair. ‘And have you had relations with your intended?’
‘Sir?’
‘Have you been intimate with him?’
‘I do not think that is a polite question, General Gruetzmacher.’
‘It is not but you will answer it nevertheless. Have you slept with him?’
What did he want to hear? He wanted her to say no, that she was untarnished and pure. What would he do to her if she said otherwise?
She made her decision quickly. ‘Yes.’
Gruetzmacher fell silent, and Silje thought that perhaps she had chosen unwisely.
‘Frequently?’
It is too late to take a different road now, she thought. ‘As frequently as my chores allow.’
‘Mmm.’
She slowly turned her head to see that he had returned to his armchair, his finger steepled, his hands shaking.
‘Is he pure Norwegian?’
‘I am not sure what you mean, General.’
‘Has he foreign blood in his veins.’
‘His grandfather was from Finland, I believe. And I think there is a French ancestor who may have been related to Louis XIV. And now I think on it he spoke of distant cousins who were Swiss. No, I lie; they were from—’
‘What I mean is,’ the General said with a smile that could have been carved into his face with a knife, ‘has your cunt been sullied by Jews?’
A surge of bile churned from her stomach into her throat. Silje swallowed it down and shivered. ‘You have spent hours examining it, General,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you can tell me.’
The General blinked; his eyes swivelled about the room, hunting a crueller version of himself hiding in the shadows. In the end he seemed to accept that no one else could have spoken but him. ‘I must apologize for my poor manners, Fräulein Ohnstad.’ He wiped his brow with his handkerchief; it was the first time Silje had seen him sweat. ‘I meant no disrespect.’
Then what did you mean?
He sniffed the air and looked at her, confused, as though she had vanished before his eyes and had been replaced by someone who looked exactly the same.
‘Can you smell that?’ he demanded. ‘Cinnamon. I think it is cinnamon.’
Silje ran for the door, though she knew the General always kept it locked while he defiled her. It would have made little difference; he had hold of her when she was still more than an arm’s length from any possible escape. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and held it beneath his nose, inhaling deeply.
‘Sorceress!’ he roared.
‘General, I do not know what you are talking about!’
He let go of her and his eyes began searching again.
‘The scent you wear,’ he said. ‘I thought I… I am sorry.’
’I am no Jew!’ Silje cried. Judas, her soul cried back.
>
Gruetzmacher walked unsteadily to his armchair and dropped into it as though weighted by rocks. He wiped his forehead and cleared his throat. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes. ‘Again I must apologise. You see how my encounters with them has left a stain upon my soul. I have demons, Fräulein, demons I must struggle with for the rest of my days.’
You have already lost. There was a letter opener on his desk. She wondered how sharp it was. She wondered if Gruetzmacher would open his eyes if he heard her moving. She wondered if, like Freya, she could walk across a hardened floor without making a sound.
The General opened his eyes. ‘On reflection,’ he said, his voice weak and fatigued, ‘I think that you are perhaps too old for my eugenics initiative.’
‘As you wish, General,’ Silje said, unable to hide her relief.
‘I will find another.’ He appeared to lapse into a trance of sorts. A moment later he returned, though he seemed unsure where he was. He looked at her, surprised that she was still in his study.
‘Your escort will return you to your home now,’ he said. ‘Please don’t forget your fruit.’
‘But you said I was no longer—’
‘A gift.’ He massaged his temples with his fingertips. ‘Now leave. I have much to do.’
Chapter 40
‘I hate it when you go to him,’ said Freya.
‘I hate it too.’
She frowned because she heard Silje frown. ‘Then stop.’
‘It is war, Freya,’ Silje said wearily. ‘What can I do?’ She finished counting the rafters beneath the barn roof. There were forty-three in all. When he was little more than a boy, Erik had climbed up and carved her name into the ninth beam. It had been her tenth birthday, but the tenth rafter was too far for him to jump.
She shivered and Freya began covering her naked body with armfuls of hay.
‘You do not need to do that; I am not cold.’
‘You are shaking.’
‘I am trying not to cry.’
Freya held her tightly. ‘You can cry as you like when you are with me.’ Her hand caressed Silje’s stomach and moved downward. Silje rolled away from her.
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