If only she could turn the clock back. She remembered skiing with Sonja before the war — the dazzling sun on their faces, the snow a pristine white tablecloth over the land. The random senselessness of her death made her so angry she thumped her fist down on the sill.
Outside, her street looked as it always had. Planked houses, the eaves decorated with carved fretwork finials, neatly cleared paths. Yet this disease was in their midst, one that killed without warning. She had the intense urge to tell someone what had happened, but who could she tell? She wished Jørgen were here. He ought to know that his Resistance work had repercussions. But she knew he wouldn’t want to think about that; it was far easier to pretend such things didn’t exist.
CHAPTER 4
The next day Astrid decided not to get the tram to work. She was self-conscious about her bruised face, which was now turning into a black eye, and she didn’t want to risk getting into a carriage with another man like Schmitt. So she walked quickly for she had three miles to cover, and needed to keep warm. She saw a car turn the corner into her street and a stout man in a fur cap drive by. He slowed as he passed her but didn’t stop.
Just the sight of it made her shrink inside. Saloon cars like those were only owned by Nazis and their sympathisers now. As she strode along, she worried all the more, wondering what it meant, it being on her street.
She dodged around a queue to the butchers, where about twenty women stood in line. Poor things. They’d probably end up with only a small piece of sausage meat anyway. Past the empty bakery window which had a sign pasted on the front, ‘No flour today’. At the school gates though, groups of schoolchildren hung around, chattering in the usual way. She wondered who would cover Sonja’s classes; what Mr Pedersen the head, might say.
She passed Mr Feinberg, thrusting a package wrapped in greased paper at his daughter. Astrid had taught ten year-old Sara Feinberg last term, and found her a vivacious and sharp-witted child, always keen to learn. Of course she knew they were German, and Jewish, and had fled their own country when the Nazis refused to withdraw from Poland. They’d seen what was coming.
‘Morning Miss Dahl,’ Sara chanted, grabbing the package from her father and cramming it in her satchel. Within a minute she was gone, her brown plaits lost amongst those of her fair-haired friends.
‘She’s settled in well,’ Astrid said, one hand hiding the bruise.
‘I know,’ Mr Feinberg said. ‘It seems a shame to have to move her again.’
‘You’re moving again?’ Astrid asked. ‘Do you have to go?’
He grimaced. ‘You know how it is. At first, they said it would be a peaceful occupation, but I see now that they want to Nazify the whole country, with their so-called “enlightenment” films and propaganda.’ He looked away, watching the bigger children go by. ‘Someone threw a stone at us just last week.’
Astrid thought of Sonja but said nothing. She didn’t want to scare the children.
‘It breaks my heart,’ Mr Feinberg said. ‘Sara wanted to know why everyone hates us, why we are always hiding and running away. What can I tell her? Pretty soon, my bookshop will be targeted. We’ve seen it before in Frankfurt, that’s why we came here.’ He saw her eye, where her hand had fallen away, and stared a little too long. ‘I see it’s started here. The bullying.’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘If the children ask, I’ve walked into a lamp-post.’
He frowned at her a moment, curious. ‘See now why I want Sara out of here. I’m just waiting for some advice; to decide where’s best, and we’ll be off.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘I thought Sweden, but some friends of ours were trying to get out of here that way, and they got stopped before the border and deported to a camp somewhere.’
‘That’s awful. And Sara’s so bright; all this change can’t be doing her education any good.’
Mr Feinberg looked at her with his intense brown eyes as if she were a crazy person. ‘School’s not important. I don’t care if she never passes a single test, or is the biggest dunce in the class, as long as she’s alive and safe, and we can be together.’
She’d offended him. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help…’ Astrid said, tailing off, knowing that there would probably be nothing, but feeling like there ought to be something. She had never seen a sign of a mother, or any woman. They were a lone pair, Mr Feinberg and Sara.
She watched him go. A man in a threadbare overcoat, who would be tall, but for his slightly stooped walk, as if he was bowed down with worry.
The morning assembly made no mention of Sonja at all and she found out in the staff room that a student teacher had been drafted in to cover Sonja’s classes. Should she say something to the others? She couldn’t get the scene out of her mind, and felt tearful at the thought nothing was being done about it.
The bell rang for lessons to begin and she was still worrying what to do. Instead, she did the next thing, which was to open the door to her classroom and place her pile of books on the table.
‘Before you ask,’ she told the class, ‘I had a bit of an argument with a lamp-post.’
Giggles and whispers from the girls. She’d barely picked up her chalk when the door opened and Mr Pedersen, the head, came in, carrying a thick pile of documents. He was an untidy, balding man who always sported a university gown over his shabby tweed suit, and talked as if the words in his mouth were in danger of escaping — with his mouth almost completely shut. It gave a whiny quality to his voice.
She waited as the class stood and greeted him. ‘Sit down, class,’ he said, pushing his heavy square glasses back up his nose. He placed a sheaf of typewritten paper on the desk in front of her. ‘Guidance from President-Minister Quisling. Physical education is to be replaced today by activities suitable for the new regime. All class members will join the Undomsfylking.’
Astrid stared at him. The Undomsfylking was the equivalent of Hitler’s Youth organisation.
‘It’s all in there,’ Mr Pedersen said, tapping the top sheet with a fingernail. ‘And you will need to join the National Teachers League, the Norges Laerersamband. Those that do not, will be deployed elsewhere. It goes without saying that it is in your best interests to join.’
‘They’re changing the curriculum today? With no notice at all?’ Astrid asked. ‘What about the girls’ gymnastics? Will they still need their kit?’
‘I’m sure it’s all spelled out in the documents, Miss Dahl,’ Mr Pedersen said, with a thin smile. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your class time, so I’ll leave you to get on.’
With that, he was out of the door, no doubt to deliver the same news to every other teacher. She thought of Sonja. The school had not even acknowledged her death. Mr Pedersen had said not a word in assembly, and not a word to her class about where she’d gone. It was as if she had never existed.
‘Quiet. Quiet!’ she said, frowning. The class were whispering among themselves.
‘I’m not joining their Youth group, Miss,’ one of the girls in the front row said. ‘Our neighbour’s boy joined. It’s all things against King Haakon and saying that Germany is better than Norway. They can’t make us, can they?’
‘I don’t know, Ingrid. Give me time to read it, and we’ll see what it says.’
‘Oh, Miss —’ A chorus of disapproval.
‘Get out your geometry books and we’ll come back to it later.’
A banging of desk lids as they reluctantly got out their books. Geometry couldn’t compete with the idea of rebellion against the new rules, so it was a somewhat rocky lesson. At lunchtime she had the chance to sit in the staff room and read the paper, along with all the other disgruntled staff. It made depressing reading.
One of her colleagues, science teacher Ulf Johanssen waved a page at her. ‘It says those that teach “in improper conditions” whatever that means, will be subject to severe punishment. Apparently the Nazi Head of Church and Education will give us more guidelines as to “improper conditions” soon.
<
br /> ‘Anyone who doesn’t toe the Nazi party line will be slammed in prison, it means,’ said Karen Baum, the girls’ history teacher.
‘There won’t be room,’ Ulf said. ‘The prisons are filled to capacity with Norwegian objectors to the Nazis. Intelligence is; they’re putting six of our men into a one-man cell. Even Grini detention camp is overcrowded. They say there are more than six hundred of us in there.’
‘Don’t. It’s too depressing.’ Astrid put her papers down. ‘How am I supposed to explain all the changes to the girls of 3C? Or explain it to the parents? I’ve a good mind to refuse. I’ll write to the education minister and tell him so.’
‘You wouldn’t really.’ Karen looked at her with wide eyes.
‘Well why not?’ Astrid was suddenly impatient with them. Why should they just knuckle under and follow like sheep? ‘If we explain why in a reasonable tone it might delay it, even if they still try to push it through.’
‘Delaying it might work,’ Ulf said. ‘It’d have to be a letter we can all sign. And all the other teachers. We’ll send it round all the schools.’
‘Who’ll draft it?’ Mrs Bakke asked. ‘Astrid?’
Everyone looked round. Nobody wanted to volunteer.
‘Where’s Sonja?’ Mrs Bakke asked. ‘She’s usually good at this sort of thing.’
Astrid was trying to find the words to reply, but the question was never answered. All fell guiltily silent because Mr Pedersen suddenly appeared, clutching his copy of the quisling newspaper. His appearance was deliberate, thought Astrid, because of the new rules. He wants to make sure we don’t have time to complain. Normally he’d just sit in his office and never come near them.
After the bell went for the end of school, Ulf caught up with her just outside the school gates.
‘Do you mean it, about the letter?’ he said. His earnest face searched hers.
‘I just feel we should do something. These new regulations are forcing propaganda down children’s throats. They betray everything I’ve ever believed in teaching. All this “superior” race stuff … it’s discrimination on a huge scale.’
‘If we do it, it might provoke … recriminations.’
She drew back her shoulders. ‘I know what it might do. I saw them pull Sonja off the street and shoot her. For no reason at all.’
Ulf searched her face. Her expression must have told him she was serious. ‘Shit. I didn’t know,’ he said. He stood awkwardly, twisting his long scarf in his hands. ‘You saw it?’
She nodded. A lump had risen in her throat and she couldn’t trust herself to speak.
‘Is she…?’
Silence.
‘All the more reason,’ Ulf said finally. ‘We can’t be party to that. Can I come back with you now and we’ll draft the letter together? Better to do it behind closed doors I think, and I’ve no coal or wood at my place.’
She let out her breath. ‘Come on then. But we’ll have to walk. I don’t travel on the trams anymore.’
‘Well I hope my shoes will hold up. They’re more hole than shoe, and I can’t get a new pair for love nor money. All leather shoes have gone to the Germans. They’re saying they’re bringing in paper shoes, with wood soles. Still cost the same number of coupons on our ration cards though.’
She looked down at his shoes, where the sole had separated from the upper. In fact now she looked, she realized he looked like a pauper, even though he was one of the most respected senior teachers in the school. His face had the care-worn appearance of someone who’d been very ill, and his greying hair was lank and needed cutting. All the teachers looked this way, she realised. Thin, worried, and with a haunted look around the eyes.
At her kitchen table they talked about Sonja. It felt good to unburden herself on someone who would listen. Someone who knew what Sonja meant to her. He watched silently as she cried, passing her his grubby handkerchief. Afterwards, they read through the papers Mr Pedersen had given out which told them all teachers were to join Quisling’s new Teacher’s League. Together they drafted a short response to the quisling Minister for Church and Educational Affairs, Ragnar Skancke, which said that their initial contract as teachers forbade them from indoctrinating the students and they would not be participating in the new League. It was short and sharp and had a space for a signature with the teacher’s name and address.
I cannot participate in the upbringing of Norwegian youth according to the guidelines of the Nazi Youth League (NSUF) because it is against my conscience. Since membership in Norges Lærersamband makes me obliged to contribute to such upbringing, and because membership also puts other obligations on me which are against the conditions on which I was employed, I hereby declare that I do not consider myself a member of Norges Lærersamband.
‘D’you think they’ll all sign?’ she asked. ‘We could be fired. Or worse.’
Ulf shrugged. ‘We just have to hope they will.’
Astrid typed it up. ‘We’ll send it via the existing teacher’s union,’ she said, unrolling it from the typewriter bar with a flourish. ‘If we get more to sign it, so much the better. And if we all refuse to make the children join their Nazi Youth enterprise, they won’t be able to make us do it. We’ll just all stick together.’
‘I’ve a friend who’ll print it,’ Ulf said. ‘He has a hidden linotype machine. We can get everyone’s address from the register and get it out there by the end of the week. We want to make sure every single teacher in Norway gets one and signs it. Though we’ll have to be careful no-one knows it came from us.’
When they had finished she made him a cup of what passed for coffee — ground acorn, with no milk. She had queued for the milk ration but hadn’t been in time to get any. Ulf looked like he needed building up, his neck was scrawny where it stuck out of his frayed shirt collar. ‘Do you live on your own?’ she asked him.
‘Yes. In a boarding house. I’m the only Norwegian left there now, apart from the landlady — the rest are Nazi officers billeted on her. Poor woman had no choice. It’s not very comfortable, and it makes me feel like I’m going into enemy territory every time I go home. But I’ve nowhere else, so I just make do.’ He took a gulp of coffee. ‘Hey, not bad.’
‘It’s terrible. You don’t need to be polite.’
They laughed. ‘I’ll drink it anyway,’ Ulf said. ‘Can’t waste anything. Actually, sending round this letter will give me great pleasure — to rebel right under their noses.’
‘It feels good to be doing something, doesn’t it,’ Astrid said. ‘I never thought I was patriotic, but resisting them only seems to make me want to use the same sort of fatuous phrases that the Nazis use. Suddenly, I’m “safeguarding the youth of Norway”.’
‘Yes, me too. You can’t help it. War’s divisive; it’s what it does. Now the Germans are just “the enemy”, instead of actual people.’
‘I don’t know how to teach the children without showing that I hate them all, and ending up peddling hate just like they do.’
‘Yep. There’s love of your country, and then there’s downright bloody jingoism.’ Ulf’s mouth curled in disgust. ‘Specially when they shove their propaganda right in our faces.’
‘The hardest part will be the physical sending out of the letters. I’ve no more coupons for stamps, have you?’
‘No. But maybe my friend … the printer, maybe he’ll have an idea. If this takes hold, I can see the Milorg wanting to help us out.’
‘So are we bona fide Resistance fighters then?’ Astrid joked.
‘Safer than setting fire to munitions factories anyway. Three people were shot for that last week.’
They sat a moment more in silence as they realised that this too was a risky operation.
‘We’re going to be in deep trouble if this gets out to the Hird, aren’t we?’
Ulf picked up the typed letter and put it in his pocket. ‘We just have to trust each other,’ he said.
They exchanged glances.
‘Right,’ Astrid said, ‘Let’s ho
pe it works. That part in the document about the children being put “into service” for the Reich made my blood run cold.’
Ulf wrapped his scarf around his neck again, and took a deep breath before heading out into the cold. Her stomach suddenly full of nerves, she waved to him as he went. He looked so vulnerable, hunched against the sleet in his shabby clothes and worn-out shoes.
At the end of the street, Falk, who’d been on watch, saw the man come out of Astrid Dahl’s house and trudge towards the city centre. He followed him in the car, the wipers squeaking, but once he had turned the corner, he pulled over to the kerb, got out of the driver’s seat and stood in his path. He’d soon find out if he knew anything about Jørgen Nystrøm. He flashed his police identity card. ‘Papers please.’
The man produced them and Falk looked at the name and address. ‘Johanssen? You’re a long way from home. What are you doing here at this time of night?’
Johanssen frowned, obviously annoyed to have been stopped. ‘I was doing some preparation with another teacher from my school,’ he said. ‘We were going through the new regulations together. It’s not a crime, is it? It’s before curfew and I’m going home now.’
‘Open your briefcase.’ Falk made a mental note to remember the name. Ulf Johanssen.
Falk watched as, disgruntled, Johanssen unclipped the briefcase and opened it up, leaving it standing open on the pavement. It was stuffed with exercise books and a thick bundle of papers.
Falk bent down and drew out the bunch of typed foolscap. It was the new school regulations, just as Johanssen’d said. He flipped through them, hoping to find evidence of some subversive activity. Whilst he was looking at them, Johanssen was tying his shoelace. His shoes looked like they were only fit for a tramp. ‘Stand up,’ Falk said, irritably. ‘Empty your pockets.’
The Lifeline Page 4