Shadow on the Mountain
Page 1
orway has been invaded by Nazi Germany! Fourteen-year-old Espen and his friends are quickly swept up in the Resistance movement. Espen gets his start by delivering illegal newspapers that tell the truth about what is happening in Norway and elsewhere. He then graduates to the role of courier, delivering coded messages and supplies to others in the Resistance, and finally he becomes a spy, dodging the Gestapo along the way.
During the five years of the Nazi regime, Espen, his sister, and their parents live in fear of nighttime raids and arrests, have little food except the potatoes they grow themselves, and begin to question the loyalties of the people around them. Espen gains—and loses—friends, falls in love, and makes one small mistake that threatens to catch up with him as he sets out to escape on skis over the mountains to Sweden.
This thrilling novel from Newbery Honor winner Margi Preus is based on the real-life adventures of a Norwegian spy during World War II.
Shadow on the Mountain is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the actual people, events, and locales that figure into the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Preus, Margi.
Shadow on the mountain ; a novel inspired by the true adventures of a wartime spy / by Margi Preus.
p. cm.
Summary: In Nazi-occupied Norway, fourteen-year-old Espen joins the resistance movement, graduating from deliverer of illegal newspapers to courier and spy.
Includes bibliographical references (p. ).
ISBN 978-1-4197-0424-6 (alk. paper)
1. World War, 1939–1945—Underground movements—Norway—Juvenile fiction. 2. Norway—History—German occupation, 1940–1945—Juvenile fiction. [1. World War, 1939–1945—Underground movements—Norway—Fiction. 2. Norway—History—German occupation, 1940–1945—Fiction.
3. Spies—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.P92434Sh 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2012015623
Text copyright © 2012 Margi Preus
Illustration © 2012 Yuko Shimizu
Maps by Sara Corbett
Book design by Chad W. Beckerman and Sara Corbett
Published in 2012 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
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Contents
Prologue
1940–1941
October 1940: On the Road to the Fox Farm
The Fox Farm
Later That Night: The Commandant’s Underwear
That Same Night: Ingrid’s Diary
A Few Days Later: Waiting for the Ferry
The Soccer Game
The Intrusion
At the Bakery
In the Café
One Week Later: Soccer Practice
The Next Day: Jotunheimen
November 1940: First Assignment
1942
Winter 1942: Ingrid’s Diary
March 1942: The Blank Page
The Encounter
March 1942: The Prisoners
The “Thing”
April 4, 1942: The Letter
Early Winter 1942: Ingrid’s Diary: The Secret
Red Hats
The Ski Contest
The Ski Contest
The Joiner
The Prison
1943
March 1943: The Rabbit Plays Harmonica
The Next Day: Just Before Dawn
The Bicycle
“ It’s Full of Gestapo in There”
The Cake Box
Oleanna
A Shadow
The Devil on a Bicycle
1944
January 1944: Ingrid’s Diaries
The Hijacking
The New Contact
Spring Through Summer 1944: A Few Beautiful Weeks
1945
January 1945: The Disguise
Fortress Norway
February 1945: The Gudbrandsdal Method
The Potato Spy
Fox and Hen
The Map
After the Party
Unexpected Company
The Knock at the Door
Outside Espen’s House
The Next Night: High Country
The Lake
The Next Night
Within Range
Snow
A Joke About Chickens
The Checkpoint
The Fourth Night
The Draug
Sweden
Author’s Note
Bonus for Code Breakers
How to Make Your Own Invisible Ink
Color Plates
Timeline, 1940–1945
Read On!
Selected Bibliography
Acknowledgments
About the Author
In loving memory of my parents, Chris and Dorothy Preus, with thanks for their stories
Shadows made the mountains dark, and you, you didn’t find the way.
—LINE FROM “SYNNØVE’S SONG,” LYRICS BY BJ. BJØRNSON
Approximations of the Pronunciation of Names and Words
AK-SEL
BEST-EH-MOOR GRANDMOTHER
DROWG WATER CREATURE
ES-PEN
FAR FATHER
FYORD AN INLET OF THE SEA BETWEEN HIGH CLIFFS
GOOST
HAWK-ON
HI HELLO
HEERD NORWEGIAN NAZI STORM TROOPERS
HYAL-MER
HUL-DRA TROLL HAG
VEP-SEN THE WASP
ING-GRID
YA YES
YENS
YO-TUN-HEIM-EN LAND OF THE GIANTS
SHELL
CRONE/CRO-NER CROWN/CROWNS: NORWEGIAN MONEY
LIFE
LIL-LE-BEE
MOOR MOTHER
NIE NO
NISS-EH-LU-EH RED STOCKING HAT
OH-LEH
PEAR
RAHG-NA-ROK FINAL DESTRUCTION IN NORSE MYTHOLOGY
SOL-VAY
TAHN-TEH MA-REE AUNT MARIE
TOOS-EN TUCK A THOUSAND THANKS
VAIR SO GO BE SO GOOD; HELP YOURSELF
ust before dawn on April 9, 1940, Nazi Germany invaded Norway, a neutral and peace-loving country of only three million people. The Norwegians were completely unprepared for the onslaught of eight hundred aircraft, ten thousand advance troops, and almost the entire German navy. By noon, the Wehrmacht had taken control of Oslo, two major airports, and the most important coastal cities. The Norwegians scrambled to organize a military response, and for a few desperate weeks, aided by a small force of Allied troops, they put up a valiant but ultimately futile fight.
Some members of the government, including Vidkun Quisling, head of the Norwegian Nazi party, welcomed the Germans. Upon the invasion, Quisling quickly deposed the sitting government and declared himself prime minister.
In May, the Allied forces withdrew from Norway, and in early June, King Haakon and other members of the government left Norway for England
and the Norwegian military disbanded. Nazi Germany was now occupying the country and was fully in control.
Or were they?
The occupying Germans had expected Norwegians to welcome them as their protectors against the Soviet Union. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall and fit, the Norwegians embodied the ideal of the Aryan race, which, according to Hitler, was destined to be the master race, and the Germans were unprepared for the hostility they encountered. An organized resistance formed almost immediately, including underground military groups (Milorg), civilian groups (Civorg), and intelligence units (XU), with a Coordinating Committee (KK) overseeing the common struggle. The movement was aided by a new British military branch called the SOE (Special Operatives Executive). But even ordinary Norwegians, young and old, found myriad ways of resisting. Despite an enormous military presence—one German soldier for every eight Norwegians—and in spite of the military’s brutal methods, so effective was this resistance that President Franklin D. Roosevelt was inspired to say to the American people:
If there is anyone who still wonders why this war is being fought, let him look to Norway. If there is anyone who has any delusions that this war could have been averted, let him look to Norway; and if there is anyone who doubts the democratic will to win, again I say, let him look to Norway.
gainst the blue-black mountains, Espen’s bicycle was just a tiny moving speck. Far below the road, the river pulsed and rushed, swollen with rain and snowmelt. The sun had long ago slipped away, leaving just a thin fringe of light glimmering along the ragged edge of the western mountains. The dangerous time of day, his grandmother would have said, the time of day the trolls come out.
Head down, straining forward over the handlebars, Espen felt his heart pump in rhythm with his legs. The muscles in his arms and legs burned, his heart beat furiously, and, ridiculously, his stomach was growling. He was always hungry. But how could he be hungry now?
“Cream cake,” he said aloud, savoring the words as if eating them, feeling the sweet, silky “cream” melt on his tongue, then biting into the delicious sponginess of “cake.” He shouldn’t think about it, he scolded himself. He shouldn’t think about anything but going faster.
A car drove up behind him and slowed. He pedaled harder, sweating under the rucksack on his back. Why don’t they pass? he wondered. By the car’s puttering he could tell it was not fitted with a wood-burning engine, which the Norwegians were required to drive. It burned petrol, so it had to be Germans.
Don’t look over your shoulder, he told himself. If they want to stop you, they can stop you. Just don’t think about it. Think about something else. But not cream cake.
He wondered what was happening at home. His father would still be at the train station, working his usual long hours. His mother would be worrying about them both, glancing out the window one last time before pulling the blackout curtains closed. His sister, Ingrid, would be up in her room, probably scribbling in her diary.
The car pulled up alongside Espen, and he glanced at it. He felt a rivulet of sweat run down his back. The car was full of German soldiers. The driver waved at him to stop, and Espen did, standing with one foot on the ground, the other resting on the pedal. Right away, his glasses fogged up. He took them off and cleaned the lenses with his shirt. Then he gave one last thought to his family, hoping that whatever happened next would not put their lives in jeopardy.
One of the soldiers got out of the car and held out his hand. “Ausweiss, bitte,” he said.
Espen dug in his pocket and handed the soldier his identity card. The soldier, Espen noticed, smelled clean. Like soap.
“Where are you going?” the soldier asked.
“To visit my uncle. He lives near Fossen.”
“What is the purpose of your visit?”
“Just a visit,” Espen said.
The soldier raised an eyebrow, so Espen continued. “My uncle’s been ill, and my mother’s worried about him. He doesn’t have a telephone, so I said I would go check on him.” Espen resisted the urge to go on with his story. Keep it simple, he remembered Mr. Henriksen telling him. If they ask you questions, keep it simple. Don’t rattle on.
The soldier shone his flashlight in Espen’s face. “Out so late?”
“I had soccer practice,” Espen said. “We have a big match coming up. I got a late start.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” Espen said.
The soldier nodded at Espen’s rucksack. “What’s in there?” he asked in not-very-good Norwegian.
“Jam,” Espen said.
The soldier extended his arm to take the rucksack.
Espen handed it over and tried not to watch the man’s face as he opened it. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the car. He could see the bored faces of the soldiers and one who turned his head. But not fast enough. Espen had seen who it was. Kjell.
They hadn’t done much together lately, but it used to be that he and Kjell had spent every waking moment with each other. Just last April, after the Germans invaded, they had spent the next days with their ears pressed to the radio and their eyes on the roads, listening, watching, waiting. And spying.
The April day the German army reached their valley, Espen had followed Kjell along paths worn into the snow, leading up the hillside through the woods. All along the path rose columns of silent fir trees, their damp trunks reminding Espen of the woolen coats of the German soldiers. He half expected one to lunge out at them, bayonet flashing.
“Aren’t you scared?” He panted a little, hurrying after Kjell.
“Nei!” Kjell said. “It’s fun!” He turned around, grinning.
Kjell was never afraid of anything. He went toward danger, not away from it. That’s what Espen’s mother said, anyway, and why she told Espen that he had to “keep a level head” when they were together. She would have clobbered them both, Espen thought, if she knew what they were doing at that moment.
“I have to be back before dark,” Espen said. “Mor decided that she is taking Ingrid and me to stay with relatives in the country, to get away from the fighting.”
“Just this one last mission before you go, then, right?” Kjell said.
The trees had thinned as they reached a higher elevation, and the boys dashed from one to the next.
“This mission will be better than when you had us prowling around in the woods looking for the king,” Kjell said. “That was a bust!”
“I swear, the whole royal family was hiding out around here somewhere,” Espen said. “They’re long gone by now. At least, I hope so.”
“Shh!” Kjell held up his hand.
The dull roar of an airplane echoed against the mountainside.
“German fighter!” Kjell cried. “They strafe anything that moves! Run!”
But Espen felt as weak as if he were in a bad dream, as if his legs would not carry him.
Kjell grabbed his arm and dragged him under the cover of a cluster of birch trees.
The plane flew over and away, and the boys got up, brushed off the snow, and moved on, leaving the trees for the open, windswept hillside. Kjell flopped down, slithering snakelike on his belly, with Espen following him closely. They crept behind a large boulder where they could see but not be seen.
Kjell held a finger to his lips, and slowly, carefully, the two boys peeked over the rock.
In the darkening valley below, a procession of motorcycles, trucks, tanks, cars, horse-drawn wagons, marching soldiers, and soldiers on horseback snaked along the winding mountain road. The last rays of sunlight glanced off the barrels of the soldiers’ guns, their polished leather boots, and even, it seemed, off the brass buttons on their long gray-green coats.
Espen’s breath caught in his throat. Their sheer numbers and firepower made his stomach churn, but there was something more. Maybe it was a trick of light or the dusk, or maybe it was the fast hike up the mountainside that had made him dizzy, but for just a moment it looked to him as if the entire army was not coming from around a bend in
the road but pouring endlessly out of a cleft in the earth. He thought of something his great-grandmother had told him: that sometimes, at dawn or at dusk, a crack opened up in the earth out of which the people of the underworld could climb and into which the people of the upper world—“our world,” she had said—could slide.
He shivered.
“Cold?” Kjell asked.
“There sure are a lot of them, aren’t there?” Espen said.
“They’re like a well-oiled machine,” Kjell said. “So precise. And so many! And no one can say the Wehrmacht isn’t disciplined! Our so-called troops are nothing but a ragtag bunch of ill-trained misfits—no uniforms, old hunting rifles for weapons—”
“But lots of courage,” Espen said.
“Maybe so. But still no match for them.” Kjell nodded at the never-ending columns of soldiers below.
“If I had a rifle, I could pick off a couple right now,” Espen said.
“That would not be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”
“I suppose not.”
“Look at that one there.” Kjell pointed at an officer astride a spirited white horse.
Espen glanced at Kjell. His eyes were shining as he gazed at the horse prancing this way and that, its sides gleaming as if polished.
“Kjell,” Espen said, “you know how the huldre can look like a beautiful maiden from the front, but in the back she has a long tail she keeps tucked into her skirt?”
“We’re not troll hunting anymore, Espen,” Kjell said.
“And how a water troll can transform himself into a beautiful jewel or even into a powerful white horse?” Espen continued.
“This isn’t a game,” Kjell said. “This is for real.”
“I know!” Espen said. “I know. But, Kjell, once you climb onto that horse’s back, you are in its power.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It can take you away, and you can’t do anything about it.”
“You are wrong about the contents of your rucksack,” the soldier said.
Espen was jolted back to the dark road, the idling car, and the soldier standing in front of him holding his backpack. “What’s that?” he asked.
“I said that you are wrong about what is in here.”