by Margi Preus
The person said something in Norwegian. In the local dialect. Espen recognized the voice. It was someone he knew.
ksel recognized the guttersnipe who was stumbling around the compound in a too-large coat. Of course he did. He couldn’t think of the name, but he knew who it was: the kid who had tossed him the jellyfish soccer ball years before.
The Occupation had been hard on everyone, but it seemed to have been extra hard on this poor crackpot. Since Aksel had seen him last, he’d grown taller, if not any heavier. But he looked sick. Sick, stupid, and half-mad. He looked, to Aksel, like someone who should be put out of his misery.
Aksel flipped open the holster on his side.
Then it occurred to him that perhaps this sap was not as stupid and sick as he seemed. Maybe he was faking it. What was he doing here, really? He did not belong here and had no reason to be here.
Aksel fingered the butt of his pistol.
On the other hand, Aksel knew that he himself had no legitimate business here, either. He was just snooping around, trying to find out how the war was going. He knew what the Nazi-run radio and newspapers said, and he knew it was all propaganda. He suspected that the addle-brain standing in front of him knew more about the truth of what was happening in the war than most of the German soldiers, because he would have been listening to illegal radio broadcasts and reading underground newspapers.
So, he was in a predicament. If he arrested this fellow—possibly a spy—if he hauled him in and interrupted the commandant’s lunch, it was possible, just possible, that Aksel would be applauded and perhaps promoted again. Maybe even given a job that would take him away from his hometown and the derisive attitudes of the townspeople.
However, if it turned out that the chump really was an idiot and Aksel had interrupted the commandant’s lunch for nothing, then it would surely be brought to the commandant’s attention that Aksel had no business being at the compound in the first place. If so, Aksel would, once again, be made a laughingstock. Much like the time he had failed to catch Leif after a wild-goose chase. And the time he had lost the important papers taken from Stein’s house. And the time the schoolchildren had refused to participate in the ski race that it had been his job to organize. And also the time everyone had quit the soccer team.
Aksel would relish the opportunity to get rid of this thorn in his side. He could think of it as a way to even the score. Now, what was his name?
They were standing so close that Espen could smell the damp wool of Aksel’s locust-green uniform and hear the creak of his shiny black leather boots as he shifted his weight.
As he waited for Aksel to shoot him in the back, Espen noticed something. What the prisoners were working on was a trench. A trench in which cables were being laid … cables that might well run to a communications center. Which was the single most important thing he needed to find. If only the earth would open and swallow Aksel right now.
But it did not.
“Turn around,” Aksel commanded.
Espen turned.
“What’s in the sack?”
“’tatoes,” Espen mumbled. He held the bag out to Aksel.
Aksel looked into the bag and handed it back. “How is it you are not at work?” he said. “Let me see your identity card.”
“… my pocket,” Espen mumbled.
Aksel waved the gun at him to go ahead and produce it.
Espen stuck his hand into his pocket and gripped his medical exemption. The magic talisman, he hoped. He handed the paper to Aksel.
Aksel stared down at it while keeping his gun trained on Espen. Then he handed it back and glowered at his former teammate.
It was a look Espen remembered, a look that used to make his stomach churn. Nothing good ever came of it. Well, Espen thought, it was Aksel’s look, and he could keep it.
“Never again will that hen ever cackle,” Espen stuttered in a singsong voice while turning around. “Never again will she let out a peep. Now I must go to the mill and do grinding …”
He expected at any moment to hear the pop of a Luger or the rattle of machine-gun fire. Let him shoot me in the back, if he has to shoot me. He should have to be the coward I know he is, he thought. Nevertheless, he began to walk away, alternately coughing and singing, “‘Pshaw!’ said Paul, ‘Now why should I worry? A brave tongue and courage have helped quite a few.’”
Then he heard footsteps and sensed a different presence behind him. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that he was being followed by dozens of prisoners, floating between him and Aksel like a band of raggedy angels.
Aksel watched Espen walk down the hill, past the trench the prisoners were digging. He saw the prisoners leave their work and tag along behind the young man in the tattered coat. Aksel followed at a distance, concealed from view by the prisoners. Give him a little lead, Aksel thought. See where he goes. He watched him climb down an embankment and disappear from view.
As soon as he had seen the name on the identity card, Aksel remembered it: Espen. Espen the goalie who had tossed him the jellyfish ball. Espen, whose fault it was that the others had laughed at Aksel and never taken him seriously.
It was probably Espen’s fault that the soccer team had stalked off the field the day he’d been made captain. Who knew if it wasn’t also his idea to not finish the ski race? It might even have been Espen who had convinced the others to get involved with Milorg. And he’d probably been the one who warned Leif to get away before Aksel could catch him.
Aksel came to the edge of the embankment, then scrambled over it and down the slope. He turned to see a cave dug out of the side of the hill—a bunker filled with communications equipment. A glance inside was all it took for Aksel to see desks equipped with radio sets and telephones and typewriters.
“Achtung!” a voice within called out, and Aksel scurried away.
Espen was long gone. No doubt he had already ducked under the barbed wire and down the steep hill.
But now Aksel was absolutely sure that Espen was a spy. Yes, Aksel thought, and the root of all his troubles. But he would get him. One way or another, he would catch Espen. Maybe not now, but soon enough.
eep in the forest, Espen ripped off his coat and buried it in the snow, raked his fingers through his hair, then hurried to the engineer’s office. Taraldsen slid the map out of a drawer, and he and Espen hunched over it. Together, they marked each thing that Espen had discovered until they had completed a precise map of the compound.
“It’s very good,” Taraldsen said. “Every detail—perfect! The map will be sent by courier to Sweden, and from there to the right hands.”
Espen told the engineer he had been recognized.
“You’d better disappear right away,” the man advised.
Espen agreed that the time had come. He would go … soon. First, there was the party he had promised to attend with Ingrid, and he intended to go. But before that, he would go see his father.
His father looked up from his desk when Espen walked in.
“I think I may have to ‘disappear’ for a while,” Espen said.
His father nodded. Espen saw his jaw twitch with pain—possibly from the stomach ulcer that plagued him all the time now. Then he walked over to Espen and placed both hands on his shoulders. “If I should be taken as a hostage for you,” he said, “the worst thing you could do would be to come out of hiding to set me free.”
Espen couldn’t speak for a moment. There was, he thought, too much to say—or what there was to say could not be said but only felt. They clasped hands; then Espen said good-bye, turned, and walked swiftly away.
ngrid and Espen strolled through the dark streets on their way home from the party later that evening. It was late. So late, and Espen was so tired. Too tired to try to leave town that night. Tomorrow would be soon enough, he thought. Besides, he really wanted to say good-bye to Solveig before he left for what might be a very long time. She hadn’t been at the party.
“I was thinking of stopping home for some t
hings,” he said, “but I don’t want to worry Mor.” He could get his radio and his “escape money” from the house in the morning, he decided.
“What things?”
“Just a couple of things,” Espen said. He wished he could share with Ingrid all that had happened, but she already knew more than she should. Of course, he longed to have someone to confide in. Sometimes he was so exhausted by all the responsibility and tension, it would be good just to get it off his chest. Ingrid would help him want to keep going. She’d be proud of him if she knew all the things he’d done.
She looked at him as if she was going to cry. “Espen …,” she said, “you know I can keep secrets. You know I will never tell anybody anything. No matter what.”
“I know,” he replied, “but there’s no reason for you to know.”
“At least tell me where you are staying,” she said.
Espen sighed. Tomorrow he would be gone, and then it wouldn’t matter. “At Solveig’s,” he answered.
“Oh!” Ingrid exclaimed. “There’s a lot I don’t know.”
Espen laughed and strolled away, then called back, “Wasn’t the cake just grand?” Their laughter pealed through the empty streets.
Espen crept into the Dahls’ house quietly. It was late. Solveig and her parents were sure to be asleep. He could say goodbye in the morning.
He did what he did every single night: he stuffed all his clothes and his shoes into his rucksack and set it next to the couch. That way he could, in one swift movement, grab his sleeping bag off the couch with one hand and his rucksack with the other and race down the stairs to the basement. And, if necessary, from there out the storm cellar door into the night.
Then he climbed into his sleeping bag and enjoyed the delicious feeling of a warm bag and a tired body. It was late; the clock in the hall ticked sleepily. He thought for a few moments about the party. A lot of his friends from school had been there—minus his soccer teammates. Their absence made the party bittersweet. Like a lot of things nowadays, Espen thought. But there had been some food, and that was nice: herring and brown bread, and someone had gotten hold of a nice chunk of Jarlsberg cheese.
But the crowning glory had been the cake. Ingrid’s friend, Caroline, had been so thrilled to find a chocolate cake with white frosting in the bakery downtown, and it did look delicious. She made a little performance out of cutting into it and making sure each person got an equal-size slice. Espen’s mouth had started watering right away, but he managed to keep from eating until everyone had a slice. Finally, Caroline said, “Vær så god,” and Espen, along with everyone else, attacked the dessert. But, after the first bite, there had been a moment of silence. The guests looked at one another.
“What on earth is it?” Caroline said, and they’d all burst out laughing.
“Rye bread … I think,” Nils answered.
“With beaten egg whites for frosting!” Kari added.
It was terrible. But, of course, they ate it anyway.
Espen fell asleep with a smile on his face, determined to have a dream of real cake. He never would have dreamt what was transpiring at his own house at that very moment.
ngrid walked home, smiling. She was tickled about Espen and Solveig and was giggling when she opened the front door. Her laughter stuck in her throat when she was seized by two Gestapo officers. Two others stood with their guns trained on her parents.
Her parents sat on the couch, her mother in her dressing gown, her father still in his work shirt. Her mother was pale but looked stoic and determined. Ingrid could see that they were trying to stay calm, but she felt a kind of panic welling in her chest. She tried to take a breath but couldn’t—she felt as if she had been plunged into an icy stream.
“Good evening, miss,” said the older of the two officers. He looked newly shaved, with a clean shirt. As if he had been planning to attend a party. Then she thought: Maybe this was the party. “We have been waiting for you,” he said, “and your brother.”
Ingrid said nothing in response to the officer, so he added, “He isn’t with you?”
“No,” she said.
“But he was with you earlier?”
Ingrid’s mind raced. There were a lot of people at the party. Anyone might have told them he had been there. “Yes,” she said.
“And where was that?”
“A party.”
“Where was the party?”
“He wouldn’t be there anymore. He left.”
“Ah, and where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps if you think for a moment, something will occur to you.”
Ingrid was silent.
“You will show this young man your brother’s bedroom.” He gestured toward a person standing behind her, and Ingrid turned to see a fellow dressed in plainclothes standing in the shadows. He looked familiar—Norwegian. Did she know him from somewhere? He wasn’t one of Espen’s close friends. He had never been on the soccer team. She was sure of that, but, still, he seemed familiar.
The officer motioned to the staircase. She felt like saying, no, she didn’t think she would like to show anybody anything, but then she felt the very hard barrel of a gun pressed into the small of her back.
Ingrid started up the stairs with the young Norwegian fellow following. Each step was agony.
Espen. What might be in his bedroom?
This young man. How did she know him?
Her diaries. She took mental inventory of where each one was.
They walked into Espen’s bedroom, and the young man immediately began going through the desk drawers. It didn’t take him long to come upon a cash box, which, when opened, revealed 250 kroner. He held it out to her.
“Where did he get this?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said. This was true, though she now guessed that this was what Espen wanted to come back to the house to retrieve. “He works at the station sometimes. I suppose he earned it.”
The boy put the money back into the box. Well! Ingrid noted. A shred of decency!
Then he found a small pocket radio and showed that to Ingrid.
“I didn’t know he had one,” Ingrid said. That was also true.
Next, the young man picked up a photo album and opened it. “Please point out your brother’s girlfriend,” he said.
Ingrid walked slowly to the album, trying to think what to say if there was a photo of Solveig in the book. The question of who this fellow was nagged at her. She was sure she knew him from somewhere.
He turned the pages. There were photos of Espen as a young boy. Of Espen and Ingrid together as babies, as children, as youngsters. Ingrid’s mind raced. If he didn’t find anything here, would they search her room? She thought again of her diaries.
The years passed by in the photos. Here was Espen in his scout uniform with his troop. Ingrid’s hand paused over the photo, and she raised her head, turning to look at the young man next to her.
For a brief moment, their eyes met. Then he averted his gaze and flipped the page quickly.
That was it! He had been a scout with Espen. He had been a friend of Espen’s. Just a few years earlier. And now he was hunting Espen like an animal! Ingrid wanted to fly at him, to choke him, kick him, anything! Her anger rose in her throat. How could he turn against his own countrymen—his own friends?
She could see his ears grow pink as she stared at him.
“The girlfriend, please,” he said. “Please point out his girlfriend.” He brandished his gun at her and tried to look stern.
Now that she really looked at him, she could see that he was nervous and ill at ease. He doesn’t want to be doing this, she thought. She resisted the impulse to feel sorry for him. He should be unhappy, she thought.
The boy flipped through the album rapidly and arrived at the recent pages. There were photos of Ingrid’s birthday party last year. Of Grandmother knitting. Of Mother in the garden. There was not a single photograph of Solveig.
“Even if he had a
girlfriend,” Ingrid said, “he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Where has he gone?”
“I have no idea,” Ingrid said. “Do you think he tells his sister anything?” She heard her voice talking, doing her best to maintain a friendly, even jovial, tone, while her mind clicked and whirred. How could she get a warning to Espen?
The young Norwegian tucked the radio under his arm and gestured to Ingrid to leave the room. They walked down the hall and were almost past Ingrid’s room when he said, “Stop.”
She stopped.
“Is this your room?” he said.
She nodded. He gestured for her to enter, and she stood staring at the window, though the shades were drawn, while he looked all around the room. She would not, she willed herself, look at the bookshelf where the diary labeled 1939 was stowed. He had seen it, though, and he picked it up and waggled it at her.
“What is this?” he asked.
She held her voice steady. “It’s a diary.”
“Where are the others?” he said.
“Others?”
“From more recent years,” he said.
“I gave up diary writing after that,” she said.
“My sister keeps a diary,” the fellow said, “and she keeps it …” He stalked over to the bed and plunged his hand under her pillow. “Ah!” he said, holding up the diary she had stashed there. “Under her pillow.” He turned the spine to face him and read, “1945.”
“Where are the others? 1940 through 1944?” he asked.
“I burned them,” she said. “I don’t want to remember those years.”
“And this year?”
“Is different,” she said. He would know what that meant. All anyone talked about these days was how the Germans were losing on all fronts. It just made them meaner than ever, but, still, her countrymen were cautiously happy, knowing the war was somehow going to come to an end—maybe soon.
He took the 1945 diary and gestured for her to move ahead of him out of the room. Once downstairs, the young man gave the radio and the diary to the Gestapo officer, who showed his tobacco-stained teeth in what Ingrid supposed was intended to be a smile. The officer handed the items to one of the other men and turned to her.