Please let them be sympathisers.
‘Hey!’ he yelled. He stood and waved, hoisted the sail again.
The boat turned and came towards him. He watched it approach with trepidation. They could be quislings, and then it really would be the end.
‘Jørgen Nystom?’ a voice came out of the dark.
‘Yes, Nystrøm,’ he called.
‘Dr Moen.’ Jørgen sagged. It was friends. He could have wept. ‘Want to come aboard?’
‘You bet. What about the Oselvar?’
‘Leave her drifting. Someone will pick her up. Some fishing friends have lent us this boat. We’ve to get you back to Shetland.’
‘What, now?’
A ladder dropped down into the sea. He had a moment’s panic trying to climb it, but then a hand extended down to help him up. Suddenly his limbs felt like lead. They hoisted him on deck and someone found him a bottle of beer. The rush of it made him immediately light-headed. The fishing boat plunged through the waves, but Jørgen was too exhausted to feel anything. At some point he was helped into the wheelhouse where he collapsed against a wall. Someone brought him a blanket. He slept.
When he awoke it was to see the sky weirdly aflame. Adrenaline surged, and he leapt up and out of the cabin. But it wasn’t enemy fire. The whole horizon was flaring with a swathe of green; a vivid transparent river flowing across the sky. He went to stand on deck.
‘Aurora borealis,’ Moen said. ‘The Northern Lights.’
Jørgen watched the sky shift and change, as if playing some great tune no-one could hear. A curtain, swaying across eternity. He thought of Karl, lying on the street where he’d left him, betrayed by the men who were supposed to help him. He wondered what had made Karl the man he was, and who would mourn him. He had been far luckier, to have friends who would risk themselves to save his life, just to keep him on this beautiful earth. He was humbled by it.
And as the colours eddied and danced, his thoughts turned to Shetland. Could they see this there? He wished Morag was here with him, out here on the ocean, under the emerald sky.
‘I had to leave some refugees behind,’ he said to Dr Moen. ‘A woman escorting a Jewish child and her father. I failed them.’
‘No,’ Dr Moen said. ‘They made it. I dropped them with Clausen. God willing, they’ll be in Shetland by now. We’re following in the same wind.’
CHAPTER 35
Astrid slit open the letter and pulled out the thin piece of paper. It was written in Norwegian, with colourful crayon drawings in the margins. Isaak’s signature and his neat bookish hand set off a breathless feeling in her chest.
Dear Astrid,
We have been lucky and have temporary lodgings right in the East End of London where there are many other Jewish people with similar stories to ours. Such a relief. Of course we had just got settled when they found out we are German Jews, so we are to be transferred again to a camp for ‘aliens’ in the countryside. I begged them to let us stay together, and after all my explaining, they finally agreed. So we are to go to Sussex to a camp for families there. Another journey. I’ll write again when we arrive. Sara is well, but she misses you, and she is so longing for a place to put down roots and be a child with playmates again.
She has drawn the dog on the top of this paper. She is determined we will have one, one day. I think the business when she made up the imaginary dog must have been a long-held wish! I hope you are well. We are so surprised at how much food there is in England and how green the land is.
When I said Sara misses you, I mean I do too.
Do write, a letter would give me so much joy.
Until we meet again, and I hope we will soon,
Isaak
The ache in her heart was quickly replaced by frustration. Even in England they were being treated as enemies. And he was a good man, Isaak, not deserving of it.
She tucked the letter in her pocket as she walked to the laundry. She would write later when she had some quiet time, and as soon as she had his new address she would send a letter. He missed her, he said. The thought echoed inside her as if around an empty room, painful but consoling. She had not known missing someone could be this sore.
The laundry room was steamy, with big metal tubs on trestle tables where the sheets were being laundered or wound through the two mangles near the doors. One of the other women, an English woman called Eileen, who was also labouring over the wash tub, looked up and smiled.
‘News just come in,’ she said, rubbing red hands on her pinafore. ‘Another boat from Norway’s due today. Landed last night near Sandwick, so they say. They should arrive here mid-morning. Daresay they’d like a welcome. Will you go out to meet it?’
So after hanging out the sheets, she walked down to the harbour. Already there was a crowd. Captain Harcourt, his pipe hanging out of his mouth, was chatting to the head of operations, Larsen. On the new slipway the skipper Clausen, who had brought her over, was staring out at the waves.
Further down, standing on her own was Morag Airdrie, her brown hair blown sideways in the gusts. Astrid watched one of the fishermen go down to talk to her.
The wind dropped. She felt something in the air, a quiet tension, broken only by the swoosh and slap of waves. Then the familiar ‘tonk tonk’ of an engine.
They crowded to the landing stage. There it was, the bow cresting the waves. And right at the front, a man with his hand lifted.
She stood back, half-afraid. Was it him?
She looked again, her eyes fixed on the man near the prow. There was no mistaking the set of his shoulders. It was Jørgen Nystrøm. The word ran round the men quickly and they let out a cheer. Astrid cheered with them, a wild whoop of joy.
It took a few moments to secure the boat and for the men to get ashore. He was thinner — worn-looking and weather-beaten, a scruffy beard — but unhurt. Harcourt was slapping him on the back, but his eyes were restless, searching the crowd.
Jørgen’s gaze passed over Astrid as if she didn’t exist, and then he caught sight of Morag. His face seemed to lose its tension. Morag gave a half wave and he broke away from the others and rushed towards her. She gave a huge smile and within a few seconds he had swept her up and swung her round. They hugged for a long time, tightly folded in each other’s arms.
Astrid let out a long breath as if a weight had fallen away.
She watched as Jørgen bent down to listen to what Morag was saying. Then they both looked over to her, and she guessed from that, that Morag was pointing her out.
They came over together, Jørgen limping, but holding Morag’s arm tight in the crook of his elbow.
‘You made it,’ he said to her. His smile was open and friendly.
‘No thanks to you,’ Astrid said, grinning. ‘What held you up?’
‘A few Germans,’ he said. ‘They seemed to want to kill me.’
Morag turned to him. ‘What about your friend, Karl?’
Jørgen pressed his lips together and his eyes clouded. ‘He saved my life,’ he said. ‘But he didn’t make it.’ There was a kind of finality to his words.
Morag squeezed his arm.
Jørgen glanced down into Morag’s face as if to reassure her, before returning his gaze to Astrid. ‘Your refugees? Are they safe? When they said Astrid Dahl, I couldn’t believe it could be you.’
‘Another long story, but they’re both well. I got rather close to them actually and I’m going to visit them as soon as I can, maybe stay awhile.’ She hoped he read the message in her expression. I’m letting you go.
He smiled, the understanding soft in his eyes.
She had barely time to register it before they were swept up by Harcourt and Larsen and all the crew of the Shetland Bus, all wanting to share stories and welcome home their lost sailor. She recognised Dr Moen, who she’d last seen in Norway, but she didn’t rush to greet him.
She stood aside as the crowd walked up towards the village, away from the harbour, and she didn’t hurry after them. Instead, she sat on the h
arbour wall and watched the boat shift on the undulating tide. She was glad Jørgen was safe, and she had a good feeling about him and Morag. It felt natural, inevitable even.
A feeling of deep peace settled over her, as if all the jarring parts of her had resolved into harmony. She put her hands deep into her pockets and as her fingers touched something cold, she remembered, and drew out her father’s compass.
It seemed to be a message from him, a confirmation that she had survived this particular journey, and even if there were others, he’d somehow still be with her. She’d always keep it. It would be something to remind her of Jørgen, the man who came to rescue her from her beloved Norway, the man she had to miss meeting, in order to find Isaak, the man who moved her heart. And Sara, who needed family the same way she did.
She gazed at the water and let the rolling motion of the swell soothe her as she weighed the compass from palm to palm. In her imagination she took a train to Sussex, to rolling green fields and sunshine glinting on a sandy shore. Soon she’d go there, take hold of Isaak’s and Sara’s hands, and away in the distance, a dog called Runa would romp ahead of them, tail wagging in joy, as he bounded into the sea.
***
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A NOTE TO THE READER
Thank you for choosing this book and I hope you enjoyed THE LIFELINE. All the characters in the novel are fictitious, and so are their stories. There was no such boat as the Vidar. However, The Lifeline is based on research and the real events that took place between Norway and Shetland in WW2. The difficulties that Norwegians faced in using the lifeline of the Shetland Bus were real. You will find some explanatory historical notes at the end of the book.
If you’ve enjoyed The Lifeline, I would really appreciate an online review on Goodreads or Amazon, which will help other readers to discover it. I love to chat to other readers about what I’m reading too, so do look me up on my Facebook page: AuthorDeborahSwift or on Twitter: @swiftstory.
Deborah Swift
www.deborahswift.com
HISTORICAL NOTES
The Shetland Bus
In the year 1940 more than fifty fishing boats made the perilous journey between Norway and Shetland, known to Norwegians as ‘England’, although in fact Shetland is an island in the North Sea closer to Scotland. In 1941, 2,388 people were carried by the small army of boats that made up the Shetland Bus, and this continued until late 1942 when an increase in German Forces around Norway’s coastline, and the Nazi’s determination to stop the traffic to England, and infiltration of their contacts, made it too dangerous for fishing boats to take the risk.
During its time of operation the Shetland Bus took not only escapees, but also equipment such as radio transmitters with their trained operators. Hundreds of tons of arms, weaponry and military equipment were shipped to the Resistance in Norway, and in return naval intelligence on the location of German troops, positions of warships, and the German military plans for the Baltic made the journey back.
Operating mainly in the winter months where cover of darkness made it possible to go in and out of the small inlets and fjords of the Norwegian coast, the Shetland Bus was lashed by the worst weather at sea that any boat could be expected to survive. This, and the fact that the boats were vulnerable to attack by German planes and submarines, made the journeys especially hazardous.
After the Shetland Bus operation was infiltrated by the Germans, many of the Milorg (Norwegian Resistance) were arrested and tortured, and the support network for the Shetland Bus broken apart. Realising how essential the flow of traffic was between occupied Norway and the British Isles, the United States sent three subchasers which were more effectively armed and better able to survive Nazi attacks from air and sea. However, Norway still honours those countrymen who made the perilous journeys across the North Sea in their wooden fishing boats, and there is a museum for The Shetland Bus in Scalloway where visitors to Shetland can learn the real story.
The Norwegian Teacher’s Strike
The Nazis wanted Norwegian schools to follow a fascist curriculum, and with this aim, Nazi sympathiser Minister President Quisling disbanded the existing teachers’ union and ordered all teachers to register with the new Nazi Norwegian Teachers’ Union. Three quarters of Norway’s 12,000 teachers signed a letter refusing to cooperate. In response, the government closed the schools, sending the children home to their parents, and more than 200,000 annoyed parents then wrote letters to protest.
Classes were then held in secret, and teachers did their best to provide non-partisan education through any means possible. When it became apparent the teachers weren’t caving in, the government ordered the arrest of 1000 teachers, 500 of whom were sent to a prison camp near Kirkenes in the Arctic.
As the teachers were shipped north, students and families gathered along the railway tracks, singing Norwegian songs and offering food and warm clothing to the teachers as they passed. Intimidation continued, but the strike continued in solidarity with teachers refusing to join the Nazi union.
Realising they could not continue with a school system that no longer functioned, on November 4th, 1942, the quisling government released all the teachers and abandoned their earlier plans. Ulf in my story would have been one of these men. During their time at Kirkenes, one teacher died and several were injured in the course of the back-breaking work they had to do. In times of war there are always compassionate people, and a German soldier secretly helped the teachers create beds out of hay to improve the spartan conditions.
The Norwegian teacher’s strike is often used in schools now as an example of an occasion where non-violent resistance proved effective. Thanks to the courage and determination of the Norwegian teachers, their young people were protected from Nazi indoctrination, and Norway was prevented from becoming a fascist state.
SELECTED FURTHER READING
The Shetland Bus by David Howarth
Our Escape from Nazi-Occupied Norway by Leif Terdal
Shetland Bus Man by Kaare Iveson
Defiant Courage: A WWII Epic of Escape and Endurance by Astrid Karlsen
Hitler's Arctic War by Christer Jørgensen and Chris Mann
The Teachers’ Protest Film
An Analysis of Norwegian Resistance during The Second World War
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks go to novelist Heidi Eljarbo from Norway who advised me on accuracy in the Norwegian sections, and to Maxine Linnell for her excellent suggestions. As always, I’m indebted to editor Amy Durant and the team at Sapere Books. But most of all, I’m really grateful to all the readers who have chosen and bought my books. The best way to help readers find authors like me is to leave a review, and I’m truly grateful for each one.
ALSO BY DEBORAH SWIFT
Past Encounters
The Occupation
Published by Sapere Books.
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Copyright © Deborah Swift, 2021
Deborah Swift has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or a
re used fictitiously.
Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.
eBook ISBN: 9781800551466
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