Land of Hidden Fires

by Kirk Kjeldsen

  Kari turned onto the road and made her way back across Meråker. She plotted their new route in her mind, figuring their best chance at getting to Sweden was across the highland trails she used to take with her father, when they went to Åre and Järpen in the summer to sell their wool. It wasn’t an easy route, but the only Germans that might be up there were the Gebirgsjäger, the mountain infantry units that hunted the Norwegian resistance and the Inter-Allied Commandos. She considered stopping at the Handelsforening on her way back to buy provisions with their remaining money, knowing they’d need them if they headed into the highlands. Approaching it, though, she saw at least a dozen Waffen-SS outside, so she passed by without stopping.

  She picked up her pace. Seeing a compost heap behind a house, she went over and looked through it, but the stench made her gag, and there was nothing worth taking. She kept going and then stopped and checked the compost heap outside the next house. She grabbed a few moldy potatoes off the pile, then continued on her way.

  Kari soon left the dirt road and followed her slowly vanishing trail back through the forest. She used the sheath knife to cut the moldy parts off the potatoes while contemplating their new route. Though they weren’t likely to run into anyone, the highland trails were a much more difficult route than the logging roads. One benefit, though, was that it would take longer to get to Sweden, which meant that she’d have more time with Lance.

  She returned to the hill and struggled her way up the rocky incline, falling halfway up the slope and sliding back down to the bottom of it. She tried again and again, and on her fourth attempt, she finally reached the top. Then she made her way through the forest back to the clearing where she’d left Lance.

  She brushed the snow off her coat and pants, then smoothed back her hair, wanting to look her best. Before long, she saw the copse of trees where Lance had been waiting, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She rushed over to the clearing and saw a few sets of fresh footprints in the snow. One pair she recognized as Lance’s, but the other two didn’t belong to him. They were larger, and the spacing was different. Did they belong to Norwegians or Germans? she wondered. It was impossible to tell.

  Kari rushed back to the tree where they’d left Torden, only to find him missing as well. Lance’s footprints headed off into the forest from there, along with Torden’s hoof prints. The other two sets of footprints also proceeded in the same direction.

  A queasy feeling rose in Kari’s stomach, and she felt her chest tightening as she followed the trail. What if he’d been caught? she wondered. Or worse . . . what if he’d left her? What if he’d found the resistance, or they’d found him, and they’d offered to take him to Sweden themselves? She tried to count to five with each inhale and each exhale, struggling to keep from hyperventilating.

  She continued to follow the tracks until they abruptly stopped. The larger two sets of footprints switched back and headed off in another direction. Lance’s trail, however, came to an end; it looked like both he and Torden had disappeared. How could that be possible? she wondered. Had they carried him away? She searched for signs of where they might have gone, but there was nothing to be found.

  Kari began to panic again. She broadened her search, scouring the area in ever-widening circles. She eventually spotted some faint tracks behind a stand of trees; they looked like they’d been smoothed over with a pine branch, or perhaps a coat.

  Kari followed the tracks, her sense of dread quickly replaced by a flicker of hope. The tracks eventually became sharper again, and a pair of hoof prints emerged from the snow. Not long after that, she made out Lance’s distinct boot prints as well.

  She continued on through the forest. Her heart stopped when she heard a whistle in the distance. She scanned the area, spotting Lance in a thick stand of evergreens. He held Torden’s reins, and the horse stood behind him, ducking his head beneath the low-hanging branches.

  Kari approached Lance.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Two men came up here, with rifles,” he said. “I don’t know if they were Germans or not, but I wasn’t about to find out.”

  Before she could reply, they heard the buzz of an engine in the distance. Kari grabbed Torden’s reins, and without saying another word, they hurried off into the forest.

  CHAPTER 14

  The wind rose howling off the mountaintops and stirred the clouds, breaking them up into wispy strands of cirrus. Small patches of blue gradually emerged between them, the first streaks of color the sky had shown in days. They didn’t last long, though; as soon as the late afternoon sun dipped toward the west, the blue patches faded to a matte purple and then back to a lusterless black.

  Moltke looked up at the shifting clouds as he and his men rode out toward the Dahlstrøm farm. He saw the vague shape of a horse’s head among them, its open mouth braying at some unseen provocation. The winds fanned and stretched it out into the shape of a crude sickle, and then a pair of bones, and then, finally, nothing. He thought back to the Internationaler Wolkenatlas he’d seen while a student at the Kriegsakademie; it had seemed like such an indulgence to him at the time, for people to be documenting something so ephemeral as the clouds. Only now after living through his second World War was he beginning to see that their efforts were just as fleeting; the grand sum of all the battles they’d fought and all the borders they’d drawn and redrawn seemed no less transitory than the clouds, and no more tangible, either.

  Schweitzer stomped on the brakes, jolting Moltke from his daydream and bringing the half-track to a fishtailing halt. The enlisted men seated in back piled up against those seated near the front, shoving them against seatbacks or to the floor. Moltke, who’d been sitting in the middle, tumbled to the deck, then fought his way back to his feet, cursing and shoving at his men. He looked ahead over the half-track’s nose armor and saw the other half-track in front of them, jackknifed into a ditch.

  The men jumped out of the half-track and approached the wreck. Thick black smoke poured out from its engine block, and its tank treads whirred through the empty air. One by one, the dazed passengers crawled from the vehicle, cradling injured arms or holding their battered heads. The gangly young driver was the last to emerge, his nose swollen to the size of a lemon and leaking blood.

  “Verdammte Scheiße!” said Schweitzer, looking over the wreck. “Are you blind?”

  The young driver shook his head, dripping blood all over the front of his uniform.

  “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled.

  “Get it out of there,” said Moltke.

  Schweitzer climbed behind the wheel and tried to reverse the half-track out of the ditch. It didn’t move, its treads chewing up the icy mud and spitting slushy geysers of it into the air. Schweitzer tried again and again, cycling through the gears, but it still wouldn’t budge. He climbed out and ordered the other men to help him push it, but it was no use; the half-track was firmly stuck.

  “Now what?” said Goetz.

  “Destroy it,” said Moltke.

  Schweitzer approached the wreck. He took a stick grenade from his belt, yanked its cord, and shoved it under the half-track’s hood. The men scattered for cover as Schweitzer hurried away from the wreck, and a moment later, the front of the half-track exploded in a thunderous ball of flames.

  Moltke turned to Blücher, nodding toward the young driver.

  “Take him back to Hegra,” he said. Then he turned and addressed the others: “The rest of you, back in the vehicle.”

  The men grabbed their gear and piled into the remaining half-track. Moltke got in last, taking a seat in back. Schweitzer climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine, and a moment later, they were moving again. A few of the men glanced over their shoulders at Blücher and the young driver, but Moltke didn’t look back, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

  They continued their way along the winding country road. Schweitzer slowed the half-track to a crawl, driving in second gear to avoid ditching it. The enlisted men sat shoulder-to-shoulder i
n the middle of the vehicle, blowing on their hands and stamping their feet to keep warm. Moltke sat alone in back, staring off into the forest and smoking one cigarette after another to quell his headache.

  They soon left the country road and turned off onto an old dirt path. Schweitzer dropped the half-track into first gear, and the engine strained as they made their way down a hill. After they rounded a bend in the path, Moltke looked ahead and saw a yellow farmhouse in the distance. He checked the Gestapo’s file; according to the notes, one of the most valuable informers in the Stjørdalen Valley lived there. The next farm was the one they were looking for; it belonged to a widower named Erling Dahlstrøm, whose daughter Kari had been named as the one helping the downed pilot. They had no apparent ties to the Quislings or the resistance; they were what the Gestapo called unberechenbar, or unpredictables, who were to be regarded with scrutiny and caution.

  Moltke put away his notebook and took a long drink from his flask, trying to get rid of the vile taste at the back of his throat. The man on the bicycle who’d brought the girl to their attention had repulsed him; it wasn’t just his shabby appearance, or his rotten breath or ill manners. It was his ruthless, unabashed opportunism; Moltke had known dozens like him back in Berlin, who’d turn in a lifelong neighbor or co-worker for a better apartment or an extra ration card. It was the only lead they’d gotten, though, and he was glad to have it, despite its source. The sooner they found the pilot, the sooner he could get back to Trondheim, and the sooner he could start working on his transfer papers.

  Before long, they rounded another bend in the dirt road. Soon after that, they spotted the Dahlstrøms’ crumbling barn in the distance. Schweitzer parked the half-track in between the barn and the run-down farmhouse, and the men got out.

  Moltke turned to Goetz and one of the enlisted men.

  “Check the barn,” he said. Then he followed Schweitzer and the other enlisted man toward the farmhouse.

  From a distance, the farmhouse didn’t appear occupied; no smoke rose from the stove chimney, and no lights burned inside. There weren’t any fresh footprints leading to or away from the house, either; the few that were there had been rounded or concealed by the recent snowfall. It didn’t look abandoned, though; despite being shabby, there were plenty of signs of someone living there, including some potato peels atop a compost pile and a stack of recently chopped wood.

  Schweitzer nodded to the enlisted man, and the enlisted man knocked on the door. They waited for a moment, but there was no reply. Schweitzer looked in through a window, but he saw no one inside. After another moment, he kicked in the front door and went in with his machine gun raised, and the enlisted man followed him.

  Moltke entered the house after his men. Schweitzer and the enlisted man stormed from room to room, checking inside closets and under beds. Moltke went into the living room, which seemed oddly sterile to him; there were no photographs or personal touches anywhere, other than a ratty throw blanket and a simple landscape in a cheap wooden frame.

  After examining the living room, Moltke checked the kitchen. He noticed that the cupboards were barren, the stove was cold, and the sink was dry. The bottom of a coffee cup had a black crust on it, and the pail water had a faint, stagnant odor. It seemed like no one had been there for days.

  Once he finished searching the kitchen, Moltke went back into the living room, where he met up with the others.

  “Did you find anything?” he said.

  “Just these,” said Schweitzer, showing Moltke the American postcards from Kari’s room.

  Before Moltke could reply, they heard someone shout his name. They hurried outside, where they saw a horse-drawn cart approaching in the distance, being pulled by a sturdy-looking Fjord horse. Reidar sat on the cart, holding the reins; his teenage daughter Hanne sat next to him, her hands hidden beneath a blanket.

  Moltke turned to his men.

  “Be ready,” he said.

  The soldiers gripped their machine guns as the cart approached. Before it got within twenty meters of them, Moltke addressed the driver.

  “Herr Dahlstrøm?”

  Reidar slowly nodded as he pulled up on the reins.

  “Do you speak German?” asked Moltke.

  “Some,” said Reidar.

  “Where were you?”

  “Bringing a sheep to town.”

  Moltke nodded toward the house.

  “It looks like you’ve been gone for some time,” he said.

  “Just the day,” said Reidar, his German clunky and slow.

  Moltke’s gaze narrowed.

  “Is there anyone who can confirm that?” he said.

  “You can check with the butcher,” said Reidar.

  “Which one?” said Moltke, opening his notebook.

  “There’s only one in town,” said Reidar. “We stopped at the store, too.”

  Moltke nodded to Hanne.

  “And who are you?”

  Reidar responded before she could reply.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I asked the girl a question,” said Moltke, turning to her. “You can speak, can’t you?”

  After a moment, Hanne answered.

  “My name’s Kari,” she said, her voice wavering.

  “Where are your papers, Kari?”

  Reidar nodded toward the house.

  “They’re inside,” he said.

  “You’re supposed to have them with you at all times,” said Moltke.

  Reidar began to climb down from the cart.

  “I can get them—”

  Moltke interrupted Reidar.

  “That’s all right,” he said, nodding to the girl. “She can go.”

  Hanne looked to Reidar, uncertain. Reidar nodded, and after a moment, Hanne got down from the cart and approached the house. Reidar watched her go, his heart pounding in his chest. Goddamn that stubborn Erling, he thought to himself. I knew we should’ve gone to the resistance. He thought about the rifle he had hidden beneath the seat of his cart, then counted the German soldiers. He figured he could take out two of them, or maybe three if he was lucky, but certainly not five. He looked toward the house, hoping Hanne might flee out one of the back windows. If she doesn’t come back soon, he thought to himself, I’m going to have to do something. If I try to take on them all, it’s suicide, but if I don’t do anything, we’ll end up at Falstad, or worse.

  Before Reidar could decide what to do, he heard a buzzing noise in the distance. He and the others turned toward the origin of the sound, and a moment later, a German soldier appeared on the horizon, approaching on a motorcycle and slipping and sliding in the thick snow.

  The men gathered around as the soldier pulled the motorcycle to a stop and cut off the engine. The soldier then addressed Moltke, out of breath.

  “Herr Oberleutnant?”

  “Yes?”

  “We found the body of an Allied pilot nearby,” said the soldier. “Near a farm in Lånke.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” said Moltke. “Take us to it.”

  Without saying another word, Moltke and his men piled back into the half-track and drove off after the motorcycle.

  Reidar watched them go. It took a long time for his hands to finally stop trembling.

  CHAPTER 15

  The mountains fused on the horizon with the bunching storm clouds. The last remaining daylight bled away, leaving behind a limited palette of ever-darkening hues. Edges blurred and shapes grew faint and indistinct, and the world took on a surreal and dreamlike quality. It was once again becoming the dark and shadowy place that inspired stories of trolls and monsters.

  Erling rode the balking mule onward through the foothills. The makeshift bandage he’d applied held for a while, but after a few hours, it had become tatters. The exposed crack in Loki’s hoof had deepened and grown wider, and the hoof had resumed bleeding. It left an intermittent blood trail in their wake, blemishing the snow.

  He massaged the mule’s neck and whispered more poems into his ea
r, including the works of Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson, which he’d memorized as a boy.

  “I sat and waited through evenings long

  and scanned the ridge with the spruces yonder;

  but darkening mountains made shadows throng,

  and you the way did not wander . . .”

  He repeated the poems over and over, but the soothing words didn’t help; the injured mule’s strength was dwindling, and he began to sag beneath Erling’s weight.

  They soon emerged from the foothills and descended into a valley. After crossing it, they entered another stretch of forest. Halfway up a hill, Loki stopped advancing. He took a few steps backward, swayed from one side to the other, and then sat down in the snow.

  Erling dismounted from the mule and led him over to a nearby tree. After he tied Loki’s reins to a low branch, he continued through the forest on foot. He soon came across two pairs of windswept tracks cutting a jagged route through the snow. They’d been filed down and smoothed over so much that he couldn’t tell whether they were coming or going, or if they’d belonged to humans or animals.

  He trudged onward, making his way through a stretch of birch trees. Then he fought his way up a steep and icy scarp. After reaching the top of a ridge, he emerged from the forest and saw a scattering of lights at the bottom of a valley. Though he hadn’t been there in years, he knew without a doubt that it was the village of Meråker.

  Erling descended the hill and approached the village, hoping to find some wire to repair Loki’s hoof and perhaps some food as well. He thought about the last time he’d been there, on a trip back from Sweden with Martha. She’d wanted to spend the night for the Sankthansaften festivities, but he’d been in a hurry to get back, so they didn’t stop. He felt a wave of regret wash over him, wishing he’d acted differently.