The Lifeline

by Deborah Swift

  Johanssen blinked at him through his heavy-rimmed glasses but turned out his pockets. They were empty except for a fountain pen, an elastic band, and a few stubs of chalk.

  ‘Trousers?’

  He obliged, and handed over his travel pass, a bunch of keys, and a few kroner. Nothing in the contents of his pockets seemed unusual and Falk, feeling faintly foolish, was obliged to give them back.

  ‘Do you know Astrid Dahl well?’

  Johanssen shrugged, but evaded his gaze. ‘She’s just a teacher at my school. We’re colleagues, that’s all.’

  Falk narrowed his eyes. The man’s manner was defensive. Perhaps there was more to the relationship with the Dahl woman than he was telling him. ‘Did she ever mention a man called Nystrøm? Jørgen Nystrøm? He used to be in the engineering faculty at the university.’

  ‘No. The name’s not familiar.’ Johanssen rubbed at his glasses with his sleeve.

  ‘He’s a friend of hers.’ Falk paused. ‘Probably more than a friend,.’ He probed, hoping for some reaction. There was none. He sighed. He was getting nowhere and it was too damned cold to be standing out here all night. ‘If you hear her mention this man, Jørgen Nystrøm, you must come to me, understand? Ask for Falk in the Hird office on Victoria Terrasse.’ He glanced down at the man’s feet. ‘I see you need new shoes. If you hear any information about Jørgen Nystrøm you will be well-rewarded.’

  ‘She’s never mentioned him.’ Johanssen’s expression remained stony.

  Falk sensed the resistance in him. ‘Remember,’ he said over his shoulder, as he walked to his car. ‘Falk at the Hird office.’

  He drove away dissatisfied. He’d look up the records of this Ulf Johanssen. He had a nose for subversion, and he had an inkling there was something about him and this Astrid Dahl that smacked of treason to Quisling’s regime.

  The next morning, Ulf caught up with Astrid in the school corridor.

  ‘Hey, Astrid.’ She paused for him, pressing to the side of the wall so the children could get by. ‘I got stopped last night on my way home,’ he said in a low voice.

  Her stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s all right. I hid the letter in my sock. A police officer made me turn out my pockets but he didn’t look there, thank God. It got a bit creased, that’s all, but I’ll tell you it was close thing. I’ll deliver it tonight. As long as you haven’t had second thoughts, I mean.’

  Astrid slumped against the wall. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. But no, I’m still happy to do it.’

  ‘It’s just … he was asking questions — about someone called Nystrøm. He was trying to bribe me to tell him what I knew about him. I just thought you should know —’

  ‘Move along there. What’s the hold-up?’ Mr Pedersen strode up behind them. They were forced to go to their separate classes, Ulf to the boys, and Astrid to the girls.

  Astrid worried about it all morning at class. At break time, she managed to find Ulf again and he told her more details. It didn’t make her feel any easier. Though she trusted Ulf, she knew coming to the attention of the quisling police was never good. One slip-up could cost someone their life.

  What had happened to Jørgen? They must be trying to track him down, and it was pretty clear that they’d set a watch on her house, all of which was terrifying, now she had started actively disobeying Nazi orders.

  She put it from her mind and headed down the corridor, but speeded her step when she heard the hubbub at the classroom.

  One look told her what had happened. Even from the door she could see that all the usual pictures had gone and been replaced by Nazi propaganda. Gone was the lovely Victorian print of girls by a fjord, painted by Hans Dahl, her namesake, and gone was Sohlberg’s Sommernatt. A large poster of the NSUF, complete with brown uniformed boy and girl marching to a drum, now occupied one wall, and a Nasjonal Samling poster the other. Above her desk, to add insult to injury, the map of Norway had been replaced with a map of Germany with the cities all marked in German.

  She ignored it all and told the class to settle down, threatening detention to anyone who would make another comment. Then she took the register as usual, and noticed that Sara Feinberg was absent. Only a few days ago Jews had been ordered by the government to complete a questionnaire, and she remembered Mr Feinberg telling her they’d have to leave. Had they already gone? Where would they go? It seemed like everywhere people were on the move, fleeing the Nazi regime.

  None of her clubs were allowed to meet now; not the university ski club, not the English conversation group, nor the Norwegian folklore society. Not even the chess club. The only club you could belong to these days was the Nazis.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jørgen and Lind had spent a night at a mountain hut, and after waiting out of sight of German police near the train sidings, had managed to get on the late train heading to the mountain area of Frognerseteren. They were about halfway there when the old teak carriage squeaked to a halt. Jørgen peered out into the darkness, to see why they’d stopped. He squinted to read the sign.

  Engerjordet. A disused station, trains hadn’t stopped there for at least five years.

  All he could see were spindly pines and telegraph wires, behind an empty platform. But parked next to the station were two German army vehicles, and he made out helmets and the blink of flashlights heading towards the carriage.

  ‘Trouble,’ he whispered urgently, rousing Lind. They retrieved their bags and skis hurriedly from the overhead racks and put them close by.

  ‘Shall we try to run for it?’ Lind asked.

  ‘No. They’re too close. Stay calm and sit separately,’ Jørgen said. ‘It’ll be safer.’

  Jørgen moved to the very back of the carriage, to where an old man was shifting side to side, nose pressed to the glass, as he tried to see through the window.

  ‘What’s the matter,’ the man asked him, ‘have we broken down?’

  The door opened suddenly and four German officers got on at Jørgen’s end of the carriage, two of them heavily armed with machine guns. ‘Papers,’ they said, in Norwegian. Two took one side of the carriage, two the other.

  They filled the aisle with their bulk and the fusty smell of their damp uniforms. Jørgen didn’t dare turn to look at Lind, he just felt in his pocket for his Reisepass.

  The elderly gentleman handed over his papers. ‘I’m going to visit my daughter,’ he said. ‘She works in the café, the one with the dragon roof. Lovely view of the fjord from there. You should try it.’

  The German who had the old man’s papers in his hand smiled in a polite way. ‘You stay long?’ he asked. His friend, the armed one, stood guard.

  ‘Just until the weekend. Then she’ll be too busy. But I like to see my grandson. He grows so quickly, he’s almost up to my waist, and —’ He continued to talk, but the German passed his papers back and held out his hand for Jørgen’s, turning his back on him. He glanced at the ski-sack. ‘You ski?’ he asked Jørgen as he took up his papers and flipped it open.

  ‘Yes. I’m a naturalist. I work for the university.’ Too much information. His nerves were showing.

  The German was poring over his papers. ‘Olaf Stensen?’ He was comparing Jørgen with the photograph, which was of a man with a much broader face.

  ‘Terrible photograph,’ Jørgen said. ‘University photographer. I’ve lost a lot of weight since then.’

  The main’s eyebrows shot up as he read the pass. ‘You are entomologe?’ In German the word was obviously the same. His face split into a smile of delight. He prodded himself in the chest. ‘Me, I am zoologe!’ His eyes were suddenly alive with interest. ‘Before army, I work for Zoological Society in Berlin. What you study?’

  Jørgen swallowed. This must be the only German Officer in Oslo who actually had a clue about naturalists. What were the chances? ‘Study of insects, bees, in my case. I’m looking into how to increase the bee population. Very important in Norway now we can’t get sugar.’ He was mak
ing it up on the spot. He hadn’t even had the chance to consult an encyclopaedia.

  ‘Are there many beekeepers in Norway?’ the German asked. His face was open and friendly.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Jørgen said, with an attempt at authority. ‘I want to see how the bees are overwintering, because if the farmers don’t feed them properly the queens will die. The best thing to use is a sugar solution, but —’

  ‘Hey, Gunther!’ His friend with the gun was hustling him on.

  ‘Maybe we can…’ The German looked like he would like to say something, but thought better of it. There was an awkward pause. Before the war they could have been friends. His eyes showed the same wistful regret that Jørgen felt. He cleared his throat. ‘Good luck then with your bees, have good trip.’ He smiled and snapped the pass shut, handed it back without a word, and moved down the carriage.

  Jørgen’s pulse rate began to subside and he took a few long, slow breaths. As soon as the men had moved further down the carriage, he went to sit on the opposite seat next to the old gent so he could see them as they went towards Lind.

  Lind looked terrified, his face white. He watched him wipe a hand over his balding brow. Easy, Lind. He wanted to tell him to calm down, to relax. When they got to his seat, Lind opened his pass too quickly and held it up, and the armed German who’d been with Gunther plucked it from his hand and scrutinized it. He pursed his lips, examining Lind’s face, then glanced down. ‘All right, Mr Ramundssen. You will come with us.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’ Lind looked wild-eyed from one to the other. ‘My papers are in order.’

  ‘You say you are a shoe-repairer. Well, I don’t believe you. Look at your shoes.’

  Gunther looked at Lind’s feet in their worn-out shoes and let out a laugh. ‘Business is bad, eh?’

  ‘D’you think this is Nystrøm, the man we’re looking for?’ said the other.

  ‘This man in the foolish shoes?’

  Jørgen jolted, as if electrified, at his own name. He couldn’t do a thing, but watch and wait.

  ‘Don’t know,’ said the other. ‘But I suspect he’s not who he says he is. We’ll take him in, get the Gestapo to question him, no harm in that.’

  No. They mustn’t take Lind. They’ve got the wrong man. Jørgen stood up, in a desperate bid to distract them. ‘Excuse me,’ he called.

  Meanwhile the other Germans had nearly finished their side of the carriage, and when he called out, Gunther turned to look. In an instant Lind was out of his seat. He flung open the nearest carriage door in a panic and leapt onto the track.

  Jørgen attempted to distract Gunther, but one of the others had seen Lind jump and yelled, ‘Halt!’

  All four whipped round and rushed to the open door.

  The two armed men got there first and opened fire. The blast of noise made everyone cower in their seats. The old man next to him clung to Jørgen’s coat. He gripped his arm in some sort of desperate show of solidarity.

  ‘Did you hit him?’ called Gunther in German.

  ‘Yes, he’s down.’

  Jørgen felt the blow deep in his solar plexus.

  Gunther said something in German that sounded like, ‘Looks like our work here’s done, then.’

  The two armed men climbed down followed by the third, who took Lind’s bags from the seat opposite. No doubt the bags would be searched. In his mind Jørgen frantically went through what was in Lind’s bag. Was there anything that could lead to him? The fourth German, the man called Gunther, turned back, and caught Jørgen’s eye as if he might exchange a pleasantry, but then, seeming to realise the inappropriateness of it, given they’d just shot a man in plain sight, he pressed his lips together, pulled himself up stiffly, and got off the train.

  Moments later the train rattled on its way.

  Jørgen caught a glimpse of Lind as they passed. A snap-shot. A man with limbs twisted, writhing in agony on the ground. The four men stood over him, their flashlights catching him like a fly in a web.

  The picture was gone.

  The man on Jørgen’s right let go of his arm, and stared out into the dark. Jørgen noticed the man’s legs were trembling. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  A silent nod.

  No-one in the rest of the carriage spoke. These days it was always better to pretend it had nothing to do with you. You never knew who the quislings were, and any sympathy could land you in jail.

  Jørgen cursed himself, twisting the cuff of his jersey. He went over and over the situation, replaying it with different outcomes. And the journey ahead had just become more daunting. He’d thought he would be travelling with a friend, and now he was alone. His guts cramped, and every time the tram creaked to a halt he broke into a sweat, fearing the worst. He spent most of the journey on the edge of his seat ready to run.

  At the end of the line he disembarked in a daze, and headed into the town with the straggling queue of passengers. Under his assumed name of Olaf Stensen, he checked himself into the only hotel, a log-built cabin-type affair, with moose antlers hung from the walls.

  When he got to his room he turned the key in the door and simply sat on the bed, picking tufts from the candlewick and staring at the pine floorboards. Was Lind dead or alive by now? He’d no way of knowing. All he knew was, he’d been hit and was down. If he was still alive, he’d have to assume that they might drag him in to question him, and then he might break under pressure and tell the Gestapo where he was heading. It was pretty clear it was him, Nystrom, they were looking for on the tram routes out of Oslo.

  He unpacked his rucksack and unfolded the map. What luck the map was in his pack, and not in Lind’s. Though Lind had been carrying all the food, and they’d soon guess he hadn’t been travelling alone. Damn.

  And he’d need a new route. One that he hadn’t discussed with Lind. Trouble was, there were not many options. There were a few mountain huts, and then a safe house on an isolated farm that they’d dismissed as too difficult a route before, when he was travelling with Lind.

  It would have to be that way. And he’d have to pray that Lind was either dead, or didn’t talk.

  He shook his head at himself. Of course he didn’t wish Lind dead; it was just the scared man in him talking. He’d thought he was so clever; that this would never happen to him, that he would be one of the lucky few radio operators that survived the war, but Lind was a stark reminder that these days, nothing was certain. He’d been over-confident, it had all seemed like a game. But now his shaking hands reminded him he was only mortal like everyone else.

  He reset his mind. At least he was alive right now, though he’d have to keep going; have to get out of Norway. He’d seen what they would do to ‘Nystrom’ when they caught up with him, and it didn’t look pretty.

  Jørgen slept little, and awoke ragged, but the next morning he borrowed paper and an envelope and wrote a brief note to Astrid. He couldn’t say much, and didn’t sign it. ‘I’m thinking of you,’ he wrote. ‘I can’t tell you where I’m going, but you’re in my thoughts. Stay well, stay safe. Thank God for your life. We’ll meet again when Norway is free.’

  He pictured her in her red Norwegian sweater and ski pants and wondered about what she thought when she saw her father’s compass. He couldn’t write to his parents. They would take him in willingly, but want to try to make him live their kind of life; one where nobody took risks, everybody did the ‘sensible’ thing. Which in their case was to knuckle down under the Nazis. He loved them, of course he did, but their way of life was stultifying. Two days spent with them, and he always felt he couldn’t breathe.

  At the post office, which was also a general store and bakery, he posted the letter, replenished his food stocks and then set off on skis into the mountains, at first on well-worn trails, and then making his way through open countryside to the first of the more remote mountain huts.

  For almost a week he travelled this way, following reindeer trails and seeing no-one except for a pine marten that scooted away as soon as he appear
ed between the trees. The skiing was hard, with many miles of cross-country, and steep sided mountains to navigate. Fortunately, there was a light wind, and only moderate snowfall. His legs ached, and his skin burned with cold, despite his growing beard.

  But though the hardship kept his mind off Lind, in this white landscape, far from human troubles, he began to feel as if this whole venture was unreal; as if he were the last man on earth. The only thing that kept him moving forward was the thought that every push took him closer to Shetland and freedom.

  CHAPTER 6

  After travelling five weeks, and not seeing a single German, Jørgen arrived by the less-travelled route at the small hamlet of Tessand. From above, the houses just looked like toys — a collection of wooden boxes roofed with snow, fronting a glassy fjord. He had the safe house circled on the map, so that he could find the place. He skied easily downhill, and unclipped his skis, stamping his boots to release the snow. When he knocked on the door, the farmer greeted him like a long-lost friend. ‘You’ll be one of us, then,’ he said, eyes bright and lively under bushy brows.

  ‘Olaf,’ Jørgen said. ‘Olaf Stensen.’

  ‘Good a name as any. Don’t suppose it’s your own, anyway.’ He grinned a gap-toothed welcome. ‘Gustav Hovda,’ he said. ‘Call me Gus.’ He was a small wiry man with a big bushy moustache. ‘Come in, come in! I’ve got reindeer sausage and bread. And you can join me in a Carlsberg.’ He led the way indoors and patted the seat next to the table.

  Jørgen barely had time to struggle out his thanks before Gus was off again, talking nineteen to the dozen as he fetched tin plates and bottles of beer. Jørgen made a rapid assessment of the house. It was clean but chilly; dried fish and meat hung from a beam near the unlit fire. There were no pictures or books, nothing that wasn’t utilitarian. A roll of twine hung from a nail, and behind the door were stacked a pick-axe and a sledgehammer, and a roll of wire for fencing. A pile of split logs teetered in the corner. The radio and telephone were the only luxuries, taking pride of place on a sideboard crammed with tools and chipped crockery.