‘We carry on,’ said Gunther suddenly. ‘We will move more men closer to the village to defend it if need be. Silje, Erik must be found.’
Silje nodded and said she would bring him home.
‘Good, then let us leave the Ohnstads in peace. There is much to do and only three days left to us.’
Chapter 49
They asked his friends in the village and in Bergen; many had seen him; she could tell by the looks of contempt she was given while they talked to her father.
‘Packed up everything,’ said Truls Bjørnebye, Erik’s onetime partner in a mobile farrier business they’d started and had folded within the space of a week. He eyed Silje and snorted loudly. ‘And I can hardly blame him.’ He peered over Jon Ohnstad’s shoulder at Freya waiting in the truck.
Silje’s father chose not to defend her, focusing instead on the search at hand. ‘Yes, we have already been to his home. Do you have any idea where he would go?’
‘As far from her as possible I shouldn’t wonder.’
That was more then enough. Jon Ohnstad stared at him until his nerve broke.
‘I don’t know, Mr Ohnstad,’ Truls said, more respectfully this time. He glanced back towards his front door where his wife waited with her arms folded. Silje smiled at Mrs Bjørnebye, and Mrs Bjørnebye stared back.
You shall not preen and charm your way across this threshold, Silje Ohnstad. You will not steal my life from under my feet.
Silje thought of Lisbeth Fehn and realised, suddenly, how much she missed her…
‘Wait,’ Truls said. His eyes widened and a smile spread across his thin lips. ‘He has cousins!’
Jon Ohnstad clapped his hand against his forehead. ‘Of course! Two – no – three cousins on his mother’s side.’
Truls nodded and Silje, bewildered, tried to remember Erik ever mentioning having cousins living within an echo of Fólkvangr.
‘When did he tell you about his cousins?’
Her father ignored her; he and Tuls rattled their brains trying to remember where they lived.
‘Somewhere south, I think,’ ventured Truls.
Silje asked again, ‘What cousins? He never told me of any—’
‘Vossevangen,’ Freya called from the truck.
’Yes! Voss! They live in Vossevangen!’
Silje said, ‘He never told me.’
Jon Ohnstad was already halfway back to the truck. ‘Of course he told you, Silje. It is more likely that you were not listening. Now come, we have a long drive ahead of us.’
* * *
Voss lay about sixty miles north-east of Bergen, an ill-advised journey during the colder months, especially in a truck that was older than Silje herself. But her father was not a fool. He returned to the cottage for blankets, food, water, shovels, the radio given to him by Gunther Braithwaite, and the oil heater that lived in the corner of the kitchen and which was, strangely enough, rarely lit.
Freya insisted on accompanying them in spite of his protests that he could take care of one of them far better than he could care for two. Silje’s heart swelled to hear that he still cared; she had begun to wonder.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, and Freya hurried to climb in next to him, knowing full well that Silje would want to sit by to her father to shield her.
‘There is no need,’ she whispered.
Silje slammed the door, and Jon Ohnstad started the engine.
They travelled the snow-laden paths in silence, Freya staring blankly ahead and Jon Ohnstad sighing at every near-obstacle and burnt-out home along the way. They had to get out three times to move a tree felled under the weight of snow, or the carcass of an animal that had succumbed to starvation in its search for food. One of the animals was a stag that lay across the path with its neck broken and its flank caved in. Silje’s father said that it had probably been hit by an armoured car.
‘Voss fell during the first days of the invasion,’ he reminded them.
Silje remembered that Norwegian forces had gathered there and held the invaders at bay until the Luftwaffe had turned the town to rubble during a bombardment that lasted a day and a night. She swallowed and thought of Fólkvangr and of Erik’s cousins, finally remembering when Erik had told her about them. She reached for Freya’s hand. Her father coughed loudly so she moved her hand away.
A few moments later, having steered, with great effort, around a smashed and abandoned troop carrier, he sighed and said, ‘You will be warmer if you sit closer.’
They eagerly embraced, Freya nestling her head under Silje’s chin and pulling the blanket over them both.
‘I thought you would be angry,’ Freya said gratefully.
Jon Ohnstad said nothing.
‘You must think us an abomination,’ she continued, moving from brave to careless in a single breath.
‘I think no such thing,’ he mumbled.
‘Then why will you not speak to us?’ asked Silje. ‘We did not mean for this to happen, and you told me once this was commonplace after the First Great War when menfolk were scarce or were crippled on their return.’
‘We cannot help who we love,’ Freya said quietly.
‘If you think this is why I am angry then you do not know me as well as you think,’ he said. ‘I have always admired your spirit, Daughter; it has brought life and adventures to our village. We both know I am no saint and this is perhaps why I did not curtail you when I should have. Perhaps this is why I allowed you to… indulge yourself in ways that are unseemly for a young lady of sound upbringing.’
Silje wondered where she had been during this ‘sound upbringing’.
Her father rubbed his palm across his mouth and took a deep breath. ‘I saw you kissing Lisbeth Fehn once. Perhaps then would have been the proper time to—’
‘That was not the same!’ Silje cried.
Freya pointed her eyes at her and narrowed them to great effect. ‘You never said there had been others!’
‘Others? Do not say “others”. There were no “others”. Do you think I make a habit of seducing—’ She realised this was a poor choice of phrase to use in the presence of her father. ‘—involving myself with women? You are my first, Freya.’
‘You make it sound as though I will not be your last!’
Jon Ohnstad flushed red.
‘Do not be like this,’ Silje said angrily. ‘Not now.’
‘You always said that Lisbeth Fehn had mountainous hips!’
‘I was not kissing her because I liked her; I was kissing her so she would know how to kiss…’
I was kissing her so she would know how to kiss Erik Brenna.
She did not want to speak his name here, laid raw between the anger of her lover and the judgement of her father.
Jon Ohnstad chuckled quietly as Freya snatched the blanket and swathed herself in it, turning her back on Silje, leaving her in the cold.
‘Is this your first disagreement?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Freya, in a sulk. ‘We have had many.’
Thankfully, the silence continued, aside from the occasional outburst followed by a heated and ill-thought recrimination.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Voss, Silje and Freya were seething and exhausted, and Jon Ohnstad was quite bored.
‘Whatever you call this,’ he said, getting out of the truck, ‘the pair of you will live somewhere else if this is how you carry yourselves.’
Silje followed him and shut the door before Freya could follow her. ‘What is it? Why have we stopped?’
Ahead of them the trees folded inwards, forming a winding canopy that stretched a half-mile before turning west. The road had all but vanished beneath a covering of fresh snow.
‘There is a checkpoint about two miles away, but Gunther told me there is a way to avoid it if we proceed on foot.’
‘Then the sooner we—’
‘We cannot take Freya; it is too dangerous.’
‘Father, we cannot leave her here on her own.’
‘
And that is why you are staying with her.’ He continued to speak over a cacophony of protests. ‘She is blind, a Jew, has no papers and we cannot account for who she is or why she is with us. And as remarkable as she is, if the Germans—’
'It will be dark in less than an hour,' Freya said.
Both Silje and Jon Ohnstad jumped when she spoke, as neither had heard her leave the truck. She stood facing the wind with her tongue between her lips, painting a picture of her surroundings in sound and scent.
'There are three men at the checkpoint, perhaps four. Your father is right; we will never get past them. We will move the truck into the trees and head east.’
Silje and her father looked at each other.
‘When darkness comes you will need me to find your way back.’
‘We need her.’ Silje cast her eyes downward. Freya’s feet were bare, and in the short walk from the truck had left hardly a mark in the snow.
Freya headed off towards the archway of trees. ‘We are wasting time, sir’
The Ohnstads looked at each other again and followed.
‘And do not call me “sir”,’ Jon Ohnstad called after her.
She led them through the forest, running her fingers over leaves and branches to test her direction. Darkness began to fall and Silje wondered if they were lost, even though Freya did not hesitate in her steps.
‘When we reach the town,’ Jon Ohnstad whispered to his daughter, ‘it is—’
‘She can hear you,’ Silje said flatly.
He rolled his eyes. ‘When we reach the town it is important you both behave normally.’
‘I am not sure what you mean.’ said Silje. Finally, she could hear voices and see lights through the trees.
‘I mean that you must not do anything that will draw attention to us.’
‘Like arguing.’
‘Yes… amongst other things.’
‘What other things?’ said Freya.
‘Well,’ he said, looking as though he was about to step into a lit kiln, ‘no holding hands or… or kissing.’
‘Holding hands,’ echoed Freya.
‘Kissing,’ said Silje. ‘Tell me, Father, do you think that women such as us carry ourselves differently to anyone else?’
‘I was merely—’
‘Do you think that women who choose to live as we do feel the need to demonstrate our love whenever someone looks upon us?’
‘No,’ he sighed.
‘Do you think that we are such degenerates we cannot prevent ourselves from stripping naked and ravaging each other, even when in public?’
‘I suppose it is too late to apologise.’
‘Do you think that at the drop of a hat we will—’
‘You have made your point. If anyone challenges us, you are both my daughters.’
They broke through the forest near the rear of a tavern. A narrow passageway took them to the town square – or what remained of it.
‘Dear God,’ Silje said under her breath.
The centre of Voss had been reduced to rubble. The church was little more than a pile of stones, and children played soldiers in what remained of the shops and town houses. Some of the lamps still stood, though most had been destroyed in the air raid, leaving the town cradled in twilight. The Germans had posted propaganda notices on any wall still standing: calls to turn in your neighbours and invitations to join Quisling’s youth movement. Silje hoped the children playing in the rubble were fighting on the right side.
And there were more Germans here than on the streets in Bergen.
‘Christ, we are in the den with the lions,’ said Silje.
Freya swallowed and said, ‘Sheep. They are just sheep dressed as lions.’
‘We have little time.’ Jon Ohnstad led them away from the town square.
‘Do you know what his cousins are called?’ asked Silje, shamed she needed to ask.
‘Lunde,’ her father said. ‘Frida and Vildred Lunde. They own a metal-working business just outside the centre of the town.’
Although flattened, the centre of Voss was still expansive; it could easily contain Fólkvangr. They walked quickly, careful not to steer wide paths around German soldiers or avoid eye contact with them. Jon Ohnstad was especially deferent, tipping his cap to officers and enlisted men alike. An officer tapped his wristwatch as they walked past him. ‘Curfew!’ he shouted.
‘We are on our way home, sir!’
Thankfully, the soldier did not challenge them further and returned to the task at hand: attempting to woo a young Norwegian girl who looked more frightened than charmed. Silje looked at her as they hurried away, and in the moment their eyes met, she realised that even in the near-darkness the girl had recognised her – most likely from her pictures that appeared in The Quisling Orchid. The girl’s mouth fell open; the officer frowned and turned to see what had taken her attention.
Silje thought, We are undone.
But the girl grasped the officer’s chin and turned him back to press her mouth against his. He returned the kiss, seemingly unsurprised, as though her capitulation had been merely a matter of time. The girl gestured with her free hand, shooing Silje and her companions away.
‘She has bought us time,’ Silje said. ‘We must finish here as soon as we can.’
* * *
Four streets off the main square was a jewellery and trinket shop that looked as if it had been dropped on top of an old church, cutting it cleanly in two.
Jon Ohnstad knocked on the door, and when no one replied he went to the window, cupped his hands around his eyes and peered inside.
‘I see a light,’ he said. ‘And I think I see someone moving.’
Silje knocked again while her father tapped urgently on the glass.
A moment later, the door swung open and a very tall thin woman said, ‘Do you not know there is a curfew in place?’
Silje was taken aback; the family resemblance was as striking as it was unexpected. The woman could have been Erik’s twin: the same waxen blonde hair, the same sallow complexion. Her chin receded, just like Erik’s, though she had failed to cultivate a smile that would have alleviated this condition with attractive lines about her mouth.
‘What do you want?’ she asked sourly, looking past them.
Jon Ohnstad removed his hat. ‘Would I have the pleasure of addressing Frida or Vildred?’
‘Vildred,’ she answered flatly. ‘Frida is dead.’
‘I… I am very sorry; I did not know.’
She looked at each of them in turn. ‘And why should you? I have no idea who you…’ Squinting at Freya, she pursed her thin lips and waved a hand in front of her eyes.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So it is you. You’d better come in.’
They trooped obediently after her into the shop, Jon Ohnstad closing and locking the door.
Vildred led them past the living room, through to the kitchen, and finally out to the workshop which appeared to be a foundry attached to the main house. The fires were cold and the floor was covered in soot and dust.
‘You make everything here?’ asked Silje.
‘Not since Frida was killed. Oh, and before I forget…’ Vildred raised her hand and struck Silje soundly across the cheek.
‘What in God’s name!’ Jon Ohnstad roared. He lunged forward to shield his daughter from further assault, while Freya demanded to know what had just happened.
Silje said, ‘It is all right. Everything is all right, Freya.’ She rubbed her cheek and took a deep breath so she would not cry. ‘So, Erik has been here, I take it.’
‘Yes,’ Vildred said. ‘Would anyone like something to drink? I have some ale somewhere.’
Silje and her father looked at each other.
‘No thank you,’ said Freya warily. ‘We cannot stay long.’
‘So you must be the famous Freya.’
‘Do not think to lay a hand on her,’ Jon Ohnstad warned.
Vildred moved her tools so that they could sit on the anvils or lean against the dead furnac
e; her guests were inclined to stay standing.
‘What happened to your sister?’ Silje asked.
‘I told you. She is dead – killed in the air raid that destroyed the centre of the town.’ Vildred began rummaging in a large trunk hidden behind the furnace. ‘She was the craftsman, I’m afraid. I’m more of the bookkeeper, so now we have a shop in the centre of a ruined town, with no stock, no customers, no craftsman-in-residence…’ She smashed the neck of a bottle against an anvil and poured the contents into a misshapen pewter tankard. Ale leaked from its seams; Silje guessed that Vildred had tried to make it herself. She drank quickly, and still only consumed half the bottle’s worth. ‘Still,’ she said, ‘at least our accounts are in order.’ She chuckled to herself.
‘You were going to tell us about Erik,’ ventured Freya.
‘Erik… Yes, Erik! My cousin, the one betrayed and humiliated by a pair of deviants.’
‘If you like,’ said Silje, determined not to open herself up to further attack. ‘Now are you going to tell us or should we just leave?’
Vildred didn’t reply until she’d drunk another half-bottle. ‘He came here five or six days ago. He was upset, naturally. He said his reason for living had been torn from inside him.’
For Silje, hearing this was like being hit in the stomach all over again.
‘He stayed for a few days, gave me some money, and then he was on his way.’
‘Wait, why did he not stay for long?’
‘Here? In Voss? Look outside, you stupid girl. Most of the people walking the streets are German. Only the despairing stay here, those without hope or any place else to go. Besides,’ she added, ‘he didn’t come here to see me.’
‘I know,’ said Silje. ‘He came here to get away from me.’
‘Amongst other things,’ Vildred said with an uneven smile. ‘A woman arrived here, the day after he came to us. I let them share Frida’s room. He didn’t seem unhappy the last time I put eyes on him, I must say. Then, the day before yesterday, I think, or perhaps the day before that, they both disappeared.’
The Quisling Orchid Page 45