‘MOSSAD still not happy with you.’
He nodded and made a sound inside his throat that would have been laughter if he’d allowed it to escape. ‘They have two dead operatives. They will never be happy again.’
‘After three months, they still don’t believe you.’
‘They do not.’
‘So shooting yourself in the leg was a waste of time.’
‘Apparently so.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘I make them believe me.’
‘And if you can’t?’
Bergström sighed and unwrapped a packet of sandwiches. He offered one to me. I wasn’t hungry. He took a bite and chewed slowly.
‘You could run.’
‘Israel is new to the intelligence game; she needs to prove herself, and the fastest way to do that is to pursue her targets regardless of distance and time. They would find me. It may take a decade or two, but they would find me.’
‘Then I’m sorry.’
‘Yes,’ he said. I wasn’t sure if I was forgiven or not.
He took another bite and watched the same crowds slowly being obscured by the building traffic. The smell of petrol fumes pressed down around us and the first of the car horns sounded, building rapidly to an orchestra.
‘How long have you known?’
He didn’t reply, not at first, so I tried again. ‘How long have you known it was her?’
This time, he sniffed loudly and rubbed his chin. ‘Gust was the cleverest,’ he said. ‘He knew how to drip-feed us information: a name here, a location there. Kept himself alive for ten years, the bastard.’
Funny thing about the way he said ‘bastard’; there was no malice or venom behind it. He said it in an almost playful way, like he was talking about an old friend whom he hadn’t seen for years, or a companion recently departed.
‘We thought Gruetzmacher was all he had left, but no, the old fart had one more ace to play: the Iscariot Initiative. Memo by memo, report by report. Another two years of life. That note you carelessly dropped in the library – it was written by him, you know. Didn’t sign it; none of them signed anything. We didn’t even know that Gruetzmacher headed the project until we paid him a visit in New Zealand.’ Bergström rested his fists against his chin and looked across the busy street. That was the only time I ever saw an emotion in him: sadness, such sadness.
‘I saw what he did – in Fólkvangr. I was there, on the rooftops, while the fighting raged. A stupid place to hide really. I was lucky I wasn’t killed when the shelling started. But then perhaps I wasn’t so lucky after all.
‘It started with the doctor, I think. He ran towards the tanks and they riddled him with bullets. He wouldn’t stop; he just ran and ran, shouting their names, and when he reached it, he sort of… erupted. He must’ve have had explosives under his jacket, though I cannot imagine for the life of me where he found them.’
‘His sons were in the Resistance.’
Bergström looked at me, surprised, and clearly impressed. ‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘You didn’t give me much choice.’
‘No, I suppose I didn’t.’ He took another bite of the sandwich and swallowed it without chewing. ‘I knew your father. He was a good man, and when he confessed all those years ago, I thought… I don’t know what I thought. It didn’t make sense to me, but—’
‘He confessed.’
‘Yes. Why would he do such a thing?’ Bergström shook his head. ‘And the girl. It was not her fault. She was brainwashed, raped, tortured, beaten… No, I cannot blame Freya.’
I guessed then that Bergström had been a little in love with her. I imagined him as a small boy with a crush the size of a mountain.
I said, ‘I think she might have killed the lamplighter.’
‘Kleppe died of heart failure,’ he said flatly, dispassionately. ‘He fell and—’
‘Struck his head, yes; I read it in Silje’s diary.’ I searched my rucksack until I found the photograph taken at the Ohnstad monument. ‘Look at the stones.’
Bergström produced a pair of spectacles from his sleeve and put them on. He glanced sideways at me, a little self-consciously, then peered closely at the picture. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘That stone,’ I said. ‘Can you see the blood?’
‘Yes, where he fell and hit his head.’
‘Then the blood should have stained the top of the stone, not the side, unless he ran headlong into the wall.’
He looked again, still mystified.
‘He didn’t fall and hit his head. The rock was taken from the wall, used to kill him, then replaced – the wrong way round.’
‘The wrong way round.’
‘Because the person who used the stone couldn’t tell which way it was supposed to go back into the monument.’
‘Because the person who killed Jonas Kleppe—’
‘Because the person who killed Jonas Kleppe was blind.’
He blinked, smiled and then burst into peals of unpleasant laughter. I waited for him to get it out of his system. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. ‘So this blind woman – girl – picked up a stone, killed the old lamplighter with it, and then put the stone back. Even if what you say was possible, I knew her! She loved that old man! She would have never—’
‘She loved Fólkvangr, and we both know she betrayed every one of you who lived there.’
‘She could not help—’
‘She betrayed Fólkvangr even though she was in love with the one woman who would never forgive her for it.’
He looked at me, his eyes trying to pierce my skin. I wanted to move away from him, but I stayed my ground, holding onto the step in case fear and common sense forced me to do otherwise.
‘And if she was in love with Silje Ohnstad and betrayed Fólkvangr anyway, then it’s not that much of a stretch to think she would kill Jonas Kleppe.’
He blinked and looked up into the sky, sifting through his scarred memories, piecing things together.
‘The orchid shed,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘I saw them… in the… in… fuck!’ He closed his fists and pressed them against his skull. I hoped he wouldn’t cry; I wouldn’t have known what to do if he’d cried. I let him have his moment, busying myself by laying more of my scrawled notes on the steps.
Bergström was staring at me as though I were some sort of monster.
‘I’ve been reading some stuff about mental trauma.’ I had to tread carefully now that I’d realised he still saw her through the eyes of a besotted child. ‘What if the Nazi experiments caused some kind of split in her personality? What if there were two Freya Dorfmanns: the Jewess and the German spy. I mean she was German, wasn’t she?’
He swallowed and the muscles in his cheek twitched. It was implausible, but he wanted to believe it, to have his memory of Freya Dorfmann cleansed and sutured. But Bergström was ever the pragmatist, ever the soldier.
‘You only have conjecture,’ he said, ‘nothing else. Certainly not enough to condemn her further.’
‘The Lomen brothers,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen articles that say the Germans knew they were coming, that they were betrayed.’
‘Conspiracy theorists, I’d venture. Remember, the General lost men in that attack.’
‘Or did he sacrifice them to keep his spy a secret? And what about her father? What if it was Freya herself who betrayed him to—’
Bergström struggled to his feet; I guessed he’d heard enough. He glared at me for what seemed like an age and then he reached into his pocket. I knew the routine by now so I didn’t leap out of my skin or scream or beg for my life; I just held out my hand and waited for the envelope to land on my palm. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, ‘and how many people are you going to kill when we get there?’
He forced out a smile and said, ‘Have you ever been to Israel?’
‘You know I haven’t.’
‘Good, then it will be an experience for one of us at
least. Go home, get some rest; you leave in the morning.’
Chapter 56
Doctor Lomen had run into a wall of gunfire – and kept running. The name of his youngest boy was on his lips when he threw himself – his clothes hanging in bloodied rags from his broken body – onto the armoured car and detonated the charges he’d strapped to his chest.
The explosion set off the grenades carried by the German soldiers nearest him.
The shockwave bowed outwards, lifting Germans and Norwegians from their feet and throwing them through the air. Then came the heat, as though hell itself had thrown open its gates. And the roar, Silje thought, was the devil himself, calling mankind to account for its folly.
She felt something burst inside her ear, and then there was silence. She breathed and the air seared her lungs. Through the fog and the dust she could hear screaming in the distance.
She wanted to sleep and so she closed her eyes and waited for the numbness to take her.
‘Get up,’ a voice said, while a strong callused hand took her by the wrist and hauled her to her feet.
‘Father, Doctor Lomen, he—’
‘Yes,’ said her father, ‘yes, he did.’ He had a gash in his cheek that stained his beard red. Silje reached into her pocket and found a handkerchief, but he turned away from her before she could tend to him.
The villagers were slowly returning to life, raising themselves from the earth as though waking from a slumber.
Like a fairy story. Silje realised her head was in a fog. She looked around for Magnus; he was as well as could be expected, helping Gunther to his feet.
The Germans were stunned, but regrouping. She could hear Gruetzmacher shouting orders though she could not see him.
Her father called Gunther’s name and in a moment he was at his side.
‘This is our time.’
Gunther nodded and shouted orders to his scattered men.
Another cry split the air; they turned and saw Kvist Gundersen running towards the German line, holding his ancient blunderbuss to his eye. Silje, Gunther and Jon Ohnstad watched in horror as the old man fired the gun. Silje herself was amazed that the weapon didn’t explode in his hands – Kvist had kept it clean after all.
The gun released a cannonade of metal shot, tiny ball-bearings that killed two of the Germans outright and blinded a third. Kvist threw the gun away and kept running, brandishing an old kitchen knife and heading for a cluster of six stormtroopers who were running towards him.
Silje turned to beg her father to help him, but Jon Ohnstad had gone, running across the village square, firing his machine gun. Gunther Braithwaite ran at his flank, and behind them the Resistance ran also, spreading into an arrowhead with a score of the villagers running and shouting, shielded in the arrowhead’s cradle. It was a good strategy, and Silje felt a swell of pride for her father who had devised the formation, should it come to this.
It has come this, she thought, and I am standing here, woolgathering. And so she ran, as fast as she could, approaching the arrowhead at its right flank.
Carina saw her and grinned. ‘Glad you could join us, Miss Ohnstad,’ she yelled and slowed her pace so that Silje could slip inside the shield. The Resistance laid down suppressing fire, protecting the villagers who were armed mostly with farming tools. Ebenhard Holm was the first to fall; he left a space in the formation that robbed them of two more villagers. Silje wanted to turn and run back; she steeled herself and pressed on, having no idea what she would do when they reached the German line.
I will die, most likely. It occurred to her that she had not said goodbye to Freya. She felt a wooden handle pressed into her hand, and when she looked to her right, she saw Magnus grinning at her from behind his mask of scars. ‘And this,’ he said, passing her a large hammer. ‘When we reach the Germans, swing them like you are possessed by Satan himself.’ He was shouting to be heard over the roar of the villagers. ‘But for the love of God, do not swing at me!’
‘As if I would do such a thing, little brother!’ Her words made her feel brave.
To her left, Carina began to slow before folding and collapsing in on herself; Silje cried out as Carina fell, but she ran on, feeling her tears freezing against her cheeks.
‘If we hold the formation’ her father had said, ‘then most of us will survive until we hit the Nazi line. And then the villagers can take them. The Germans will not be able to bring their weapons to bear, not in such close quarters.’
They hit the Nazi line, and she remembered his final words: watch for bayonets!
Fólkvangr pushed back the line, and Silje, as she had been told, swung and turned, and swung again. The scythe was sharp, but it was the hammer, heavy and blunt, that would do the most damage. To her right, Junges Fehn and his wife fought side-by-side, slashing and stabbing at the Germans with knives and a pair of memorial swords. Silje had visited the Fehns’ home many times while Mrs Fehn was away, and she had no memory of ever seeing the swords. She offered Mrs Fehn a smile of comradeship, but received a glare of unbridled hatred in return. Some sins would never be forgiven, it seemed.
Four of the Resistance fighters had climbed up on the cottages and the tavern and were firing down into the German cluster. The villagers were surrounding them. Bodies, German and Norwegians, were pressed tightly together; it was suffocating and exhilarating.
Silje swung the hammer, cracking the skull of a young trooper, who fell at her feet, almost bringing her down as the villagers pressed forward.
The cannon mounted to the remaining armoured car opened fire, showering the fray with spent cartridges that burnt flesh as they struck. The heavy machine gun made short work of The Mottled Goat, and killed the men and women who had used it as a vantage point.
Grette, the tavern’s formidable barkeep, met her end while firing down on the enemy.
Silje realised her life was crumbling around her; she set her teeth and plunged forward, listening for the sound of Gruetzmacher’s voice.
There! Towards the centre of the Germans. He was still bleeding, his uniform torn, his cap missing. There was no fear in his eyes, simply anger and disbelief aimed more at his men than the villagers.
Have you not prepared them, Silje thought. Have you spent so long lost in the bottle that you neglected to make them ready for the Norwegian spirit?
He was armed only with his Luger, but he wielded it with a cold precision she found terrifying. He would shout an order, select a target, fire, kill, shout an order. He was the perfect soldier, as long as he was fighting. He ordered his men to break formation, break the circle and spread throughout the village. They would fade into the stonework and pick off this rabble one-by-one.
Silje slashed the throat of a German officer and caved in the skull of another trooper. Gruetzmacher was less than an arm’s length when he saw her. She raised the scythe and he fired his gun.
She heard something clatter to the ground, and when she looked down she saw it was the scythe. A dark red stain appeared at her shoulder and spread across the neckline of her shirt. She felt herself sway, forward and then back.
Gruetzmacher raised his gun again, but the shot that sounded came from behind her right ear, and it was Gruetzmacher who fell, his left knee shattered. And how he screams, Silje thought. She fell into the arms of her father who tried to drag her free of the fighting.
‘That was a stupid thing to do,’ he said, his voice breaking.
‘You saved my life,’ she whispered.
‘It was not me – it was her.’
Silje looked to where he pointed his eyes, and saw an old woman firing a machine gun at the soldiers who were carrying Gruetzmacher away.
‘Marit.’
‘Thank you,’ Jon Ohnstad said.
Marit took Silje’s arm and Silje felt pain, like a white hot lance, shoot through her shoulder. They carried her to a crumbling wall – the only piece of The Mottled Goat left standing.
‘She needs a doctor,’ Marit said.
‘We have none.’
Jon Ohnstad looked back towards the battle. The German defence was all but broken.
Marit said, ‘Go. They need you.’
‘She is my daughter.’
‘I will take care of her.’
He hesitated, until Silje also told him to go. ‘She is right, Father. They look to you. Go back and look after Magnus. I fear the smell of blood has addled his brain.’
Jon Ohnstad smiled for a moment before addressing his estranged wife. ‘She is a thing most precious to me, Marit. I am trusting your hatred of me will not—’
‘I have often said to you, Jon Ohnstad, that she is the daughter that should have been ours. I will treat her as such.’
He nodded grimly and embraced Silje, causing her body to tighten in pain. ‘I will be back for you soon.’
And Silje felt it then, a yearning to keep him close to her, to never let him go. He wrestled himself away from her and stroked her cheek with his thumb. ‘I have never been more proud of you than I am today, Silje. Your mother would—’ He glanced at Marit who was pretending to look elsewhere. ‘I must go. I will return shortly.’
He vaulted the rubble, with the agility of a man half his age, and ran back towards the battle line. The struggle had moved beyond the remains of the archway and out onto the narrow road, leaving corpses, an overturned staff car and two burning armoured transports in its wake.
Marit toiled wordlessly, gathering whatever wood and kindling she could find to start a small fire.
‘The wound is not serious,’ she said, and Silje wondered how she could possibly know this; it felt very serious from where she was sitting. ‘You were very fortunate; the bullet passed straight through, though I daresay you will experience some stiffness in your arm for the rest of your days.’
She looks pleased, Silje thought. It is hard to tell…
Marit produced a small knife from the folds of her dress and placed it in the fire. She allowed Silje to stare at it for a moment before speaking again. ‘I will need to clean the wound, stitch it, and seal it.’
‘Will it hurt?’
‘A great deal I’m afraid, yes.’
The Quisling Orchid Page 49