“Smoke?” he said.
Unwilling to look young or immature, she nodded and took a cigarette from the pack. He pulled out a chrome Zippo with a pair of lightning bolts engraved on the side, beneath the words “Cave Tonitrum”—the 56th Fighter Group’s emblem—and lit her cigarette before lighting one for himself. She took a short drag, and her lungs tightened. Stifling the urge to cough, she turned away and exhaled, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
They smoked their cigarettes in silence. Lance flicked away his butt after reducing it to a nub, and Kari did the same, glad to be finished, though she felt a pleasant buzz. They rode onward, and before long, Kari heard a rumbling noise behind them. It sounded like thunderclouds boiling on the horizon. She turned around, and a moment later, she saw two pinpricks of light approaching in the distance. Then she saw two more, and another two after that.
“SS,” said Lance, recognizing the vehicles.
They pulled off to the shoulder of the road as a German convoy approached. A pair of four-wheel drive bucket wagons drove out front, their flat-fours straining through the snow. Behind them followed a trio of Opel Blitzes with slatted blackout lights that looked like cats’ eyes. A half-track armored personnel carrier pulled up the rear, with gleaming MG-34 machine guns mounted at the front and rear of its open compartment. Kari shuddered, having never seen the Wehrmacht so close.
Her heart pounded in her chest as the convoy drew near. She held her breath, expecting the worst, but the convoy barreled past without slowing. She counted ten grey-uniformed troops in the open compartment of the half-track, and she made fleeting eye contact with one of the sheep-faced troops. She felt sick to her stomach, breathing a sigh of relief when the last vehicle of the convoy disappeared into the distance.
They continued on, approaching the outskirts of Hegra. John Ole Hansen, a farmer from Stjørdal, approached them from the opposite direction, riding a horse-drawn cart full of wooden barrels. He studied them as he drew near, recognizing Kari but not Lance. Kari ignored John Ole as they passed him, looking instead at the road ahead.
They made their way toward the center of town. Kari’s eyes widened at the changes that had taken place since she’d been there in December. There were German soldiers everywhere; blood-red flags with large swastikas hung from the flagpoles, having replaced the Norwegian crosses, and posters with regulations in Norwegian and German were plastered up on walls and in shop windows. Dozens of people waited in line for food rations outside the Handelsforening, and it looked like the rådhus had been taken over. There weren’t many locals out, and the few that were seemed to be in a hurry to get where they were going.
They soon approached the train station, a red wooden building the size of a farmhouse. A number of bucket wagons and half-tracks were parked outside, and there were uniformed soldiers everywhere, outnumbering the locals three to one. Kari had never seen so many Germans in one place, other than Trondheim, and Lance noticed her concern.
She pulled the cart to a stop outside a small store.
“Wait here,” she said.
Before Lance could reply, Kari climbed down from the cart and went inside. She avoided a pair of Waffen-SS milling about near the front of the store and made her way toward the dry goods in back. Heidrun Ingerø, the proprietor’s wife, watched the soldiers from behind the counter, where she restocked the pipe tobacco and cigarettes. It felt tense yet eerily calm to Kari, like the moments typically leading up to a sudden storm.
Kari loitered in the back of the store, trying to overhear the soldiers’ conversation. Though she understood some German, as it had replaced English at her school shortly after the Germans had invaded, they spoke with thick accents that sounded Finnish or Russian, and it was hard for her to follow. One of the soldiers said something about an attack on the heavy water plant at Vemork, and the other soldier responded with a phrase Kari didn’t understand, though its hostile tone was clear.
Before long, the soldiers approached the cash register and paid for some tinned meat and crackers. Then they left the store. Once they were gone, Kari grabbed a string of sausages, two loaves of bread, and a block of gjetost and brought it to the counter. Heidrun frowned.
“I’m sorry, dear, but we don’t extend credit—”
Kari interrupted her.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I have money.”
Heidrun watched incredulously as Kari dumped a pile of coins on the counter, along with her battered ration card.
“How much is it?” asked Kari.
“I can give you the sausages or the cheese, but not both,” said Heidrun. “And you’re only allowed one loaf of bread.”
Kari pushed the cheese and one of the loaves of bread forward, and Heidrun tallied the items on a tin register. Kari paid Heidrun without saying a word, then turned and left the store.
She stepped outside, immediately noticing that Lance and the cart were gone. Her knees buckled; she scanned the area, but Lance was nowhere to be seen. She felt bile rise in her throat and stifled the urge to vomit. Had he been captured? she wondered. Or worse—had he just left? She hurried up a side street, but she didn’t see Lance or the cart anywhere. Then she backtracked her way to the train station; the only ones there were Germans, though, other than an older couple and a teenage boy.
She continued on, wondering if he’d been caught, and if so, if she should leave before she was picked up as well. Nearly every fiber of her being was telling her to run, but a small voice told her not to give up, and to keep looking. She rounded a corner and turned onto another side street, and halfway up the next block, she glanced down an alley and saw Lance standing next to the cart. She approached him, out of breath.
“What happened?” she said.
“Some Krauts started nosing around,” he replied.
“We better go,” she said, climbing up onto the cart. Lance climbed onto the cart after her, and Kari tugged at the reins.
Across the street, Signe Nilsen watched them leave from the window of her cramped, unheated room in the boarding house. She knew Kari and Erling—she’d even had a crush on Erling in her youth, though it’d been unrequited—and she knew that the man sitting next to Kari wasn’t him.
Signe looked toward the rådhus across the way, and the Nazi flag that hung outside it, then looked toward her sleeping children, whose breath she could see in the cold air. She hated the idea of helping the Germans, but she hated the idea of losing another child to illness even more.
She pulled on her threadbare jacket and made her way to the door, then quietly opened it and left the room.
CHAPTER 5
He saw her from the top of a ridge, where he’d been stalking an eight-point buck. Or at least he saw what he thought was her, sitting at the edge of Lake Rømsjøen with her back to him, staring into its black depths. She looked as beautiful as she had the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, at the Sankthansaften festivities back in the summer of 1917. Her long, unfastened hair was the color of autumn wheat, an ungovernable tangle of curls that were the envy of all of her friends, and the desire of all of his.
He could have stared at her forever, even just the back of her, and he probably would have, too, had she not suddenly rose and pitched forward into the water, collapsing like an animal that’d been heartshot. After she disappeared beneath the lake’s gently rolling surface, he dropped his tennstempel rifle and bolted in her direction, running downhill through the dense forest. Contrary to what he’d expected, though, the further he ran, the more difficult it became, until it felt like he was trudging uphill through knee-deep mud.
The forest grew thicker and darker all around him. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sounds came. It was as if he’d forgotten how to speak, as if his vocal cords had been severed. He tried again and again in vain, and the forest rose up and folded over him, burying him like a tidal wave.
Erling woke with a start, gasping for air. He glanced around the bedroom and got his bearings, realizing he’d only been dreaming. He shook the t
houghts of Martha from his mind, then sat up and swung his knotty legs over the side of the bed. His arthritic knee throbbed like a beating heart, and he kneaded it until the pain finally subsided.
He dressed in the near-darkness, pulling on the same clothes he’d worn the previous day. His bones ached to the marrow, and he felt like he was seventy-five years old. After he laced up his boots, he picked up his scuffed pocket watch and glanced at its face. It was almost six o’clock, a full hour later than he normally slept. He shook his head and left the room, knowing that the animals would be agitated.
He went out into the hallway and approached Kari’s door. Then he knocked and waited, but there was no reply. He’d stopped opening her door unannounced years before—he was certain she’d had her first monthly visit, though he’d had no idea how to discuss the subject with her nor any desire to, either. Whatever it was, he gave her some space, which seemed to be the only way he knew how to deal with her anymore.
Erling continued on into the kitchen. He put some wood into the stove and lit it, and put on a kettle. While waiting for the water to boil, he glanced out a window and watched the sun rise. Few things in life gave him as much pleasure, other than reading Jack London novels and smoking his pipe on the rare occasions he had tobacco.
After the water reached a boil, Erling poured it over the roasted chicory he’d been using as a coffee substitute since the rationing had begun. Then he poured himself a cup of the bitter brew and cut it with some sheep’s milk. He choked it down as fast as he could, chasing the acrid taste with a dipper of pail water. Then he pulled on his coat and went outside to begin the chores.
He made his way across the property and approached the barn. One of the rangy forest cats that haunted their farm darted across his path, presumably in pursuit of a wood mouse. Erling watched it disappear into the underbrush, then approached the barn door and slid it open.
The first thing he noticed, after seeing that another sheep showed signs of blackleg, was Torden’s empty stall.
Erling headed back behind the barn. Before he got there, he already knew the cart was gone, seeing the fresh tracks in the snow. At first, he couldn’t imagine where Kari could have gone, or why she would’ve gone anywhere at all. Then he remembered her excitement over the downed Allied plane. He turned and made his way back toward the house, inwardly cursing himself for having been so dismissive.
He went inside and got his thick hat and an extra sweater from his closet, noticing then that some of his clothes were missing. After putting on the hat and sweater as well as his thickest coat, he went back out to the barn and fed the sheep. Then he got a worn saddle down from a peg on the wall and approached Loki’s stall. The head-shy mule backed away from him, stamping nervously at the frozen earth.
Erling put down the saddle and slowly approached Loki, stroking the mule’s face and quietly talking to him. He told him that everything was fine, and that he’d never let anyone hurt him. It was so much easier for him to talk to animals than to people, and it always had been, since he’d been a boy. After a moment, Loki’s ears softened, and his breathing returned to normal. He even began to nuzzle Erling’s hand, hungry for his touch.
Once Loki was calm, Erling gently placed the saddle upon Loki’s back. Then he buckled the saddle and led Loki away from the barn, heading off in the direction of the cart tracks. He hesitated when he reached the dirt road, and he stood there for a long moment, internally debating with himself over whether or not he should bring his rifle. If the Germans were to find him with it, they would execute him on the spot, as the penalty for possessing firearms was death. But if Kari was in any sort of trouble and he had no way of helping her, he’d never be able to forgive himself for having no weapon.
After a long moment, Erling tied Loki to a tree, then turned and made his way back to the house. He went inside and went into his bedroom, then squatted down, lifted the corner of the threadbare rug, and pried up a loose floorboard. He reached into the hidden space beneath the floorboard, but there was nothing there; he ran his hand over the space again and again, but he still found nothing, other than cobwebs. His stomach dropped. What if the Nazis had found it? he wondered. There’s no way they would’ve just let him live. Or would they? Were they watching him, and waiting, planning on using him for something else?
He continued to grope blindly in the darkness, and after a long moment, his fingertips found the rifle. He grabbed it by its stock and slowly pulled it out, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw its barrel glinting in the light. He reached back into the crawl space and soon found a half-empty box of rifle cartridges. He shook the cartridges from the box and slipped them into his pocket, then put the floorboard back in place and covered it with the rug.
Erling rolled up the rifle in a bedroll and slung it over his shoulder, then made his way into the kitchen and took the rusty coffee can down from the shelf. He found it empty, though, aside from a one-krone coin. He took the coin and put the can back on the shelf, then filled his pockets with the last of their crackers and jerky. Then he left the house and made his way back to the dirt road.
Erling approached Loki and untied him from the tree. Then he led him to the dirt road and mounted up, and Loki lurched off, struggling under Erling’s weight. Erling hadn’t ridden the mule in years, and with each jostling step, his knee felt like someone was shoving an ice pick through it, but he nudged the mule onward, trying to make up time. Before long, Loki worked up a pasty sweat, and he started to act skittish again after sliding on a patch of ice. Erling gently patted Loki’s neck and whispered into his ear, and the mule settled down.
Erling guided Loki onward toward the frozen brook. He cut a wide berth around the border to the Jacobsens’ farm, not wanting them to see him and wonder why he was out riding a mule on a weekday morning. He then came toward the edge of Hjalmar Prestrud’s small farm, and for a moment, he considered asking to borrow a horse and cart from his old friend. Then he rejected the idea, afraid it might only raise questions, since he hadn’t called on Hjalmar in years.
He nudged Loki onward, up a hill and then down into a tree-choked valley. He soon emerged from the forest and reached the paved country road. He looked westward, toward Trondheim, then looked east, to Hegra and Sweden beyond it. It seemed unlikely that Kari would be heading toward Trondheim, which had a large German airfield and a submarine base as well.
After a moment, Erling set off east in the direction of Hegra.
A wall of clouds rolled in overhead, blotting out the sun. The valley appeared as if it was twilight, even though it wasn’t yet noon. Most of the birds had already retreated to their nests, fooled into thinking the day was prematurely ending. A few hardy ones remained, though, their lonesome songs piercing the silence.
Erling arrived at the outskirts of town just as the storm clouds began to gather, bunching like bed sheets after a long and sleepless night. He left the main road and made his way back behind an abandoned barn, where he tied his bedroll to Loki’s saddle and then tied Loki to a fencepost, not wanting anyone to know he hadn’t ridden in on his cart. Loki started to stamp his feet again and tug at the rope, but Erling whispered some Jonas Lie poems into Loki’s ear and patted his neck. After a while, Loki settled again, and Erling left him some chaff to pick at before heading into town.
The winds came howling down from the mountains, chilling Erling to the bone. He pulled his hat down low and buried his fists into his pockets. One of the townspeople said hello and smiled at him as he approached. Erling forced a smile back at the man as he continued past.
He soon turned onto the main street. There were more Germans in Hegra than the last time he’d been there, multiplying like the stubborn sow thistle that plagued their barley fields. Before the war, nothing had ever happened in the small village, other than a local priest getting elected bishop of Bergen and the opening and subsequent closing of the nearby Hegra Fortress, a defense built to thwart a Swedish attack that had never materialized. Now, it was a regular stop for the N
azis, halfway between their bases in Trondheim and the Swedish border. Every time Erling returned to the village, more and more soldiers seemed to be arriving from Sweden by train, despite Sweden’s so-called neutrality in the war.
Erling walked through the small town, glancing down each alley and side street for his cart. He checked the train station, assuming that Kari and the pilot might’ve tried to take a train to Sweden, an occasional but risky strategy of the resistance. It wasn’t there, though; the only vehicles outside the station belonged to the Germans. He checked the Buland house after that, where Kari’s schoolmate Marit lived with her mother and father, but it wasn’t there, either. He even tried the church, which he’d been avoiding since Martha’s funeral. He approached it from the rear, so he wouldn’t have to see her small headstone in the graveyard out front, but the mere sight of the whitewashed chapel took his breath away. Fortunately for him, though, there were no cart tracks leading to or away from the church, and there were no carts parked outside it, either. He turned around before even getting within a hundred yards of the church, his disappointment over not finding Kari there overshadowed by his relief of not having to visit Martha’s grave.
He made his way back to the center of town and spotted the grocery store. Perhaps Kari had stopped there, he thought to himself. He went inside the store and looked over the dry goods while an SS officer lectured Per Ingerø, the spindly proprietor, about the price of whiskey. Not wanting to anger the officer, Per gave him the whiskey for free. The officer then left the store, shaking his head and muttering curses under his breath.
As soon as the officer was gone, Erling grabbed a container of oats and made his way to the counter. Embarrassed by the encounter with the German, Per averted his eyes from Erling’s, though he still had the courtesy to address him.
“Good day,” he said.
“Good day,” said Erling, placing the oats on the counter.
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