Shadow on the Mountain

by Margi Preus

  “There must be thousands of the lazy louts hiding up in the mountains by now!” he said out loud.

  “Really?” his mother said. “So many!”

  “Just to get out of work,” Aksel added.

  “Who knew the Norwegians could be so lazy! Do you really think that is the main reason?”

  “Not you, too!” Aksel cried in exasperation. “Are you going to side with them, too? Along with everybody else?” Aksel glanced at her. She hadn’t combed her hair yet this morning and was still wearing her dressing gown.

  She sighed and said, “I wish you were more like your father.”

  “Dead, you mean?”

  “No, of course not,” his mother replied. “I just meant, he had high ideals.”

  “I have high ideals!” Aksel insisted.

  “Sometimes I think you just like to hurt people,” she said.

  “I don’t like to,” Aksel said. “It’s just necessary sometimes.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Do you think Father was in Finland being nice to people?”

  His mother got up from the table, taking her coffee with her.

  “He was killing Russians, Mor—that’s what he was doing there.”

  “Well, he wasn’t killing his own countrymen,” she mumbled under her breath.

  “What?” Aksel stood up so abruptly, his chair tipped backward.

  “All this killing! And misery!” she cried. “Can’t it stop? What’s it for?”

  “If the Norwegians would just …”

  “No!” She held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it. You and your rationalizing … I just don’t want to hear it anymore.”

  “I try to be good to you,” he said.

  “These are your own countrymen you’re abusing,” she said. “Your own friends!”

  “They were never my friends,” he said.

  “Can’t you feel any compassion, Aksel?” she asked.

  “‘Close your hearts to pity! Act brutally! The stronger man is right. Be harsh and remorseless. Be steeled against all signs of compassion.’”

  “What,” his mother whispered, “are you saying?”

  “I am merely repeating the words of the Führer, Mor,” Aksel said. “This is what Hitler has instructed us to do.” He went out into the front hall.

  “When you lose compassion, you have lost your soul!” she called after him.

  Aksel stopped by the mirror in the hall. In the reflection, he could see his mother coming up behind him.

  “I have compassion for you,” he said. This, he thought, was kind of him to say, because, honestly, she looked terrible.

  “Aksel,” she said, “you can’t be compassionate toward some people but not others. That is not compassion.”

  He looked at himself in the mirror. Really, he looked quite good, he thought. Like he might catch some criminals today. That would help him with the promotion he wanted. It would take just one brilliant capture, or one brilliant idea, or one brilliant thought. And right then, quite unexpectedly, he had one!

  “I just thought of something,” he said out loud. “Those ration cards are worthless.”

  There was no reply. But he hadn’t expected one.

  “They are no good unless they’re stamped. And they weren’t. They have to be marked with the stamp from the ration card office if they’re to be used. Ha!” He put on his hat, saluted himself, and, on that triumphant note, marched out of the house.

  spen tried to appear casual as he strolled along the pier—all while trying to fasten the small pin onto his lapel that would identify him to his new contact. Another new contact, he silently groused, glancing around at the few fishermen who stood with their backs to him, their eyes focused on their lines.

  The fjord was still and the sun bright. Espen had to squint into the light glinting off the water. Against it, the fishermen appeared as black silhouettes. He didn’t like it; he preferred to see peoples’ faces.

  He trusted no one and suspected everyone. He had not slept at home for weeks, choosing instead to stay with Snekker at Oleanna, or sometimes at friends’ homes, or, more and more often, on the couch in Solveig’s living room.

  But soon he would be in Sweden, he told himself. He had just this one assignment, then his personal assignment, and then to Sweden, where the cities were lit up at night and there was food, plenty of food. He had already planned what he would eat when he got there: soft white bread and butter … meatballs and gravy … and cake with real whipped cream.

  He slid his hand into his secret jacket pocket and touched the folded papers he had put there. The other hidden pocket was reserved for whatever his contact was bringing him.

  Where was his contact? He looked at the men on the pier and began to imagine that they were all agents for the Gestapo, dressed as fishermen, and the whole thing was a setup. His contact would identify him; all the fishermen would turn and open fire. His body, pierced with bullet holes, would flop off the dock and into the water, to be eaten by crabs.

  He groaned. Not only because of the grisly scenario he’d just imagined for himself, but because his sister was now walking toward him down the pier. Ingrid! What was she doing here? He had to get rid of her!

  “Ingrid!” “Espen!” brother and sister exclaimed simultaneously.

  “What are you doing here?” Espen asked.

  “What are you doing here?” Ingrid said.

  “I asked you first,” Espen insisted.

  “I asked you at the same time you asked me.”

  “Well, go home,” Espen told her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “You go home,” Ingrid said. “I have … business.”

  “‘Business’! What kind of ‘business’?”

  “It’s important. Go away.”

  “What kind of ‘business’?” Espen repeated.

  “None of your business!”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Espen said slowly. Something was dawning on him. This was the girl who had stolen ration cards, after all, and he was pretty sure that what he was picking up from his contact was a ration card stamp.

  Ingrid shifted her eyes to his collar, upon which his pin hung lopsidedly. “You?” she said.

  He nodded.

  She laughed.

  He did not. “Ingrid!” he whispered. “You should not be getting involved in this.”

  “Why not? It looks like you are.”

  “I’m older than you.”

  “Ja? Well … how long have you been doing this?” she said.

  “Since … the beginning,” Espen replied.

  “Well, then,” she said, “I’m the same age you were when you started.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Because you’re a boy?”

  “No.” He grabbed her by the arm and hurried her to the end of the pier, farther away from the fishermen.

  “It’s gotten a lot more dangerous,” Espen said. “When I started, it was … it was almost like a lark. It was fun. But the Germans were trying to be friendly at first, and they let us get away with things. Not anymore. Now they’re like hungry wolves, ready to devour anyone and everyone. Being a cute little girl won’t keep you safe.”

  “Good grief!” Ingrid exclaimed. “I’m not a ‘little girl,’ Espen! I’m almost fourteen!”

  “Give me the package,” he demanded, “and promise me you won’t do anything like this ever again.”

  “I’ll give you the package,” she said, “if you’ll stop telling me what to do!”

  They stared each other down for a few moments. Then Espen grabbed her and pulled her to him in a big hug. He wondered if she could feel his heart pounding.

  She slipped the small package into his pocket, then turned and ran away down the pier. He pretended to chase her while she squealed and waved her arms above her head, just as she had when she was little.

  Once she was gone, he comforted himself with the knowledge that at least now the stamp was in his pocket and not hers. And soon
he would deposit it with his Milorg contact.

  But first, he wanted to tend to his personal business, and he was angrier than ever because now he had to worry for his sister’s safety, too.

  He climbed onto his bicycle and pumped hard all the way to Kjell’s house. He tore into the yard, skidded on the gravel, and dropped the bike right where it was.

  Was this Kjell’s house? It looked different than he remembered. But then, he had not stood in front of this house for years. Before that, he had spent many happy hours here. And yet, he had never noticed before how small it was. How plain. How bare. How poor. He had never noticed the peeling paint or the missing shingles.

  Hardly anybody had a lot of money, or even very much money. Times were hard, everyone said. Nobody he knew got new clothes or new anything. But why had he never realized just how poor Kjell and his grandmother must have been, even before the war?

  The door of the house swung open. Kjell’s bestemor came out onto the stoop, clutching her heavy wool sweater around her. She looked older than Espen remembered, stooped and thin, her white hair floating around her head like wisps of smoke. Her usually friendly face was drawn tight, her eyes narrowed.

  “Can I help you?” she said without any warmth.

  “It’s Espen.”

  “Oh! Espen!” she cried. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you at first. You’ve grown.”

  “Ja,” he said. “How are you, then?”

  “Oh …” Her lips compressed in the funny smirk Espen remembered. “I guess I feel more like I do now than I did yesterday.”

  She hadn’t lost her sense of humor, anyway. That was about the only thing a lot of people had left these days, Espen thought.

  “Kjell takes good care of me,” she went on. “You know how he is. Would you like to come in?”

  Now was his chance, he knew. He could picture the inside of their living room. He would sit down, and she would go into the kitchen to find something for him to eat—she always had—and he would only need a moment to hide the incriminating documents. Then it would just take an anonymous tip to the right people, and Kjell would find out the meaning of trouble.

  But he heard himself saying, “Nei, takk—No, thanks.”

  “Shall I tell Kjell you were here?”

  “Just give him a message,” Espen said. He shoved his hand into his pocket; his fingers curled around the papers there, then crumpled them into a ball. “Tell him … I wish him—and you—a happy New Year.”

  The old woman hobbled down the stairs and walked unsteadily over to him. She placed her hands on either side of his face. “Tusen takk, Espen,” she whispered. “A thousand thanks. And may the next year be good for you and your family.”

  He waited until she was back indoors. Then he got onto his bike and pedaled slowly away from the house. He found himself back on the road he had ridden along so often, taking comfort in the familiar effort of climbing the hill. Why, he wondered, hadn’t he done what he had set out to do? Had he been too afraid? No, that hadn’t been it. Had it been because now Ingrid was involved, and he had to protect her? No, he didn’t think so. But he wasn’t sure.

  Dusk was settling in the valley. Mist rose from the river like smoke, and his steamy breath hung in the still air. He recalled seeing the capercaillies at this spot, a reminder of a peaceful world. That’s what he wanted, he remembered. He wanted the world to be like it was for those birds—peaceful, a world without war, where you could go peck gravel by the side of the road if you felt like it, at any time of day or night, and nobody would ask you what you were doing or did you have a permit to do it or who had sent you to do it. That’s what he had set out to do, he remembered now, to set the world right, not to tip it more wrong.

  No grouse this evening. Just the quiet of his tires ticking against the pavement and his wheels turning and turning like the hands of a clock, spinning the dusk into dark, the dark into dawn, the winter to spring, and the spring into summer.

  spen couldn’t have said how it started, exactly, but Solveig began to accompany him on some of his missions. Perhaps it was foolish, but things had settled down and the Germans seemed distracted by other matters. And it was so pleasant to have her company. They carried empty pails, so if anyone stopped them, they could say they were just going to fetch milk from a farm up the way. But no one stopped them. They looked like a young couple running an errand. A young couple in love, maybe.

  “Solveig!” her mother would say when they went out. “Where are you going?”

  The answer was: hunting mushrooms in the shady forest … picking cloudberries on the mountain slopes … fishing for trout in the icy streams. And they did do all those things, but only after they had completed their missions.

  For Espen, his missions with Solveig began to feel like pleasant outings, even—sort of—dates. They joshed and joked and carried on like pals. At first, they pretended that they were a couple, or maybe they just pretended that they were pretending.

  One day, crossing a stream, Espen reached out his hand to help her. Her hand seemed to fit so nicely into his own that he didn’t see a need to let go.

  Another day, while they sat watching the river run, Solveig put her head on his shoulder. His arm reached around to encircle her waist, and, he thought, everything was perfect. The way the evening sun glimmered on the water and wavered up the trees that lined the shore—that was perfect, too.

  “Everything is perfect right now,” he said. “I don’t want anything to change. Even the Germans can stay.” He laughed.

  “I thought you hated them,” Solveig said.

  “I thought I did, too.” Did he need to keep hating them to keep doing what he did?

  “Are you going to quit your underground work, then?” Solveig asked, as if reading his thoughts.

  “No!” he said. “Of course not.” But he felt different, somehow. Who, he wondered, had he been before? He couldn’t remember the boy he’d left behind. But he felt that, in these long, warm summer days, he was beginning to get a bit of that boy back. Or perhaps he was getting a glimpse of the man he would become.

  The days took on a dreamy, kind of sun-drenched magic. Even though horrible things were happening all over the world, still, for a few beautiful weeks in Norway, the sun hung endlessly in the summer sky, lulling Espen into thinking that it would stay that way forever.

  t was winter when Espen got word that Tante Marie was in the hospital, gravely ill. He arrived to find her looking fragile and worn. All the red was gone from her hair, and only the silver, all its luster lost, remained.

  “Sit down here,” she said.

  He pulled a chair up next to her bed.

  “I’m not going to last,” she said.

  “You’ll soon be good as new,” he assured her. “You just need a good rest.”

  “Stop talking rubbish and listen to me,” she said. “There’s not much time for everything I have to say.” She coughed, then continued. “You have to retrieve the things from my barn,” she went on. “You know where they are. You’ve been given a kind of promotion, you might say.” “Promotion?” he asked.

  She motioned him to put his head down to her. “XU,” she whispered.

  Espen was so surprised, he couldn’t say anything. “The current XU agent has to be replaced,” she said. “With me?” Espen said. “I’m too young!”

  “Young but seasoned,” she said. “And trustworthy.”

  “I can’t!” he cried. “The Nazis have really stepped up the labor draft. If I am even seen on the street, they will snag me for sure!”

  “What you need is a disguise,” said a voice from behind him.

  Espen turned to see the doctor standing there.

  Disguise. He liked the sound of that.

  The doctor told him to wait in his examining room, and he would be with him in a moment.

  As he waited, Espen imagined himself being transformed into a handsome, dashing, mysterious spy. He wouldn’t look anything like himself. He would sport a pencilthin
mustache. A black trench coat. A fedora. He imagined how the girls would wonder: Who was this handsome stranger?

  Why, he wondered, was he sitting in a doctor’s office instead of visiting a theatrical costumer?

  Then the doctor was standing in front of him, arms crossed. He turned his head this way and that, eyeing Espen skeptically. He clucked his tongue and scratched at his two-day growth of beard.

  “You’re a healthy one, aren’t you?”

  “Ja,” Espen replied. “I’ve always been pretty healthy.”

  The doctor frowned at him. “Could you at least not sit up so straight? Hunch your shoulders forward.”

  Espen hunched his shoulders.

  “A little coughing, please.”

  Covering his mouth, Espen let out a polite cough.

  “Is that the best you can do?” the doctor asked. He sounded exasperated.

  Espen coughed a little harder.

  “I’m admitting you to the hospital,” the doctor said. “You, young man, are terribly ill.”

  “I am?”

  “We’ll do our best to make it seem so.” The doctor scrawled something on a chart, then glanced at Espen. “The least you could do is try to look a little sicker.”

  Look sick? That was going to be his disguise? That wasn’t going to get him very far with the girls, and especially Solveig. Espen’s heart sank, his shoulders sagged, his face fell.

  “That’s better!” the doctor chirped. “You look a little pale around the gills now.”

  Espen groaned.

  “Righto! You’re getting the hang of it! You’ll have a short stay in the hospital to make the medical records convincing.” The doctor scribbled his diagnosis on a prescription pad and handed it to Espen. Tuberculosis, it read. “You’ll be given an official medical certificate exempting you from the Labor Service. Don’t you worry,” the doctor said, “we’ll have you sick in no time.”