Whenever Johanna entered or left the fur shop, she tried to avert her eyes from the elegantly ornamented Victoria Terrasse, which previously had been a pleasing sight to her, reminding her of a huge white wedding cake. The Gestapo had taken it over and established a centre from which they were attempting to rout out patriotic activities with bullying tactics. The police station at No. 19, Møllergaten had gained a notorious reputation, entirely at variance with its peacetime image, for what took place under interrogation in its cells below street level. Many of those engaged in work for the underground press had been arrested and taken there. The Germans were also building new punishment centres. These places were called concentration camps—a name with a sinister ring to it.
Johanna’s correspondence with Steffen was spasmodic, partly because he had to guard against any inquisitive censor’s checking up on him, and for that same reason he only occasionally spoke to her on the telephone, it being known that calls were tapped. On the day he went off to the war he had asked her to think of him when she travelled on the tram, covering a deeper reason for his wanting her to remember him, and somehow she always did.
There was another diversion on the tram, a daily game played in earnest by Oslo passengers, and it was the same on the buses. If a German took a spare seat, those civilians in the neighbouring seats would get up and move to another part of the transport. If there were no other seats available they would stand, in a never-ending show of their displeasure at the German presence. Johanna had sometimes moved half a dozen times on a single journey, particularly as soldiers liked to sit next to a pretty girl. At first this game of “musical chairs” without the music caused many scenes, the Germans retaliating by stopping the transport and ordering all civilians off. It still happened occasionally, although mostly the Germans had become resigned to it. Sometimes a soldier would shout abuse and lie back, putting his feet up, while half a dozen passengers would strap-hang, ignoring him as if he did not exist.
The first snows came again and the festive season drew near. That Christmas of 1940, the first under Nazi rule, promised to be a bleak time for everyone. Life was particularly wretched in Oslo, where the Gestapo was establishing a terrible hold. Students had been viciously beaten up in their own university, and arrests made after open struggles in the streets. In one part of the city two fifteen-year-old boys had been taken away for daubing “Long Live Haakon VII” on the walls of a German billet. Their parents could discover nothing about their fate, except that they had been sent to work out a penance. It could mean anything.
In the shops, stocks of Christmas decorations, tree ornaments and unsold toys from the previous festive season were bought up rapidly. Anything remotely luxurious had long since disappeared from the shelves, and basic commodities were not always available. Long lines of people waiting their turn outside the food shops were an everyday sight and often stretched the full length of a street. Sometimes German trucks passed them on the way to the harbour, shipping out Norwegian meat to Germany where nobody was to go hungry.
One afternoon when the snow was drifting down in huge flakes in the street outside, the door of Johanna’s office opened and Sonja looked in, an animated expression of pleasure on her face at what she had to announce. “You have a visitor.” She withdrew at once.
To Johanna’s astonishment, Steffen in ski clothes appeared in the doorway, grinning seriously at her. “Hello, Jo. I thought it was high time I took a trip to see you.”
She released a soft cry, rising slowly to her feet. In the midst of her joy at the unexpected sight of him she sensed that all was not well. Inevitably, in spite of letters exchanged, they had drawn apart through individual experience over past months and there could be no immediate return to that flow of feeling that had held them close in a farewell embrace at the market place. She even felt a wave of shyness, something she had not known for years. Perhaps this was another trick that war played on people, a cruel one that drew them together only to change and distance them when apart.
“How are you?” she asked with a catch in her voice. “I’ve never had a better surprise than seeing you today.”
“I’m fighting-fit. Thanks for your letters.”
“And yours. I’ve looked forward to every one.” It was not how she had pictured their reunion. She had always thought they would fall into each other’s arms. Instead, he was as restrained as she. It was almost as though they were strangers again. “What has brought you to Oslo?”
“I told you. To see you. I’ve already spoken to your boss. He says you may leave now.”
“Oh, good.” She hoped she sounded enthusiastic as she put the cover on her typewriter, glad of a diversion.
“I’ve a taxi waiting outside.”
“Not the tram?” It was a brave attempt to link the past with the present, her smile a trifle uncertain. Taking her hat and coat from a peg, she noticed that her hands were shaking.
“Not today.” He took her coat to help her on with it. “I can’t risk a spot check on my papers.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him in alarm. “Are you here without a permit?”
“That’s the situation.”
She swung round to face him anxiously. “Are the Germans after you?”
“Not yet. I’ll tell you everything as soon as we reach the house. There won’t be anyone else there, will there?”
“No. The Alsteens can’t get permission yet to leave Drammen.”
He took her by the arm to escort her from the building. Outside, she saw that his skis were in the rack of the taxi, which was powered by one of the wood-burning stoves people had begun to attach to the back of their vehicles, petrol being strictly rationed and not available for any vehicle not directly involved in the German war effort. He reached for her hand and held it as they were driven through the snowy streets to Grefsen. There was no telling whether the taxi-driver was patriot or quisling, and they kept conversation to a minimum.
At the house Steffen paid the fare while she hurried up the drive to open the front door. Bearing in mind the black-out regulations, she waited for him to come indoors before switching on the light. He stuck his skis in the snow outside the porch where he removed his ski boots, and as he closed the front door behind him she took the boots from his hand to set them in the hall cupboard for snowy footwear. Because of enforced economy with electricity, the bulb in the hall lamp was a small one, and when she turned to face him again they were in little more than a pale gloom from it, the silk fringe of the shade making a wall of shadows around them. His face was working and her own lips were trembling.
“Jo!” he exclaimed huskily.
She threw herself into his arms and buried her face against him. They hugged each other wordlessly, his cheek against her head. It came to her that their reunions would always be fraught and difficult for however long the war lasted, for each time they would have to find each other again. The slightest complication or turn of events could come close to parting them irrevocably, no matter how much they might wish it otherwise, for the war was their enemy in more ways than one, and inevitably he would be changed by it more than she.
He cupped her face gently and raised it, enabling his mouth to take hers in an impassioned kiss, her eyes closing on the intensity of feeling sweeping through her. He crushed her still closer to him, and when they did draw apart both knew that they had found again the promise of love that had come about at the time of their first meeting. In present circumstances it was as transient as ever, but neither could deny its immediate force.
“Hello, there,” he said.
“Welcome back,” she replied in perfect understanding. Then he kissed her again, slowly and still more lovingly. She was deeply stirred.
He went into the kitchen with her to unload from his rucksack some food that her mother had sent, and passed on greetings and good wishes to her from those at Ryendal. While she began to prepare a simple supper he padded upstairs in his socks to take a look at his old room and find a pair of sandals
.
“What happened to the suit I left behind?” he inquired when he came downstairs again.
“I remembered one day it was there and carried it down to the cellar where I had already put some things of value. It’s hanging in the old cellar cupboard.”
“That was thoughtful of you. I hope it won’t be long before I need it again.”
They began to talk about the previous time they had been in the house together when the bomb had dropped and the whole terrible nightmare of the invasion had begun. He left her only to refuel the wood stoves and bring in fresh stocks of logs from outside after chopping a new supply for her. By that time the meal she had prepared on the electric cooker was almost ready.
“You haven’t told me yet exactly how you travelled here,” she reminded him.
“I went by steamship up the fjord from Ryendal’s nearest jetty,” he told her, setting places for two at the kitchen table. “There was no problem about that. Then, by arrangement, I made the rest of the journey in the back of a civilian truck carrying German food supplies to Oslo, my skis in with the same goods. The driver let me out in a side street and I came straight to find you at the fur shop.”
“Is the same driver taking you back again?”
“No.” He spoke gravely. “I’m leaving for Sweden in a few hours’ time.”
Her eyes widened. She came at once to stand by the kitchen table. “Are you escaping?”
“I’m on my way to join the Free Norwegian Forces that are being formed in England. The Underground has prepared routes to be followed on skis, mainly after dark, to the border. With luck one should be able to avoid the German patrols, and there is still a Royal Norwegian Legation in Stockholm from which routes to England are being organised, sometimes through Russia and via the Mediterranean.”
“It will take weeks to make such a journey! Perhaps months.”
He shrugged. “That’s not important if I get there in the end.”
With her fingers she combed her hair back in a gesture of bewilderment. “But you needn’t have come south to make a get-away. It’s common knowledge that people on the west coast are slipping out in boats across the North Sea. It’s those in the south who have no alternative but to cross the Swedish border. You ran the risk of being picked up many times at checkpoints for being a long distance from your home district in suspicious circumstances.”
He took her by the shoulder, looking strongly at her. “I told you—I had to see you again.”
She comprehended the depth of his reason. In a kind of loving anger at the dangers he had faced, she shook her head at him. “You’re crazy,” she chided despairingly.
“As long as you’re glad I’m here.”
“You know I am.”
Before they sat down to their meal she lit a candle and set it in a china candlestick on the table. Symbol of hospitality and welcome, it was an old Scandinavian custom never to serve food on special occasions, whatever the hour of the day or night, without candlelight. Steffen turned the kitchen lights off so that they ate in the flame’s aura. Their conversation was quiet, almost intimate, and yet they did not talk any more on the subject of their own personal relationship. Mostly he gave her news from her home district and related what had been happening there.
Towards the end of the meal over coffee she told him about losing his car, leaving nothing out. He was dismayed at the stand she had taken, even though he fully understood her attitude. “You could have been arrested! Anything might have happened. I don’t care a damn about the car. Your safety is all that matters to me. For God’s sake don’t ever take a risk like that again.”
She saw she was up against the same protectiveness that she had met in her brother. Although touched by Steffen’s concern for her, she could not make any rash promises, not knowing what might lie ahead for her. Instead, she merely smiled and spoke in a lighter vein. “They say confession is good for the soul. I feel better now that you know how it came about.”
His face remained sombre and he reached out to hold her hand across the kitchen table. “I’ve something to tell you, too. Not good news, I’m afraid. It’s about your father.”
She felt her heart contract with dread. “What’s happened?”
His clasp tightened on her hand. “In August, on the very day that Rolf was travelling back from Oslo after seeing you, your father made a courageous gesture of resistance that had a serious aftermath. He went to Ålesund on business and it happened to be the King’s birthday. So he bought a carnation to wear in his buttonhole.”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted on a sharp intake of breath at what might follow. The carnation was the flower of the royal house. “Go on,” she urged fearfully.
“He was set upon by German soldiers. They tore the flower out of his lapel, knocked him down and kicked him into the gutter. They went on kicking him. He suffered broken ribs and other injuries. His recovery has been slow. The worst seems to be over now, although he has to rest a good deal.”
“Why wasn’t I told in the first place?” she burst out.
“It was decided that you should not be worried. You wouldn’t have been allowed to travel home at that time and there was nothing you could do.”
Her face was strained. “I’d have found a way to get there somehow.”
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “That’s what your mother was afraid of. At least your father escaped arrest. You might not have been as lucky.”
“Is my father able to do any work?” She found it hard to picture her parent as anything but the strong, healthy man he had always been.
“He does the paperwork and some lighter chores, although he has aged considerably and is slow in his movements. It’s lucky that the schoolhouse in the valley is near enough for Rolf to continue to take on chores in his spare time and shoulder the full responsibility now that I’ve gone.”
Johanna’s expression remained thoughtful. “Now I know why my mother took on extra help in the house in August. She wrote that a girl was coming from a fishing village near Ålesund and since then has mentioned several times that she is a willing worker. What is Karen Hallsted like?”
He grinned widely. “In one word—beautiful. Your brother Erik fell for her when he was home on leave. My guess is that he wants to marry her.”
The information amused Johanna. “You must be mistaken. Erik has never been serious about any girl.”
“Karen may be the exception. She’s a stunner.”
“So have others been before her. I suppose she fell for him. They always do.”
“On the contrary. The cold shoulder was obvious.”
She continued to be amused. “Perhaps for once he’s met his match.” Then her voice turned to a more serious note. “How does he find life on the coastal route under the Germans?”
“Difficult. The steamers still carry passengers from place to place and transport mail and cargo, but the cabins are reserved for German officer personnel. Sometimes civilians have to surrender places to German troops at a moment’s notice.”
“How did Ålesund look when you left?” She knew well the salty, thriving fishing port that was a departure point for the steamship he would have taken up the fjord. Ålesund was a regular stopping place for the coastal steamers going north and south. Many times she had met her brother coming ashore there.
“The cheerful atmosphere of the place has gone completely. Since the German notices went up that anyone attempting to make contact with the Allies would be shot, local people have become suspicious of strangers. Quisling infiltrators try to find out if any boats are preparing to leave secretly for England.”
“How did your aunt take your leaving to rejoin the King’s forces?”
“Courageously. She’s that sort of person.”
“I know you have already asked me to visit her when I am home again, but as you won’t be able to write to her, do you think she’d like to hear from me in the meanwhile?”
“She’ll appreciate that, I know.”
&
nbsp; They sat talking until it was time for Johanna to listen to the BBC newscast. He sat with her while she took down the reports. Hundreds of Italian prisoners had been captured by the Allies in North Africa, and there had been another heavy bombing raid on London in the Luftwaffe’s merciless blitz.
As soon as the broadcast was over she set aside her shorthand notes to be typed up the next day. When she left her chair she saw that he had moved to stand waiting for her. She caught her breath, seeing how he was looking at her, and she went to him without hesitation. With his arm around her they went up the stairs to her room.
In the muted glow of her bedside lamp he made tender and beautiful love to her. For her it was the first time. Never before had she cared enough to share and be shared. Now she loved, her heart full to overflowing with all she felt for him. Her whole body was tremblingly aroused, responsive and receptive, ardent and giving, his nakedness silk against hers. She would never have believed that such a physically powerful man could be so sensitive in his loving. Never had she suspected the existence of such eroticism in her, waiting to be brought to light. Their physical joy in each other was a revelation to them both. Then, their passion matched, all his strength became hers. Everything was perfect between them. Everything.
She lay softly against him in his arms, their entwined limbs pale in the lamplight, and they spoke quietly. He kissed her forehead and her eyes, her temples and her ears, stroking her hair out across the pillow.
“I love you, Jo darling,” he murmured again.
She curled still closer to him. “I love you too,” she breathed blissfully. He tilted her chin with his fingertips and their mouths drank each other’s love once more.
“I have a gift for you.” There was adoration in his eyes.
She smiled. “I didn’t think there was anything left to buy.”
“There isn’t. It’s something I made for you. A jeweller completed the work. It’s my special love-gift.”
This Shining Land Page 7