Land of Hidden Fires

by Kirk Kjeldsen

  The lynx left the trail of the deer and cut across a stretch of woodlands, hoping to ambush its prey. After finishing a semicircle through the forest, it doubled back and prepared to strike. Before it got the chance, it heard something break through the ice crust nearby. Hearing more crunching ice, it slipped off into the wilderness, preferring to leave its quarry than to face an unknown threat.

  After a moment, a camouflaged soldier emerged from the snow-swept tree line, cradling a bolt-action rifle. Then another soldier emerged from the forest, and another. Before long, an entire Gebirgsjäger unit appeared, the distinctive Edelweiß insignias on their caps and sleeves. Armed with light machine guns and dressed all in white, they passed as quietly as clouds across the sky.

  They moved forward through the forest, searching the area. Earlier that day, they’d received intelligence that the Norwegian Resistance was escorting an OSS unit from Sweden. Embarrassed by the sabotage at Vemork and the Inter-Allied Commando raids in Lofoten and Måløy, the Reichskommissar had sent a number of Gebirgsjäger units to patrol the area. He’d wanted to act swiftly and brutally, quelling the possibility of further defiance.

  Before long, one of the soldiers spotted some wandering tracks in the distance. He peeled off from the unit to get a better look at them. Smoothed over by the wind and covered by the recent snow, it was impossible to tell whether a person or an animal had made them. Not wanting to take a chance, he continued to follow them as they wound deeper into the forest.

  The soldier soon entered a clearing and found an abandoned campfire. The area around the fire was littered with footprints, the treads of the soles still visible in many of them. The soldier went forward and knelt down next to the footprints, examining them. He noticed they had the distinctive impressions made by the slanted heels of jump boots.

  He also spotted a cigarette butt near the fire, the “LUCKY STRIKE” logo clearly printed on its side.

  The wind rose up and passed through Hegra, knocking the snow loose from the branches and shaking the windows. A group of people stood in line outside the Handelsforening, waiting for their food rations. After a moment, a pregnant woman wearing a Lebensborn pin on her coat exited the store, carrying a large bag of groceries. Some of the people in line spat at the ground behind her, muttering things like “traitor” or “Nazi whore” as she walked past.

  Sverre rode into town, pedaling as fast as he could but keeping the bicycle under control. He focused on the task, suppressing the urge to get ahead of himself again. There would be plenty of time for planning later, once the farm was back in his possession. For now, though, his only goal was to prove to Moltke that he’d been right.

  He slowed the bicycle as he approached the hotel. Then he hopped off it and leaned it against a tree, near a parked police motorcycle. He went inside and walked past the desk clerk without acknowledging him.

  “Sir—”

  Before the desk clerk could finish, Sverre was already halfway up the stairs. The desk clerk hurried up the stairs after him.

  “Sir!”

  Ignoring the desk clerk, Sverre pounded on each room’s door.

  “Herr Oberleutnant?”

  The desk clerk tried to stop him.

  “You can’t do that—”

  Continuing to ignore him, Sverre pounded on the next door.

  “Herr Oberleutnant!”

  The desk clerk tried to stop Sverre again.

  “He’s not here—”

  Sverre spun around and shoved the desk clerk against the wall.

  “Where is he?” he said.

  “I don’t know—”

  Sverre pulled out a rusty pocketknife and put the blade to the desk clerk’s throat.

  “You lie,” he said, spitting the words through his snus-stained teeth.

  “He got a call this morning, about the downed pilot,” said the desk clerk. “He and his men left in a hurry.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know—”

  Sverre jabbed the point of the blade into the desk clerk’s neck, drawing blood.

  “I swear, I don’t know,” said the desk clerk, closing his eyes.

  Sverre hesitated.

  “Please,” said the desk clerk. “Don’t kill me.”

  After a long moment, Sverre lowered the pocketknife and released the desk clerk. Then he hurried back down the stairs as the desk clerk slid whimpering to the floor, clutching his throat.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Stjørdal River began near the Norwegian-Swedish border, at the confluence of the Dalåa and the Torsbjørka. It wound its way westward from there, gaining momentum as the Kåpperåa, the Funna, and the Forra fed into it. By the time it reached the stony highlands of Nord-Trøndelag, it churned fast and white, often swelling as wide as a soccer pitch. Its music rose and ebbed along the way, changing back and forth from a murmur to a roar.

  Erling trudged his way up through the highlands, going east in the direction he assumed Kari was heading and following the Stjørdal back toward its source. He travelled through the night and into midday without a break, knowing she’d be going twice as fast as him on horseback, if not faster. He’d jog until he grew winded, gritting his teeth and fighting through the pain of his arthritic knee. Then he’d walk for a spell until he got his breath back, and then he’d jog some more until he was gasping again.

  By the time the sun reached its apex, Erling’s clothes were soaked with sweat, even though the temperature hovered around the freezing point. The bottoms of his feet were mottled with blisters, and he slipped and slid in his blood- and pus-soaked socks. He hadn’t eaten all day, and his throat was a desert. He scooped up a big handful of snow and ate it without stopping, then struggled his way up a treacherous ridge.

  After reaching the crest, Erling began to descend toward a narrow valley. He saw something glinting in the distance to the south, reflecting the wan sunlight. Afraid it was the glass of a riflescope or an enemy’s windshield, he took cover in the wilderness. After continuing through the forest for a few hundred meters, though, he realized it was only a cabin window.

  Erling slowed his pace and considered his options. He could see if there was anything of use in the cabin; if he was lucky, there might be some skis, or at least a rifle or something to eat. If he stopped, though, every second he spent there was a second that Kari was getting further away from him. But if he continued at his current pace, she was still pulling away, just at a slightly slower rate; he’d never catch her, unless she stopped or turned back.

  After a moment of deliberation, Erling changed direction and headed south toward the cabin. He broke into a trot, wanting to spend as little time as possible on the detour. He soon approached the small cabin, noticing the snowdrift covering its door. The cap of its stove chimney was buried in snow as well; it looked like no one had been there in months, if not years.

  Erling peered in through one of the cabin’s windows, but he saw nothing inside, other than a set of antlers on one wall. He cleared away the snow from the door and tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Remembering the rasp in his coat pocket, he took it out and forced it between the door and the doorframe. Then he pried open the door.

  He stepped inside the cabin. It smelled faintly of pinesap and mushrooms, and in the closed space of the cabin, he suddenly became aware of his own stench. There was just enough light to see the cabin’s meager furnishings—a table and a chair, a small bed, and a rusty stove. A few books sat on a shelf, including a worn botanical atlas and a copy of Fridtjof Nansen’s Fram over Polhavet. To Erling’s surprise and relief, he also spotted a pair of old wooden skis propped against the wall.

  Erling approached the skis and inspected them. They were short, probably belonging to a woman or a child, and the thong bindings were coming apart, but they’d be a vast improvement over walking. He searched the cabin for poles, but there weren’t any to be found. No matter, he figured; he could use sticks instead.

  He looked through the rest of the cabin, searching fo
r weapons or food. He found a rusty, bolt-action hunting rifle, but there were no cartridges. He searched the cabin again—still no luck—but he found an old wooden bow underneath the bed, along with a few target arrows. He picked up the bow and pulled back on the bowstring, testing the draw. It was a bit slack, but it was better than nothing.

  He found a few tins of King Oscar sardines in a cupboard and shoved them into his pocket. Then he slung the bow over his shoulder and exited the cabin. Outside, he looked for branches that could pass as poles. After finding a pair, he placed the skis on the snow. Then he stepped into the bindings and pulled them tight. One of them was already coming apart, so he cut a strip from his undershirt and used it to tie the binding to the ski. Then he dug into the snow with the makeshift poles and set out back in the direction he’d been heading.

  The skis were small, and the bindings were loose, but Erling travelled much faster on the skis than he did on foot. He was rusty at the start—he was never much of a skier in the first place—but he soon got the hang of it, pushing further with each stride. Once he settled into a rhythm, he took out a tin of sardines and opened it, scooping some into his mouth. They tasted like battery acid, metallic and sour. He spat them out and tossed aside the tin, then opened another—they’d also gone bad. So had the third tin. He threw them aside and continued on, his stomach rumbling.

  He fought up a steep incline, then coasted down into a valley. He soon saw a pine tree in the distance, its snow-laden boughs sagging back toward the earth. For some reason, it made him think of Martha, and the way she used to brush her hair before going to bed. He reminisced about a trip he’d taken with her to Sweden, when she was five months pregnant with Kari. He’d told her that she should have stayed home, but she wouldn’t listen. She never did; she was so stubborn and independent, qualities that had made their relationship challenging though they were the qualities that had drawn him to her in the first place. At one point during the journey, she’d wanted to discuss baby names. They’d both been against naming the baby after his grandfather if it was a boy, which had been the custom of the time. She’d liked the name Jens, the name of her late uncle. If it was a girl, she also didn’t want to give the child a family name, finding Gudrun, Aslaug, and Hjørdis all so dour and old-fashioned. She was going to be her own person, Martha argued, and she should have her own name. Something strong and beautiful, like Ylva, which meant wolf, or Kari, the name for the god of wind.

  Before long, Erling heard a humming noise in the distance. It was tinny and scraping at first, like the sound of a revving chainsaw. Then it deepened in pitch and grew louder as it approached, soon rumbling like thunder. He looked toward the sky and spotted a German bomber on the horizon, heading in his direction. He hurried over to some trees, taking cover beneath the branches. Then he waited for the bomber to pass. He looked up as it approached and saw the thick black Balkenkreuze on the undersurfaces of its wings.

  Once the plane was gone, he emerged from where he’d been hiding and continued toward the border, picking up his pace.

  CHAPTER 21

  The half-track rumbled through the highlands, following ghost tracks in the snow. It churned its way up rocky hills and barreled across rut-filled meadows. The men smashed their tailbones against their seats whenever the vehicle crashed down, and they piled up into each other on every turn. Even if they’d wanted to speak, it would’ve been impossible to hear over the groaning engine.

  Moltke sat next to Schweitzer in the front of the half-track, staring out at the snow-swept wilderness before them. He was no longer comfortable sitting passively in back, overseeing things from a distance. If the pilot had reached Sweden, he’d be the one who’d answer for it, and his transfer papers would never come through. In fact, he’d probably end up at Falstad, digging ditches, or worse. Knowing this, he hadn’t even bothered to wait for Goetz to finish dressing back at Hegra, leaving him behind.

  Schweitzer slowed the half-track going around a bend. Moltke turned to him, incredulous.

  “What are you doing?” he shouted. “Speed up!”

  Schweitzer increased their speed, but when he slowed down again on the next decline, Moltke erupted, grabbing the wheel.

  “Stop the vehicle,” he said.

  “What—?”

  Moltke interrupted him, shouting.

  “I said stop the vehicle! Now!”

  Schweitzer stopped the half-track, and Moltke reached across Schweitzer’s lap and pushed open the door.

  “Now get out,” he said, shoving Schweitzer to the snow.

  Before Schweitzer could get back to his feet, Moltke climbed behind the wheel and threw the half-track into gear, pulling away. After a moment, he turned to the two wide-eyed men sitting in back.

  “Anyone else want to walk?” he said.

  The men shook their heads. Moltke turned around and looked forward again, grinding the gears as he shifted up from second into third.

  Somewhere behind the clouds to the west, the sun began to sink toward the horizon, dragging the remaining daylight with it. The winds picked up, knifing their way through the birch and pine. The birds and the rodents disappeared into their nests and burrows, retreating from the advancing darkness. As the temperature dropped, the lake ice cracked and shrank, echoing throughout the silence.

  Moltke raced the half-track up a slanting hill, nearly flipping it as he barreled over the hill’s crest. Riding down the other side, he noticed a quartet of vehicles in the distance, Wehrmacht bar crosses clearly visible on their doors. He soon saw a dozen Waffen-SS, patrolling the area in small groups. Then he saw a number of Gebirgsjäger in their all-white uniforms, hardly discernible from their surroundings.

  He parked the half-track near the other vehicles and got out, not bothering to see what his remaining men did. Then he made his way toward a grizzled Oberfeldwebel addressing some soldiers and interrupted their conversation.

  “Where are the tracks?” he said.

  The Oberfeldwebel nodded toward a group of trees, where the remains of a campfire had been cordoned off. Moltke looked at the footprints around the campfire, then looked back to the Oberfeldwebel.

  “And what makes you think these belong to an Allied pilot?” he asked.

  “They’re slanted, like their jump boots.”

  “Maybe someone found his jump boots.”

  The Oberfeldwebel held up a cigarette butt.

  “Someone find his Lucky Strikes, too?”

  Before Moltke could reply, he heard a nasally voice with a singsong Bavarian accent behind him.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Clever Hans.”

  Moltke turned to see Major Aloysius Stahl, the head of the most-decorated company in the Wehrmacht’s 20th Mountain Army. Though a wisp of a man, Stahl carried himself like Goliath, and the soldiers gave him a wide berth.

  Moltke tried to recover, snapping off a quick salute.

  “Heil Hitler—”

  Stahl cut him off before he could finish.

  “You wasted two days for me,” he said. “I should be in Petsamo by now.”

  “I take full responsibility—”

  Stahl cut him off again.

  “Of course you take full responsibility, Herr Oberleutnant, and if you don’t find that pilot before he leaves the country, you’ll never leave this country alive,” he said. “Are we understood?”

  Before Moltke could reply, Stahl walked off toward an idling Horch 901, where his driver was waiting. Moltke watched him go, then turned and made his way back to the half-track. He looked around for his men, but he didn’t see them anywhere. No matter, he thought to himself. They were useless, anyway. But what now? Do I take a Gebirgsjäger unit and look for the pilot around here, or do I go on ahead to the border? And if the latter, where do I go?

  Before he could make up his mind, Moltke heard someone call his name. He panicked, fearing the worst; perhaps they’d realized that the pilot had already gotten out of the country. He slowly turned around, but instead of seeing Stahl or
another superior officer, he saw the scrawny man from Hegra, standing next to what looked like a police motorcycle.

  “Herr Oberleutnant?”

  “What do you want?”

  The man pulled the burnt scrap of the Allied squadron patch from his pocket and showed it to Moltke, then turned and nodded toward the mountains to the southeast.

  “I know which way they’re going,” he said.

  CHAPTER 22

  The black mountains rose in waves, churning and white-capped. They climbed ever higher to the east, each row more faded and illusory than the last. The darkening storm clouds sagged lower to meet them, making it difficult to tell the two apart. The world became a marbled, streaky palette, composed solely of greys.

  Erling skied his way through the highlands, taking one long stride after another. He took advantage of the downhill stretches, crouching as he rushed headlong across untouched patches of snow. Going uphill, he shortened his stride and bent forward, leaning into the mountains. On a few of the steeper sections, he took off the skis and carried them over his shoulder, advancing slowly on foot.

  He crossed another wide meadow, passing an old, snow-covered seter. A pair of gnarled pine saplings grew on its gently sloping roof, emerging from the sod and ice. In the summer months, the seter’s owner would likely return with his herd, and the animals would graze there until the days grew shorter again. For now, though, the area was a desolate and uninhabited wasteland.

  Erling struggled his way up another hill, pushing the skis out as far as he could to lengthen his stride. He marched his way upward through the ankle-deep snow, fighting to keep his momentum and leaving a jagged herringbone pattern in his wake. When he finally reached the summit, a familiar vista lay before him. There was Fjelldalshøgda, shaped like a slumbering bear, and nearby was its tree-covered neighbor, Midtkveldslumpen. Finnhaugen and Tjønnmorya lurked beyond them, to the south, and in the distance, the high peak of Steinfjellet towered above everything else.