The Lifeline

by Deborah Swift

  Though he had known it was coming, Jørgen startled. This was it. Harcourt had said he needed action, and was obviously as good as his word. He was actually going to be going home.

  It was sooner than he thought, and he was apprehensive. Every mission was a risk, and of course there was no way he could stay there until the heat had cooled and they’d forgotten him. He wondered if he’d get the time to look up Astrid. But then he thrust the thought away. Morag Airdrie had occupied his thoughts for so long that he found himself torn. He’d never thought of himself as a philanderer, but now Morag would keep trespassing into his thoughts.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he thought to himself. ‘Don’t get side-tracked. There’s no time for shenanigans now, it’s hard enough without that. Just do your job.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Falk took another cigar and lit it. He was impatient for results but had to keep away from the W/T room now because the women had got tired of him hanging over their shoulders. Apparently Brevik’s transmissions were difficult to decipher. They always came in the early hours of the morning when most people were sleeping, so he suspected he had to ‘borrow’ a transmitter from the base on Shetland. His equipment was good; but he’d had no formal training, and he was apt to fire messages into the ether instead of waiting for the time agreed. Also, they were often hurried and he forgot to sign off properly. This was a danger because they never knew if someone else had infiltrated his cover.

  Of course in the summer the Shetland Bus operations were less, because they couldn’t use the cover of darkness. It bothered him that Brevik was taking ten thousand kroner of State funds that he, Falk, must account for, and right now there was with little activity to show for it. To produce at least something for the record, a month ago Falk had sent instructions to Brevik to sabotage anything that wouldn’t endanger his position. At first the message didn’t get a reply. Karl was ignoring him despite repeated requests. He suspected Brevik was having a nice little holiday at the Fuhrer’s expense.

  But then, a reply. For five hundred kroner more, I will nobble the horse.

  He’d almost been amused. But the man had at least made it to Shetland, so he’d felt he could not refuse him. He had to keep him sweet, or perhaps he’d turn informer.

  ‘Offer him four hundred,’ he’d told the girl who was decoding.

  After a week of radio silence he’d relented, and sent the message ‘five hundred’. As he did it, he couldn’t help feeling he was being played. But what could he do about it? After that, the messages started flowing more easily again and he breathed a sigh of relief. And so far, so good. A little unorthodoxy hurt no-one.

  That morning he was expecting a visit from Fehlis, head of the Gestapo in Oslo. A man he’d met before and found somewhat intimidating, despite the fact he was never in uniform. He arrived on the dot of ten, as arranged, and walked in without knocking, wafting away Falk’s cigar smoke with a frown.

  Falk reluctantly stubbed the cigar out.

  Fehlis was a tall, thin individual in a carefully tailored suit. He had one of those faces that looked as if he’d just tasted something unpleasant. He crossed his legs easily, and his pale grey eyes took in the room. ‘Nice office,’ he said. He managed to make it sound like a criticism.

  Falk gave a nervous laugh. ‘Serves me well enough. Near the hub of things,’ he said.

  ‘As you advised, Wehrmacht command have increased the defences around Ålesund.’

  ‘Good, good.’ The location of the British agent pick-ups at Ålesund had come from Karl Brevik. Even now it was hard to imagine that Brevik was actually there, in Scotland, and that he, Falk, had a direct line into the special operations of the British forces.

  ‘And we have a report just in from our patrol boat near Ålesund. The enemy vessel the Fiskegutt has been boarded and all the crew, bar one, are drowned or in captivity, transferred to Bredtveit Prison.’

  ‘Congratulations, sir,’ Falk said. ‘And according to my contact, the Fiskegutt was the reconnaissance boat, and the British were relying on it for their intelligence for future runs, so good news all round from our man. He will be on the next boat back to Norway.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We are anxious that Karl Brevik should stay where he is and not attempt to return to Norway for the time being.’

  So they knew who he was. Someone must have talked. One of the girls? ‘I see. He won’t like that. He was expecting to make only one trip to Shetland and then to return.’

  ‘They tell me he’s being paid for his services.’

  Who? Who had told the Gestapo that? Falk shuffled in his chair. ‘Yes. That’s correct.’

  ‘So his allegiance has been bought. He is not a natural advocate for the party.’

  ‘I disagree. His father had great sympathies for the Fuhrer’s ideas, and my impression of Brevik is that he likes adventure. Extreme competition skiing can no longer scratch that itch, so he was looking for a challenge. Money was just … just the icing on the cake.’

  ‘Still, I see no reason why we should bring him back,’ Fehlis said. ‘If he stays there, not only does it give us vital intelligence, but it will save us money, heh?’ He gave a tight smile.

  ‘But I gave him my word. A single trip, I said, and new papers afterwards.’

  ‘Circumstances have changed. Your promise cannot be upheld, you must see that. Anyway, what would we do with him when he returned? He would have to be eliminated then anyway. No, your task is to keep him dangling there as long as possible. Make promises if necessary, but keep him there.’

  ‘And if I can’t?’

  ‘There is no such word as can’t, as far as Herr Hitler is concerned.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Astrid was mending a blouse by the light of an oil lamp. The electricity had gone off again, as it often did, so she was used to doing things in this half-light. It was a quiet occupation, so when there was a buzz at the door, she startled and stabbed herself with the needle.

  She sucked at her finger. Her immediate thought was that Falk and his men had somehow tracked her down. But a quick lift of the blind showed no sign of any activity outside in the back yard. No soldiers or Germans.

  Should she answer it? Maybe it was Herman, or Mrs Bakke, or worse, her sister Enge, who owned the apartment, wanting it back. Her mind ran through the possibilities. None of them good.

  The buzz again. Her feet were moving before she could stop them. Down the stairs, gripping the banister in the blackness. There was no glass in the door, so she couldn’t see who was there.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called, heart almost in her throat.

  ‘Isaak Feinberg,’ came the whisper.

  Feinberg? What was he doing here?

  She opened up and Isaak Feinberg’s white face was right up close to the door. He was holding tight to Sara’s hand, and in the other he held a battered suitcase. Sara was loaded down with a big bundle that looked like bedding. And books.

  Astrid swung the door wider and ushered them in. ‘Have you walked?’ She led the way up the three dark flights of stairs. ‘Sorry there’s no light, we’ve no electric. Come in where it’s warm.’

  Feinberg’s taut expression was enough to tell her something was wrong.

  ‘Sara,’ she said, ‘go to the bookshelf in the bedroom. Take the lamp. You’ll find a set of encyclopaedias there that are really interesting to look at.’ When Sara was out of earshot, she asked, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Sorry to come here. I didn’t know where else Sara would be safe. The police came for my neighbours last night.’ There was a stark anger in the way he spoke. ‘They’ve rounded up all the Jewish men. More than two hundred, we think. I escaped the round-up because I’d taken Sara to look for coal. In the old railway sidings.’

  She gestured to him to sit in the only chair. In the dark, his face was gaunt, with deep shadows under the cheekbones. ‘What happened?’

  ‘When I got home, my neighbour’s house was full of women weeping. They just took the men away at gun
point. All the husbands. All the sons.’

  ‘Oh my heaven. Where are they taking them?’

  ‘A camp? Deportation? Who knows? They wouldn’t let the women go with them, and wouldn’t let them take anything, only one suitcase. Aaron couldn’t get to the bank, couldn’t leave any instructions what to do. Poor Aaron. They kept shouting at him, like he was stupid. “Hurry up,” they said. “Move, Move!” And I’ve never seen Mary cry before. But she told me to get out of Oslo. Leave everything and get out. “They’ll come for you, too,” she said. “And then what would Sara do?”’

  There was no answer to that. With a flicker, the electricity came on, the bulb above her head flaring into a too-bright light. ‘Thank goodness,’ she said. ‘Look, there’s an electric ring so I can make hot tea, and you can stay here for the night, whilst we work something out. I have friends who might be able to help you, but we’ll have to be careful. The police have me on their list, and I have to keep a low profile.’

  Later that night, Astrid heard Sara crying, and the soft soothing tones of Isaak comforting her. She couldn’t hear the words, but sensed they were laced with an undertone of anguish.

  After a restless night, wondering what on earth she could do to help, Astrid woke early and after they’d taken turns to wash at the kitchen tap, got out some food. It was only vegetable broth and bread smeared with a little whale fat, but she salted it to try to disguise its foul smell. Butter was so scarce now, any sort of dripping was better than nothing. They devoured it hungrily.

  She watched them with a sense of deep unease. She had to do something, but what? They couldn’t stay, that was obvious, but at the same time she knew she’d never hand them in to the police.

  ‘Jewish children are supposed to report daily,’ Isaak said. ‘We reckon it’s so that they can take them next, but my friend Berthe says there are rumours the women and children go somewhere different from the men.’

  It didn’t bear thinking about, that Sara and her father should be split up. The only person Astrid knew who was in touch with the Sivorg and the Milorg was Herman. He had to be worth a try, but she knew it was a risk to them both if she was discovered going there, and besides Herman wasn’t exactly her friend any more. He’d been pretty clear she wasn’t to go to his house.

  ‘Don’t go outside,’ she said to Isaak, ‘and don’t answer the door. I’m going to go to a friend to see if he can find a way to get you out of Norway. I’ll be a couple of hours, okay? See if you can get Sara to do some school work, whilst I’m gone.’

  ‘Is he trustworthy, this friend?’ Isaak asked.

  Was anyone? ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.’ Her best chance was to get to Herman before he went to work. Going at night was too risky, the Germans were much stricter after curfew.

  She wound her hair up under a woollen cap, and walked briskly with a few strides of a run every now and then, holding up her umbrella against the rain. By the time she got to Herman’s she was breathless. He came as soon as she pressed the bell, his beaky face peering in suspicion from the door. ‘What is it? Some news about Ulf?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’ She shook her umbrella and went inside. ‘I need help. I’ve a family of Jews at my house. A man and his daughter. They need to get out of Norway.’

  He sighed. ‘You as well? I thought this might happen. My doorbell’s never stopped. Well, it’s not my problem, you can’t come running to me now. The rest of the family was taken, I suppose?’

  ‘No. I think it’s just the two of them. There’s no mother, as far as I know. Can you help? They’re desperate.’

  ‘Maybe. But the route to Sweden is risky and much in demand. The best I can offer is something in a month’s time.’ He was putting on a jacket as he spoke. ‘But you’ll have to do deliveries again —’

  ‘A month? I can’t last that long. I’ve got quisling neighbours, and the police know me. I’m never sure if I’m under surveillance.’

  ‘Look, we can’t work miracles. Everything needs meticulous planning. And I can’t have your lost Jews cocking up my operations to supply arms for the Resistance.’

  ‘Sara’s only ten years old, Herman. We have to help.’

  He glanced irritably at his watch. ‘Sorry, but I haven’t got time for this now. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll need to contact some safe houses.’ He searched for his scarf and gloves. ‘There’s a chance we can get them out before the next round of deportations, but you have to be prepared for the answer being no.’

  ‘You mean the Nazis will take the women and children too?’

  ‘I shouldn’t even be saying this. But intelligence suggests they’ll round up the women and children in a few weeks.’ He slapped his gloves against his palm. ‘There’s a boat already been commissioned, the Donau. A cargo ship. Chances are we’ll be too late to get your family out.’

  ‘But what would I do then? I can’t send them back home. They’ll be picked up and deported.’

  He was putting on his thick tweed overcoat and hat, and picking up his keys. ‘You’d best get them out of your house. The Jews aren’t your problem. The Nazis don’t take kindly to people who collaborate with them. They’re apt to deport them too.’

  ‘Please, Herman. Do what you can.’ She followed him to the door. ‘It’s what Ulf would have wanted, isn’t it? To resist in any way we can? Well, this is my way.’

  He paused as he put the key in the lock, closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘We’re trying to win a war here, not rescue every waif and stray. If I can do it, it’s only because of Ulf, because he was so full of idealism, and because you were friends. But don’t come here again, hear me? It’s too risky. Not just for me, but for dozens of other Milorg men who rely on me. I’ll contact you if I can help.’

  A week went by and Astrid heard nothing. She began to despair. Mr Feinberg and Sara grew argumentative, what with the strain and being cooped up in the house. Even in the day she had to keep the window blind down in case anyone in the yard should catch a glimpse of them. It was also odd to have a man in the house, to have to be careful about when and where she dressed or used the bath. They moved around each other warily, giving each other a lot of space.

  To ease the tension, Astrid spent the days bartering for potatoes, turnips and carrots from the council flowerbeds which had now been turned into allotments. Of course Isaak and Sara dare not use their ration cards, in case they got caught, and she couldn’t use hers, so food was tight.

  The barley stew she made that night was meagre, but she couldn’t help noticing how Isaak gave most of his portion to Sara. Afterwards, whilst they washed the dishes, she took him to task. ‘Isaak, you must eat. You’ll be no use to her if you are weak from hunger.’

  ‘I can’t bear to see her hungry. That hopeful look on her face when her eyes follow the plate round to see if there’s a scraping left.’ He rubbed frantically at a plate with the drying cloth. ‘I hate the way her ribs are showing through their skin, and her shoulders are like scrawny chicken wings. And I think of my father, her grandfather, and wonder where he is, and know it would break his heart to see her like this.’

  ‘Is he still in Germany, your father?’

  ‘I don’t know. We can’t get word to him, but I hope he got out.’

  ‘And Sara’s mother…?’ She let the question hang.

  ‘She left us. She became a Nazi party member. Didn’t want to be shackled to what she called “bad blood”.’ His bitter tone told her it still hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. She was a bitch. What sort of mother would walk out on a five-year-old girl?’

  Astrid spent the next day washing and mending, and worrying about how to help them. All her clothes were threadbare now, her cardigans through at the elbows. Sara’s were even worse, and there was still no news from Herman. She daren’t go back to him and risk endangering the network, but she was desperate for some sort of answer. She put Sara’s cardigan aside. She needed more darning wool and would need to swap one of her precio
us books again. Not that anyone read them anymore; they were used for lighting fires or writing letters.

  Later though, as she was returning from the shops, the precious card of darning wool in her pocket, she heard footsteps fall in behind her. Startled, she turned, to see who had suddenly come up so close behind. Thank God, not Falk or Schmitt. But the man who’d been following her at the department store.

  She was about to run when he took hold of her sleeve. ‘Astrid Dahl? I’m a friend of Herman,’ the man said, from under a flat cap and muffler. ‘Head for the toy shop of the corner of Josefine’s Gate. The door will be open.’

  So he was not a Nazi spy after all, but a Milorg man.

  He overtook her and carried on, his head down against the wind, his overcoat flapping.

  Astrid hesitated, but did as he asked. The shop was run-down, there were only a few second-hand toys in the window. A worn-looking spinning top, some building bricks, a train set. When she got inside, shaking the wet from her mackintosh, an old man in a threadbare green cardigan over another pullover was there to greet her. He looked as if he’d come from another century.

  ‘Upstairs,’ he said, ‘in the stock room.’

  She followed his gesture up a set of narrow lino stairs and through a brown-painted door into a room that was mostly empty except for faded cardboard boxes that looked like they’d once been packaging, and a few wooden chairs around a rough trestle table that had seen better days. A bare lightbulb dangled from a ceiling rose, and yellowing wallpaper was peeling from the walls.

  A rasp of metal as the door below was locked, and she heard men’s voices, before footsteps followed her up. Astrid swallowed to quell her nerves.

  ‘Sit down,’ the old man said, dragging a chair up over the bare boards.

  ‘Where’s Herman?’ she asked.

  ‘This is Mr Grieg,’ the man who had followed her said, ‘and I am Mr Kloster.’ Kloster pulled off his flat cap to reveal a balding head, pink with cold. ‘Herman is … not available.’