“Do you think he’d able to help get me closer to Sweden?” Jan questioned.
“He’ll not only be able to, but he’ll be glad to help. He’s probably your best bet to get to the mainland.”
“Thanks. I’ll not tell him who sent me.”
Jan’s Karanes visit was encouraging, but he felt pressed to hurry onward; there still were so many miles to cover. Straight south, another eight and a half miles into DÅfjord Sound, lay the sleepy village of DÅfjordbotn, his next goal. From the Hansens’ window earlier in the day Jan observed the forested mountains rising to the rear of the village with homes scattered up the slopes. As the day wore on, it started snowing and soon turned to heavy snowdrifts. The north wind roared and stirred up the sea. Huge waves pounded the coast and made it impossible for Morten to take Jan to DÅfjord.
It was close to 8 p.m. when Jan said goodbye to the Hansens.
Thirty-five miles away at GrønnÅsen Rifle Range in Tromsø, precisely at 8 p.m., machine gun volleys ripped through the air. Linked together with cow chains, eight courageous freedom-loving men plunged headlong into a dark, dug out marshy tract. Jan’s duty was to reach freedom and to tell their story of courage.
Jan worked his way uphill through the snowbound field into the bordering forest. He continued onward into the mountains so as to be hidden from possible onlookers. The Arctic spring added several minutes of light daily and he felt it too chancy to begin his trek on the beach. Jan didn’t know it, but the Hansens stood in the window and watched him until the snowdrifts enveloped him and he vanished from their sight.
The wounded commando pressed forward. Enmeshed in his private emotional struggles and physical exertions against the elements, he was spared the knowledge of the fate of his friends from Brattholm.
The snow eased after a few hours and Jan headed south toward the rockbound shore. He would make better time there; the snow dwindled along the waters’ edge.
Often the steep mountainsides plunged headlong into the sea. Not realizing how steep it was, Jan started his climb, only to be forced back down by the jagged impenetrable masses. His appreciation grew for the many tough weeklong mountain hikes he had endured in Scotland with a heavy backpack. His endurance level had increased, and he was convinced of his own ability to survive this ordeal. He tackled his way back down, and forced a path further inland. Back up on the mountain plateau, Jan worked his way around seemingly impassable places. Repeatedly his crossing took him up, down, forward, and back up again. The pain in his legs haunted him. Exhaustion came sooner this time than it had on his first hike after he had left the sheepcote. The Norwegian’s iron will enabled him to push his body through more hours of struggle. Just after five in the morning Jan reached the village of DÅfjordbotn.
DÅFJORD
APRIL 3, 1943: Jan quickly found the little yellow house bordering the river, just like the Hansen family in Karanes had told him. It stood where the river cascaded over the rocky hillside and flowed straight down into the inlet. It was the only house pressed up against the hillside. But it was too early to wake up strangers. He dug himself down into the snow and lay quietly waiting for smoke to rise from the brick chimney. The forceful north wind blew in a northwesterly direction. Jan waited patiently.
THE HOUSE was bitter cold after the long freezing night. Artur Olsen, up first this morning, wrapped his robe around him snugly and went downstairs to stoke up the wood stove on the first floor. Sleepily he reached over for the aluminum coffee kettle, added the substitute coffee grains, the only kind available during the war, and water. With the lid lifter he removed the center griddle plate and placed the kettle over the heat. It always took time before the warmth spread through the house and it was reassuring to know a cup of coffee was brewing.
Upstairs Harald, six years old, and his elder brother slept in a separate room from their parents. The young boys liked taking their time getting up, always waiting until after the wood stove had been fired up. The cozy warm down covers kept them warm while the floor remained very cold. Unusual for Harald, this morning he awoke to the sound of his father stoking the wood stove on the first floor. The sound of the crackling fire clearly reached him upstairs.
Harald’s morning thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the front door downstairs. The outer-door creaked as his father opened it and Harald heard a stranger’s voice. He nudged his brother, and both became quite curious; the suspense made it impossible to stay in bed. They hurriedly dressed and went down to see who this stranger was.
Jan found that convincing Artur Olsen to help was not an easy task. The man was quite nervous and reserved. He had already heard rumors about an escapee from the Brattholm disaster. He also knew that the State Police was hunting people with illegal radios, and this he connected with the frozen man on his doorstep. What if he was a German provocateur?
Olsen finally took pity on Jan because of the freezing weather, and though still uncertain as to the stranger’s identity, he invited him in.
“You can’t stay long, but you need to come out of this weather for awhile.”
“Choice weather for me,” Jan smiled and kicked the snow off his boots. “My tracks are covered.”
Unsure of what to believe, Olsen took a chance. “You can rest here for a couple of hours.” He nodded for Jan to move closer to the stove. The crackling wood stove brought Jan’s body temperature back up, and his clothes began to steam dry as he snuggled close to the stove. Olsen got his wife Jermine up, and she soon served him coffee and good food.
Jan’s optimistic outlook impressed the Olsens. He rubbed his hand over his pistol and told them, “The Germans will never catch me, dead or alive.”
Artur liked Jan. He began to believe his story and felt more at ease with him. He shared what he had heard about the Toftefjord incident.
“There was a rumor among the people that one man had escaped. But since we did not hear any more, we thought the man had succumbed. Besides, we did not believe anyone could make it in this frigid weather.”
“Well, now you know they can.”
“We also heard that the rest of the men were either killed in Toftefjord or taken prisoner and brought to Tromsø.”
Jan leaned forward. He became edgy.
“Do you have any news of what happened to the men in Tromsø?”
Artur hesitated as he studied Jan’s face. “I did hear that those who were captured were taken to Tromsø and…and executed.” It seemed cruel to pass such news on to this man who had already been through so much.
Jan’s demeanor fell. “I can’t help but wonder what went wrong? It is a question I ask myself over and over again.”
Olsen changed the conversation to less weighty topics. He drew Jan a map. Jan memorized this map also. While Olsen and Jan were visiting around the coffee table, the boys had to leave for school and their parents said they were not to mention this visit to anyone. Some provisions for Jan’s lunch were prepared, and the boys gathered that he would also soon leave. When the boys returned that afternoon, the stranger was gone.
“Boys,” Olsen said on their return, “I want to share with you the soldier’s last words to me. They were, ‘I have not been here. And you, forget that I have been here.’ We must heed his wishes. It might make the difference between life and death for all of us. We will never speak of this incident again.” Olsen’s stern warning not to tell a soul was heeded. The family never mentioned a word about the soldier until after the war.
Again, Jan chose a mountain path hoping to reach Bjørnskar on the south end of Langsund Sound. Accessible by boat, Bjørnskar, nineteen miles south, was in a good location. Maybe he could find someone willing to take him further. He was totally dependent on the willingness of his countrymen to assist him, yet he was acutely disturbed, because to help him they risked life itself.
Langsund divides Ringvassøy Island from Reinøy Island toward the east. Reinøy lies in the main passageway toward Tromsø. On the south promontory of Reinøy Island lies Finnkroken, a hea
vily fortified German battery installation in the Troms District. Straight west across the fjord on the opposite side of Langsund lies Bjørnskar on the island of Ringvassøy.
Jan wanted to avoid Hansnes and the heavily populated coastal areas of Langsund. It was too risky to walk the shoreline in daylight through populated areas. Germans were stationed all around and the danger of being caught was imminent. He felt safest in the mountains.
Leaving the Olsens’ home in Dåfjord, Jan climbed straight up the hillside along the river. When he reached the top of the elongated hill, he turned around in the direction of the cold, steel gray fjord for one last look. The haze partially hid the fjord from his view. Jan then headed for and followed the river path in toward the source, Solvatnet Lake. The snow on these vast mountain plateaus was deeper than he had experienced up to now. He felt like the wet, white mountain masses stood ready to swallow him up. With each step he fell in up to his knees. Often he sank in up to his waist and armpits. He struggled to free himself from the snow’s vise-like grip. And when he was able to free his leg, time and again, his one slippery rubber boot would be left in the snow, and he had to dive for it. Step by step, hour after hour, by pure will, Jan forced himself onward against the strong wind and mist that surrounded him. The boots hurt him, and his toes throbbed.
Four days had passed since Jan fled barefoot through the snow around Toftefjord. He knew frostbite had already caused serious damage. Nothing could stop the process once begun. Jan remembered learning about the dangers of frostbite and gangrene from his scouting days. Surely this could not turn out that bad. Jan was uneasy but refused to let fear get the upper hand.
He forced himself onward.
From Solvatnet Lake, Jan set his course over Grønnliskaret Pass, around Soltindene Summit, and down towards Langsundet Sound on the south side. Suddenly the fog evaporated and gave him a glance of the fjord far below. He saw a few scattered houses. It encouraged him onward. His skirmish with the mountains had lasted 28 hours except for the two hours rest he had enjoyed at Dåfjordbotn.
From the fateful moment Jan crawled ashore at Toftefjord, he had put behind him nearly fifty miles on foot. Not very far during normal circumstances perhaps, but Jan had forced his way through long distances in treacherous conditions. Up steep mountains he’d gone, across deserted, frozen tundra and slippery rock-strewn beaches while suffering excruciating pain. His footwear and clothing were inappropriate for Arctic weather conditions. Both his feet had frostbite, and his right foot had a gunshot wound. Hostile weather, fear and loneliness added to his difficulties. No one could help or comfort him nor tell him if he was heading in the right direction. The heaviest burden Jan carried was not knowing the fate of his friends from Brattholm. It gnawed at him continually. “Had they really been executed? Maybe it was just a rumor.” His instincts and education, his iron will and ability to endure pain had helped him through. Even so, the soldier nearing Langsund was a wounded man, mentally broken, and close to physical collapse.
Solvatnet Lake. In the background is Soltindaksla Mountain.
DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAINS
APRIL 3, 1943: Jan’s first goal in his journey toward freedom was to reach Bjørnskar, but Artur Olsen had suggested he look up Håkon Heika at Kopparelv by Langsund Sound. From the outer ridges of the mountain plateau, Jan looked down upon the few scattered houses by the fjord down below but was unsure if it was Kopparelv or Bjørnskar. The mountainside sloped steeply at first, and ended in a slanted field toward the fjord.
Jan felt good about the tempo he had been able to keep most of the way from Dåfjordbotn, even throughout his six hour struggle against the deep snow and thick fog. In the course of the day he had put more than nine miles behind him. It was three in the afternoon when Jan moved down through the field with the few dwarfed Arctic birches and crawled through the wire fence put up to contain the cattle in their summertime pastures. He didn’t realize he was just above the Heika family farm in Kopparelv.
Kopparelv lies on the rainy side of Langsund Sound, skirting the beach. Håkon and his brother Marineus Heika shared the homestead but lived in opposite ends of the house from each other. Both were married, Håkon to Magna, and Marineus to Alida.
As Jan worked his way through the deep snow close to the dilapidated, century-old log outbuilding, he stopped briefly and looked around the farm. He saw two young boys frolic in the snow in the farmyard. The two cousins Arvid and Viggo stopped and watched him closely at first.
From time to time the Heika family had visitors from Skogsfjord, several miles away. The children called in to the adults that they had a visitor from there and then turned to their play. Jan stood there hesitating for a moment, and the boys realized this was a stranger. He looked worn and exhausted, and his clothes were soaked up to his waist; his hair tousled and frosty white. This time the kids ran all the way up to the kitchen window and shouted, “There’s a stranger here.”
Cousins Arvid and Viggo Heika with author Astrid Karlsen Scott in front of the old outbuilding. The Heikas played here as children in 1943 and greeted Jan upon his arrival from Dåfjord.
Magna Heika went out to meet Jan, who asked to speak to the man of the house. There was something urgent about his request and she realized this was not just a casual visit. She thought it best to get him indoors before some neighbor caught sight of him.
For Jan, this home was like all the other places he had been. He was showered with kindness and courtesy and concern for his welfare. The table was soon set and his wet clothes removed and placed around the wood stove to dry. Jan wiped his pistol carefully, patted it, and placed it near him on the table. Magna helped remove his boots and wet socks and was astonished to see his feet and legs. She massaged them, applied some healing salve, and bandaged his wounded foot as well as possible. Jan was able to relax and regain his strength. He enjoyed these kind people. The Heika family was amazed that Jan was so well informed about their little settlement. He knew exactly who the Nazis were and where they lived. They noticed Jan always kept the pistol close by; even when he drank coffee it was next to him on the table.
“I am quite eager to reach the mainland as quickly as possible,” Jan explained.
No matter where Jan was, he was continually planning his next trek, where to go and how best to get there. As with one voice, those he had visited recommended that Jan seek a man named Einar Sørensen in Bjørnskar. Håkon Heika and his wife Magna also spoke very highly of this man.
“Einar Sørensen in Bjørnskar is your best bet to help get you to the mainland,” said Håkon. “He is a courageous and dependable man.”
“Å ja, there is no one better in this area. You must go to him,” urged Magna.
“I have heard many good things about Einar. I need to reach him quickly,” said Jan.
“He lives about seven miles from here. The only way to reach him is to walk along the beach. There are no roads.”
“The beach will be a lot easier than the mountains,” replied Jan.
IN THEIR efforts to win the war, the Germans infiltrated and made close contact with several Norwegians in the Troms District. Abwehr, a German spy organization, hired about two hundred of them outright. The secret to Abwehr’s success was that they gave each agent a cover name. Many operated so unobtrusively that even their family and neighbors had no idea of their involvement with the enemy. These spies were diligent and were a great help to the Germans. One of the key assignments for some of them on the outermost islands was to keep a close watch on all ship traffic in the ocean and to faithfully report all sightings of boats and convoys to the German Headquarters in Tromsø. This was an easy task, because many were fishermen and no suspicion was attached to them when their fishing vessels sailed out. They were equipped with two-way radios the Germans had given them and taught them to operate.
One such agent was paid 1000 kroner (about one hundred and fifteen dollars today) a month during busy periods when his fishing vessel was in service; in less busy seasons he was paid 800 kro
ner per month. It was a goodly sum of additional income for a young man fighting poverty in the Northland in the 1940’s. This agent’s reason for joining was the promise that his father’s fishing vessel would not be confiscated.
This dangerous man lived less than a mile from the Heika family. Being a close neighbor, he knew them well and often dropped in on them unannounced. Kopparelv was sparsely populated and the few homes were spread out. All the same, people knew each other and were always ready to help when a need arose. Abwehr recruited this spy in February of 1942. Even though Abwehr spies worked in secret, knowledge, or at least suspicions of this spy’s involvement with the enemy had come to light, and most everyone in the area was afraid of him. The word had quickly spread and a warning to beware of this man was sent out.
To their horror, the Heika family and Jan saw him walking briskly toward the house. Jan leaped to his feet, bolted up the staircase to the second floor and closed the door. The spy had been in Tromsø and the Germans had assigned him the task of inquiring round about in the hamlets and villages about anyone or anything suspicious.
Håkon opened the door. “Well, come on in.”
“Thanks. I’m here to invite you to come along with me to collect driftwood around the islands.” Large free-floating logs, known as driftwood, were occasionally gathered and used as building materials. The Abwehr spy used this activity as a cover to go ashore and talk to people.
“Oh I don’t know. I have a lot of responsibilities right now. I’ll pass,” said Håkon.
“What do you mean you’ll pass? I’m amazed at you, Håkon. There’s good money in collecting driftwood as you know!”
“I know, but I’ve other things going.”
The 12th Man Page 11