The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

  She walked across the street, keeping an ear for the tavern door. It still hadn’t opened by the time she’d reached the shoemaker’s shop, and Silje began to worry that Gunther had made her look foolish. She was about to make her way back to The Goat when the door burst open and he came running out after her. He stopped a few feet short of where she stood.

  ‘I have asked many to make sacrifices,’ he said. ‘I wish I knew why it is so hard to ask the same of this village, of you.’ He took a deep breath and gazed around the square. ‘This would be easier if I had your blessing, but I will do what I have to; you must understand that.’

  ‘I do understand,’ said Silje. Then she gently tightened the noose. ‘Bring them, Gunther. Your men will be most welcome here, under one condition.’

  ‘Anything,’ Gunther said. ‘Name it.’

  ‘When you leave Norway, you will leave alone.’

  Gunther frowned. ‘Of course. I wasn’t thinking of taking anyone—Oh.’

  ‘She stays here, with us. That is my only condition.’

  ‘Surely Freya should choose where she wants to live.’

  ‘She is young, and you have turned her head with stories of England and adventure.’

  ‘I think you underestimate her.’

  ‘I do not care what you think.’

  Gunther rolled his tongue into his cheek. ‘I see.’ He looked back towards The Mottled Goat.

  ‘When you leave Norway, you leave without her. Promise me that and your men will be welcomed into Fólkvangr with open arms.’

  But Gunther was unwilling to give up on Freya so easily. ‘What if I agree and then take her anyway?’

  ‘You see yourself as a gentleman. Once you have given your word, you will not break it.’

  ‘Then what if I tell you to go to hell and tell Erik that you are infatuated with another woman?’

  Silje knew she should not have been surprised. It was his life’s vocation to watch, to observe. She wondered how long he’d known, if he’d kept this knowledge as a weapon, his hand on its hilt, waiting for just this moment.

  ‘You could do that very thing, Gunther Braithwaite, but it would not serve you.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because it would hurt me and it would hurt Erik, and for that reason alone Freya would never forgive you. So your dream, of carrying her away to England where she would fall in love with you, will come to nothing. And mark me, Gunther Braithwaite, you would not even reach that far because if you breathe a word of this to Erik then I will bring Gruetzmacher down on your head without a second thought.’

  Gunther stared at her as he would an apparition from his worst nightmares, and this pleased her; she needed him to see her like this, from this day until the day he left Norwegian shores.

  ‘Your first duty is to your country, so it is a simple choice,’ she said, suddenly aware that she was quite breathless. ‘We can both leave this ground with something we both want, or we can both leave with nothing. You can have Quisling. Kill Gruetzmacher too if that is what you want. And I will do whatever else you ask. All I want is Freya in return.’

  ‘You ask much.’

  ‘Please.’

  Gunther looked to the sky. He snarled from somewhere deep in his throat. ‘I pray that one day she regains her sight, Silje,’ he said as he walked away. ‘Then perhaps she will see you for what you truly are.’

  Chapter 45

  Such was their affinity that Freya could separate Silje’s footsteps from the scores of others that criss-crossed Fólkvangr’s square.

  ‘I did not like this business with The Orchid from the very beginning. I like it even less now.’

  ‘You have made your feelings clear, Freya, time and time again.’

  ‘And what did you say to Gunther?’

  ‘I have no idea what you are—’

  ‘He tells me he cannot take me to England when he leaves. He said he could not bear to leave me alone while he fights in France.’

  ‘Is that what he said,’ Silje replied mildly. ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Yes, that he would send for me as soon as he could. What did you say to him, Silje?’

  Clearly not enough, she thought. ‘Gunther is his own man. I have said nothing.’ She marvelled at the ease at which untruths tumbled from her lips. Lying to Erik was one thing; lying to Freya was something she’d never believed she was capable of.

  ‘If I could settle myself when I am close to you,’ Freya said, ‘then I would know whether or not you are telling me the truth.’

  ‘I am not lying.’

  ‘And I think Magnus is right. You enjoy the attention.You would endanger yourself so that people would fawn over you. And you would endanger the village without giving any of us a say.’

  ‘You do not have a say,’ Silje said, wishing she could claw back her words even as they spilled from her mouth. ‘Because you are not of Fólkvangr.’

  They walked on in silence, save for Freya thanking the occasional well-wisher, and Silje saying good day to Mrs Stromme who had run the village post office until the Nazis had closed it down at the end of summer. ‘They could not even wait until Christmas,’ Freya complained. ‘Bastards. And how could you say such a thing to me?’

  Silje said she was sorry, but it wasn’t enough.

  ‘You said you would not do this anymore. You promised that you would stop saying things to hurt me.’

  ‘My promise does not preclude me from telling the truth, Freya. You are not from Fólkvangr.’

  ‘You hurt me for the same reason that Magnus hurts you. The Nazis have tortured the both of you and you are both torturing your loved ones in return.’

  ‘That is nonsense.’

  ‘It is not, Silje. I felt the same when they butchered my father, powerless to help him or myself. It is the powerlessness that devours you and then turns itself outward to destroy your friends and your family. Do you know what saved me?’

  Silje squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her jaw, letting the tears beat like a tidal wave against her intransigence; it was the only defence she had left.

  ‘The kindness of strangers,’ Freya said.

  ‘I will not cry anymore,’ Silje breathed. ‘I simply cannot. I cannot let the villagers see me weeping as though there is no hope. I am supposed to be getting married.’

  ‘We should go someplace where we can be alone,’ said Freya. ‘Someplace where we can cry together.’

  Silje looked at her hands, watched her fingers roll themselves into fists. She was shaking. It was as Freya had said: she was casting her shame, her helplessness outward, using them to bludgeon and belittle those she loved.

  They walked from the village and travelled the narrow, ice-laden road that led to the meadows above Fólkvangr, Away from the eyes of the villagers they held hands and felt the midday sun warm their bones.

  ‘We should have brought more clothes.’

  Freya laughed and nodded. ‘You are always so practical after the fact.’

  Once they reached the meadow, they lay down beneath its single tree, guarded by mountains to the north, east, south and west.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ Freya said, and Silje trusted that the beauty was carried in the sound of the winds, the scent of the grass and the air, the rustling of the leaves. She wondered if Freya’s world was perhaps less ugly than her own, and as the thought struck her she began to cry. Just a mute whimper at first, and then a sniff and a breath.

  ‘Let me hold it for you, Silje.’ Freya gently drew Silje to her breast and kissed the crown of her head. ‘Just for a short while.’

  And so Silje closed her eyes and let her defences fall. In her lifetime, she had never known pain like it. The tears came in waves, bringing thoughts of her mother, of Magnus, of the terrible hours she spent at the hands of Gruetzmacher. She wanted him dead; oh, how she wanted to see him burned in Bergen’s square for his crimes against the children of two nations, against the sons of Doctor Lomen. Against her.

  Finally, her tear
s were spent. She slept while Freya sang softly to her to keep her warm, and when she awoke they made love under the tree.

  They were frantic, unbridled. Perhaps it is the cold, Silje thought, or perhaps it is because we know that our time together is almost at an end.

  And when they were done, when their skin burned to the slightest touch, they lay back in the snow and felt the mountains draw in around them.

  Freya whispered, ‘I am begging you; give up The Orchid.’

  ‘You know I cannot.’

  ‘You have done more than anyone has expected of you. You have sacrificed yourself in ways too terrible to think on. Do you think that Gruetzmacher will show mercy to any of us when he finds out?’

  ‘His demons have all but claimed him. I doubt he will care.’

  ‘It is only a matter of time. You said it yourself; they know that the secret to decoding the messages is close at hand. When Quisling is taken they will redouble their efforts to break the Resistance, and someone will speak. Someone will reveal you to protect themselves and their family. And they will come for you, and Magnus, and your father, and Erik, and Mrs Tufte and—’

  ‘You spoke of being powerless, Freya; we are not. The newsletter gives us power. We can use it to take back our land and our honour. Do you not think the prize is worth the risk?’

  ‘I do not prize your life over anything,’ Freya said, ‘not even my own.’

  Silje kissed her mouth. ‘I will be more careful. I promise. And if you ask me tomorrow then I will stop. I will do anything you ask, but I pray that you love me enough not to.’

  ‘I ask because I love you.’

  ‘Then trust me. Trust that I would die before seeing anything happen to you or Fólkvangr.’

  ‘I do not want you to die for me, Silje! I want us to grow old in your stupid little village. I don’t want to spend my life on this earth if you are not here with me.’

  ‘And I have promised you that I will not let that happen. I will not see us apart. I will not allow death to come between—’

  Freya pressed a finger to Silje’s lips. She swallowed and her eyes moved back and forth as she tried to focus her senses. ‘Silje, we are still alone, yes?’

  ‘Yes, of course we are.’ Silje said, feeling no warmth or presence from another. But her awareness was slowly returning, and it brought sight of a shadow across their naked forms. Silje turned and saw the shadow’s keeper blocking the light of the sun.

  ‘Erik…’

  Chapter 46

  Freya sat upright. ‘Where? Is he here?’

  ‘Yes, Freya,’ Silje said softly. ‘He is here.’

  Erik gazed at them without anger or grief, just sadness. There was a knife in his hand, and Silje’s first thought was to shield Freya. ‘Erik, please sit down. We must speak of this.’

  Erik blinked and followed her eyes to the knife. Silje watched the possibilities roll in waves across his face before he settled on one. He put the knife in his pocket. ‘You brought her here.’

  Silje nodded.

  ‘This is our place.’

  ‘Yes, I am sorry.’

  ‘I carved our names into that tree. I came back to carve the date of our wedding.’

  ‘It is not her fault, Erik,’ Freya cried. ‘It was me. I seduced her. I said that I would betray her to the Germans if she did not let me have her.’

  It was a desperate lie from a blind Jewess who was a desperately hopeless liar. Having been with me for so long, Silje thought bitterly, I would have expected better of her.

  ‘I am not a fool, Freya, though perhaps I am as blind as you. I have known Silje since before you were born. I think that is love I see in her eyes, though I cannot be sure because I have never seen it before.’

  Silje rose slowly to her feet, suddenly feeling the cold wind biting at her flesh. ‘Please listen to me, Erik. I never meant to—’

  ‘What, Silje? What did you never mean to do? Hurt me? Betray me? Pluck out my heart with your fingers? And yet you have done this to me a thousand times. Do you love her?’

  Silje looked back towards Freya who was dragging her hands through the snow, looking for her clothes.

  ‘As always with you,’ Erik said, ‘the truth is in the breaths you take between the lies.’ He looked back along the path he’d walked. ‘I do not understand. Why have I never been enough for you?’

  ‘If you would just listen to me, Erik, I can—’

  The blow, when it came, took her by surprise. Erik spun on his heel, reached behind her and locked his hand around the back of her neck. He cried out and pulled her down while driving his fist into the flesh between her stomach and her groin. Silje’s world blackened for a moment, and then snapped back, bringing Freya’s scream with it. Erik let her go and she folded to her knees. She could not breath. She saw Freya’s bare feet lunging past her, but could not find the strength to cry out. She heard a slap, a cry; Freya landed in the snow in front of her.

  ‘Erik, please don’t hurt her.’

  She heard him searching through his pockets.

  ‘It is me you are angry with, not her.’

  The knife reappeared, close to her right eye. He struck her again, across her temple, sending her sprawling across the snow. He looked at the knife and then at Freya.

  ‘Erik, please! I will marry you! I will send her away! I will never see her again.’

  Erik kicked Freya’s legs apart and knelt between them. Silje pleaded with him, but he was lost. And Freya, she did not move; her eyes were open but she appeared to have fainted dead away. Silje tried to get up, tried to call her name. Her voice failed and her limbs refused her.

  Erik said, ‘I would have spent my life making anything you wanted.’ He pressed the knife against Freya’s thigh and still she did not move. ‘What do you say then, Silje? Perhaps I can make her into the man you have never found in me.’

  ‘Erik, no!’ Silje lifted herself and crawled towards him. ‘It is me who has betrayed you. She is nothing, just a silly little girl. Take your knife to me and do as you wish. I will not stop you.’

  Erik looked at her, as though seeing her for the first time, as though witnessing the birth of love itself, untouched, untainted.

  The knife fell to the ground and Freya awoke. She thrust out her leg, and the heel of her foot split Erik’s nose. He fell backwards and before he hit the ground she had launched herself upon him with the knife in her hand. It was only Silje who stopped her from driving the blade into his open mouth. She threw herself at her, pushing her away from him. Freya’s eyes locked with hers, and for a moment Silje believed she would kill her instead. Freya blinked and her eyes misted. The knife fell from her grip.

  ‘It is over now. It is done. All of this.’

  ‘He was going to—’

  ‘No, he would not. Such cruelty… it is not him. I should have seen that.’ Silje held her and kissed her. ‘But I thought I would lose you. I could see eternity without you and I have never been so afraid.’ She kissed her lips and then between her eyes. ‘I am done with The Orchid. No more. I will take you and Fólkvangr away from this war. And you,’ she said, turning to face Erik struggling to his knees, ‘I will put this right. I swear to you.’

  ‘She will put this right,’ he said to the sky. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and staunched his nose. The handkerchief stained red.

  ‘You must put your head back.’ Silje reached for him; he slapped her hand away and Freya cried out, thinking he’d hurt her.

  ‘Do not worry, little Jew,’ he said. ‘I am too weak to exact justice for what has been done to me this day. Is it what you wanted, Silje; someone powerful like Gruetzmacher to treat you like the whore you are? Perhaps you despise being worshipped like a queen because in your heart you know you do not deserve it.’ He got to his feet, swayed back and then leaned forward, planting his left boot heavily in the snow. Then he began to walk, away from the path, away from Fólkvangr.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Silje cried.

  ‘In preten
ding you care, Silje,’ he said, ‘you insult us both.’

  Chapter 47

  Bergström had a key to Mr Gust’s apartment. He let himself in and pushed me into one of the large white armchairs. His associates followed; one searched the rooms while the other began moving the cases inside. Mr Gust was standing by the picture window. He was pressed and suited in black, his hair brushed and his shoes shined. He and Bergström nodded to each other and grimly shook hands.

  ‘You know we will have to take all this off,’ Bergström said, stroking the lapel of Mr Gust’s jacket.

  Mr Gust shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is a gesture, I think. I want to meet my maker suitably attired.’

  ‘And since when have you believed in a higher power?’

  ‘Since I put on this suit.’

  They both smiled uncomfortably, their mutual unease eventually forcing them to look out of the window.

  When I noticed the suit was brand new, my legs began to shake. The sound of my shoes rattling against the floor attracted their attention.

  ‘Does she want to see this?’

  ‘I think it will be good for her.’

  ‘Really, my friend, forcing the poor child to witness a murder? You are better than this.’

  ‘Do not presume to tell me who or what I am. You are an animal, and I am not your friend. You spat on your oath and murdered innocents. I am merely here to see that justice is served.’

  Mr Gust nodded sadly. ‘It is a fine day for it.’

  ‘As good as any.’ Bergström offered him a cigarette which he gratefully accepted.

  ‘I’m not supposed to smoke inside the apartment.’

  ‘Do you think they will fine you for it?’

  A cloying silence and then the apartment filled with laughter. I tried to stand up, but one of Bergström’s men placed a hand on my shoulder and drove me back down into my seat. He told me not to move and then returned to moving cases from the hallway.

  Mr Gust wiped tears from his eyes. ‘And I am laughing,’ he said. ‘The last thing I expected to be doing at this moment was holding my sides. Thank you, Bergström.’