by Margi Preus
“You should just get over your anger,” Kjell said, “and join up. Anybody can see which way things are going.”
Espen opened his mouth to speak, but Kjell went on. “If you get in now, you’ll have your choice of jobs. If you wait, you’ll have to serve, anyway. There’s going to be compulsory service, and if you wait till then, you’ll get the unpleasant assignments. It’s worth it.” He held up a box tied closed with string. Another package was tucked under his arm.
“What’s that?” Espen asked.
“In the box?” Kjell said. “Cake! With real whipped cream! Bestemor is going to flip!”
Espen felt the hollowness of his own stomach, the huge emptiness of it. His breakfast of watery oatmeal was long gone.
“You should do it, Espen,” Kjell went on. “You should join. Or else the Norway you know will be destroyed!”
“By the Germans,” Espen said.
“No, by the Jews!”
“What?”
“All great cultures were created by the Germanic race, and of all the people in the world, we—the Nordic people—are the ones with the purest Germanic blood. Against us stand the Jews, who want to destroy us. If we don’t win this war, Espen, it will be the end of the Germanic race, and the end of Norway as we know it.”
“What are you talking about?” Espen said.
“We are living through Ragnarok, the time of reckoning. It’s the final battle between good and evil, the Nordic blood versus the Jewish blood, and the Germanic blood must get the opportunity to build the new world.”
For a few moments, Espen stood in bewildered silence. “I can’t believe you … you really believe that! Where did you hear that rubbish?” he said. “Do you even know any Jewish people?”
“No,” Kjell replied. “And I don’t want to.”
Espen thought he knew his old friend, but now it seemed that Kjell saw everything the opposite way he did. His great-grandmother would have said that Kjell had caught a troll splinter in his eye: night seems like day; day seems like night; everything right seems wrong; everything wrong seems right.
“You should think about joining,” Kjell said. “I’ll put in a good word for you with my superiors.”
Kjell continued down the street. A neighborhood dog trotted alongside him, sniffing at the cake box and at the other package tucked under his arm. What was in that package? A ham? Bacon? Espen watched Kjell and his paper-wrapped package moving away. He imagined the trail of scent it left behind. And the stink that trailed from Kjell.
Espen felt the familiar empty feeling in his stomach. He was hungry all the time now, but he did not think the ham, the bacon, or even the cake would satisfy the consuming hunger in his belly.
Outside the train station, Espen watched a pair of soldiers march by. Clong, clong, clong. That was the sound their boot heels made when they struck the pavement.
He glowered at the soldiers—when their backs were turned—and went into the station. All he could think about was wanting to do something, anything, to get back at them for arresting the teachers, for clomping around with their iron-heeled boots, for twisting his best friend into someone he didn’t recognize.
“Your father is in the mail room,” one of the ticket clerks told him.
Espen hung up his jacket and took a load of packages into the mail room.
“I heard about what happened at school today,” his father said, looking up from his writing. “It’s a terrible thing.”
“A lot of the teachers were arrested,” Espen said. “What’s going on?”
“Eleven hundred teachers from all over Norway were arrested. That’s just to set an example. Many thousands more than that refused to join the Nazi’s teachers’ union and to indoctrinate their students with Nazi ideas. But they couldn’t arrest them all, so they selected about ten percent of those who objected.”
“What will happen to them?” Espen asked.
His father shook his head. “They are brave souls,” he answered, “but they are not soldiers. They’re not trained to stand up to the harsh treatment the Gestapo probably has in mind for them. Turn that box this way, would you?” he said, and continued writing.
Espen turned the box, its address illuminated suddenly by a shaft of sunlight. While his father’s pen scratched against the paper, Espen watched the tiny glittering dust motes dancing in the light.
In a flash of insight as bright as the sunbeam, Espen realized that his father was recording addresses. Of course! The addresses of all the locations of German troops. Somehow, this information must be getting relayed to others … others in London, maybe?
Espen glanced at his father, who looked back at him over his glasses. A moment of understanding passed between them. Espen opened his mouth to speak, but just then his father was called into the office.
Espen stood still for a moment, wondering how many people were going about their work while also quietly undermining the occupying power in whatever way they could.
He sidled over to the office door and heard his father talking to another man.
“There’s a risk, of course, but I don’t think it’s that dangerous,” the man was saying. “Quisling would like to prevent the letters from being delivered, but—”
His father interrupted. “He’s awfully young to be …”
But Espen couldn’t hear the rest of it.
Were they talking about him? Espen wondered. He wasn’t so young. Almost sixteen, after all. And there was something to be done? Something dangerous? He strode into the office.
“Who is awfully young, Far?” he asked.
“Have you been eavesdropping?” his father said.
“If you’re looking for someone to … um … run an errand, I can do it,” Espen said. “I want to do it.”
“That’s the spirit!” the man said, then turned back to Espen’s father. “What did I tell you? He’s just the ticket!”
The task was described to him, and the man finished with, “So, on Saturday, then? And, if any of those Germans come your way, just find a pretty girl to kiss!”
Espen felt his face flush. The only girl he wanted to kiss wouldn’t be on the train—and, anyway, he’d never dare kiss her! Or any other girl, for that matter.
“If you have trouble, Espen,” his father said, “it’s always best to use the Gudbrandsdal Method.”
“The simplest way …,” Espen began.
“… is usually best,” his father finished.
ometimes Ingrid wondered why she bothered writing in her diary. She had once believed that words were powerful. A funny story made people laugh; a sad one made people cry. Words could inspire people to action. In fairy tales, at least, words could cast spells, enchantments. Stop trolls dead in their tracks. Save peoples’ lives. Things like that.
But not her words. Her words didn’t have that kind of power. One thing she knew for sure: her diary was never going to save anybody’s life.
And what good would it do to write about what she had witnessed that day? How could she write about it?
She had been walking along the street, trying to get the white clouds of her breath to come out in neat rings the way Papa could with the smoke from his pipe. The fog was so thick, it was hard to tell what was her breath and what was fog. The rattling of wagons and clopping of horses’ hooves made her look up and peer into the fog to see what would emerge. Horses came by, and wagons, and then, as if materializing out of mist, came … ghosts! Pale and bony as skeletons, with dark, sunken eyes. Then she noticed their ragged uniforms, and realized they were prisoners of war. Alongside them marched their German guards, wearing heavy wool coats and leather boots. One of the prisoners drifted near to her, snatched up a piece of turf, and stuffed it in his mouth. Others, she noticed with horror, were plucking horse manure off the street and eating it.
How hungry do you have to be to do that? she wondered. She had been hungry, but she had never been that hungry.
“And we thought we lived in a civilized country,” a woman
standing nearby said, shaking her head.
Ingrid had stood still for a moment after the procession went by. She did not think she could ever find words to describe what she had just seen. And, anyway, writing about it was not going to help those prisoners. She wanted to do something. Espen could do things. She could do things, too.
ksel sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his chin. Even before he stood up, he felt that thing working away inside of him like a worm inside an apple.
He got up and made his bed carefully, thinking about what was gnawing at him. He had an idea that somebody on the soccer team—maybe the whole wretched soccer team, or what had been the soccer team—was up to some kind of criminal activity. He suspected they had formed a gang or a Milorg group. If they had, he wanted to be the one to crack it.
He rubbed his chin again and thought he felt a bit of stubble. He could use a shave, he decided, and went into the bathroom. As he lathered his face, he tried to avoid looking in the mirror. There was a pimple right on the tip of his nose, and he did not want to look at it. He put the razor to his face without looking at his reflection, drawing it very carefully down the length of his jaw. How, he wondered, could he find out what the old soccer crowd was up to? It would help if he could get back in with them. He rinsed the shaving soap off the razor under the faucet and, without thinking, glanced in the mirror. Ugh! That pimple!
They didn’t like him, though, and they never had. And now that he was an important member of the Stapo, the Norwegian secret police, and possibly soon to be promoted to the real Gestapo—he was on his way up!—he knew they liked him even less. He hadn’t forgotten the day they had all walked off the field. There were a lot of things he hadn’t forgotten.
There was no way he was going to be able to get anywhere close to them. Plus, he couldn’t afford any wild-goose chases. His superiors were already displeased about the way he went off on his own to investigate things. He had been reprimanded about that before and reminded that he was supposed to follow orders, not give them.
What he needed was someone who had an in with the group, someone who—
“Ouch!” Aksel yelped. It was hard to shave without looking.
After stanching the blood on his chin, he continued shaving, now watching himself in the mirror as he did.
He tried to avoid looking at his nose, but the blasted pimple was like a beacon, drawing his eyes to it. Finally, he gave up, put down the razor, and went to work on the pimple, determined to squeeze it away.
He should find someone to help him. Someone who needed something, something that Aksel could provide. Food? A recommendation?
Or maybe … the pimple gave in with a satisfying pop … medicine.
Aksel held a damp washcloth to his nose. The pimple was bleeding now, too, along with the cut on his chin.
Medicine … yes, Aksel thought. In his opinion, it was stupid to try to save old people. Precious medicine supplies should be given to young, productive members of society, not people who were going to die soon enough as it was. But some people became very attached to their elderly relatives.
Aksel put a piece of sticking plaster onto the cut on his chin and one onto the tip of his nose and went down to breakfast.
“What happened to your nose?” his mother asked.
“Nothing.” He reached for the newspaper and opened it. His mother placed a plate of bread and cheese in front of him. They even had a bit of margarine. Aksel hoped his mother appreciated that. Not very many people had margarine! It had taken a bit of maneuvering to get it, but he had done it. He knew how to do things. And he knew how to set a snare for his enemies. It might take a bit of time and a bit of maneuvering, but he could afford to be patient.
s the train chugged through the countryside, Espen wished he were more brave. But since he wasn’t, he would have to pretend to be. He practiced looking relaxed. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. He tried to fix his gaze on the snow-covered landscape but found his head turning back so he could keep an eye on the aisle, in case any officials came looking for travel permits. He didn’t have one.
Espen glanced at his reflection in the window and practiced looking bored. He yawned, stretched his legs, and bumped the elderly lady sitting across from him. She gave him an amused look and went back to her knitting.
Next, he tried to look mysterious. Smart. Dashing. By what he could see of his reflection, he didn’t think he was succeeding. If only he had a mustache! Maybe then …
He could have been on a ski holiday with his classmates. He looked out the window at the sparkling snow and the bright blue sky. Perfect skiing weather. His school chums would just now be tumbling out of their beds and pulling on their woolen knickers and sweaters, getting ready for a fine day of adventure in the mountains.
But, Espen reminded himself, he was doing something important: delivering a letter that was to be read aloud by nearly every clergyman in Norway to their congregations, a letter objecting to the violence of the hird and the tactics of the occupiers. He didn’t know everything that was in the letter, but he knew that it criticized the Nazi regime, and he was only too aware of how the Nazis felt about any criticism whatsoever. Knowing that this criticism would happen in such a public way—on Easter Sunday morning, when the churches would be packed—gave Espen goose bumps.
The train slowed and pulled into the station at Fossen. Espen got up, slung on his rucksack, and, as soon as the train stopped, hopped out and trotted into the station. He’d have only a few moments before the train pulled out again.
Because of his father’s position, Espen knew most of the station managers up and down the line and also many of the railway workers, and he had a pretty good idea of who was safe and who wasn’t. He said a few words to the station manager, pulled an envelope out of his rucksack, and handed it to him.
The stationmaster nodded and placed the envelope in his inside jacket pocket. Espen sauntered, or tried to saunter, back to the train.
When he got onboard, he noticed an officer at the back of the car, so he stuffed his rucksack under his head and pretended to fall asleep. After he heard the man move past, he opened an eye. The old woman sitting across from him gave him a wink. She reminded him of his bestemor, with kind eyes and lots of soft wrinkles.
When the train pulled into the next station, Espen sat up and got ready to make another delivery. He shouldered his pack and strolled down the aisle to the exit. But when the door opened, his heart sank. Lining the platform were dozens of soldiers. Worse, a quick glance told him that they were searching bags. He hesitated. What could he do? Not leaving the car at this point would look really suspicious, but he couldn’t be searched!
Then he heard a voice in his ear. “Give me your rucksack.”
Espen turned to see the elderly lady who had been sitting across from him. He stalled for a moment, trying to decide what to do, and then remembered his father’s advice. The simplest thing would be to give his bag to the woman.
She held out her hand, and he gave her the backpack.
He stepped aside to let her exit first. As she began to step down off the train, one of the soldiers moved forward to help her, and Espen watched in horror as the old woman handed the rucksack to the soldier.
The woman took the German’s offered arm and struggled down from the train.
Espen was next, and he hustled by, hands in his pockets.
“No bag?” a soldier asked him as he walked by.
Espen turned back to him. “Just getting off to stretch my legs,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the German return his rucksack, unopened, to the old woman. The soldier even gave her a little bow.
Espen soon found the woman sitting on a bench inside the station, knitting. His rucksack sat at her feet. He sat down next to her, and she pushed it over to him with her foot.
“Everyone ignores them so much, they just love it when someone asks them for help,” the old woman said. “My sister got the soldiers to carry her heavy suitcases full of black-marke
t mutton all the way through the station at Oslo.” She chuckled. “Now, run your errand, dear. The soldiers are all out on the platform, and if any of them come in, I’ll distract them … And keep the ‘look,’” she added.
“The ‘look’?” Espen asked.
“What you were practicing on the train—looking stupid. That should work splendidly for you.”
“Ah,” Espen said wanly, and he went off to find a fellow he knew who was tagging luggage. When he found him, Espen slipped an envelope out of the pack and gave it to him. They exchanged a few casual words, and by the time he got back to the train, the soldiers had dispersed.
The next several stops went without incident. Espen spent some time wondering what he had done that had made him look stupid and how he might avoid it. But before he had come to any conclusion, he reached his destination. He got off, collected his skis from the baggage car, and boarded a bus for Follrud. From there, he went on skis to Riksdal. The last letter was one that he would deliver to the pastor himself.
His skis kicked up a fine, silvery spray of snow. The hum of the town and the buzz of the station faded away, and soon the only sound was the chick-chock of his poles and the whisper of his skis against the snow. He felt the tension and anxiety of the day evaporate with the steam that rose from his back, and he soon fell into an easy rhythm. He smiled and even laughed a little. It was a beautiful day for a ski—the snow winked and shimmered at him as if it were playing a part in the prank. Espen, the old lady on the train, and the snow.
“Outwitting the Germans once again!” he sang. He stopped to use his pole to draw H7, King Haakon’s insignia, in the snow. He’d read in Hvepsen, one of the underground newspapers, that for every thousand Nazi posters, the illegal H7 appeared ten thousand times. On roads, on rocks, on posters, and in the snow along ski trails. Maybe a million times by now.