This Shining Land

by Rosalind Laker

  “He’s always having drinking parties,” the neighbour said indignantly. “Russian vodka, Norwegian aquavit, Danish spirits, and the finest French wines, including vintage champagne!” She shook her head vigorously. “All loot from occupied countries. I’ve seen the empties being taken away. With our sugar ration of just a few grams, if and when there’s any in the shops, I can’t sweeten anything enough, let alone make a bottle of simple homemade wine, which used to be my hobby. I would like to keep bees. I already have a pig, a goat and some chickens.”

  Johanna had noticed from the tram that the whole area of Grefsen, once a suburb of fine lawns and flower gardens, had been dug up for vegetables and had mushroomed with hencoops and pigsties in the everlasting struggle to get enough to eat. Even Astrid, Steffen’s aunt, had begun to keep chickens, for with eggs at the exorbitant price of twenty kroner each when available on the black market, it was more than worthwhile. When she left the neighbour’s house, Johanna looked over the dividing fences and saw that the Alsteens’ grounds were in pristine condition with roses blooming in well-kept beds. The German officer employed a gardener to keep the place in trim. No need for him to scratch for whatever the earth would bring forth.

  The day after she arrived back at the farm a contact checked in code by telephone that she was home safely. After that she heard no more. There was something else to think about. A new German restriction had been imposed upon the population. All civilians, except those belonging to Quisling’s Nazi party, were to hand in their radios. When the Jews had had to surrender their radios it had been in vindictiveness against them; this new development was for another reason. More than anything else the Third Reich feared people knowing the truth; since severe punishments and heavy fines had failed to deter Norwegians from listening to broadcasts from London, they should be deprived altogether of the chance. On the allotted September day, in cities, hamlets and valleys, people angrily and reluctantly handed in their radios.

  With teutonic thoroughness, every radio was labelled with the owner’s name and a storehouse was found for all of them. In the hamlet of Ryendal, as well as in many other places, the storehouse was broken into on the first night by daring individuals who took their own property back or grabbed whatever they could in a flashlight’s beam without bringing a stack down noisily around them. It was not long before most homes had access to the BBC again, radios being concealed in everything from a thermos bottle and a cut-out telephone book to a hollowed-out log of firewood and household tins. Rolf, who had always been an enthusiastic wireless expert, made one for the farmhouse that was concealed by day in a bird’s nesting box on the outside wall.

  The Nazi reign of terror gathered momentum. In the same month the radios were collected, hundreds more patriots were shot in savage reprisals. Arrests were wholesale. It was said that even greater numbers were crammed into the cells of No. 19 Møllergaten under interrogation and torture. In the midst of all this alarming news there was a brighter moment at Ryen farm for Edvard and Gina when their younger son came home on shore leave. Without prior announcement, he suddenly threw open the door of the kitchen where Johanna and her mother and Karen were engaged in domestic tasks.

  “Hey there! I’m home!”

  Tall and lean in his dark steamship uniform and grinning with pleasure at the surprise he had given them, Erik seemed to bring a breath of the outside world with him into the quietly mundane scene. His face was a chiselled one with a thin nose and a cleft chin, his narrow eyes alert and observant, a clear grey in colour, and his mouth was wide with a smile full of charm. His hair, clipped short in naval style, was stubbornly curly. He looked what he was, an easy-going, virile and mercurial man who through his wits and training was well able to cope with any situation that came his way.

  While his sister and mother welcomed him, Johanna with open affection and Gina with her customary restraint, Karen paused only briefly in bread-making to give him a nod and a conventional word of greeting. Yet she blushed, a hint if anyone around her needed it that she was heart, soul and body in love with him. It seemed to Johanna that Erik was the only one in the family who had not guessed the truth and Karen wanted to keep it that way, for he would be the first to take advantage of it.

  From the start their relationship had been a difficult one. He was too used to his smooth ways working for him as far as women were concerned, and she had been forewarned about him by well-meaning friends before coming to join the Ryen household. Her wariness of him had, perversely, made him all the more persistent. He appeared unable to grasp that for once he had met someone able to resist him after a few heady kisses and caresses, at which he was demonically expert.

  She was aware that apart from the hated presence of the Germans on board, the career he had chosen to follow suited him admirably, sailing as he did along his home coast in some of the most spectacular waters in the world, a constant coming and going of new passengers at every port of call. In the days before Hitler had invaded Poland, among the many tourists taking the round trip from Bergen to North Cape to see the midnight sun there had been women to whom a handsome young officer had made an attractive diversion. There had been one Englishwoman, according to his sister, with whom he had formed an attachment that had meant more to him than anything before or since, and it had left its mark on him. But she had returned home to her own commitments at the end of the voyage and, as far as anyone knew, that had been the end of the affair. Since then he had carried on as before.

  Karen was shaping the loaves ready for the oven. They would be like stone, for yeast had suddenly become impossible to obtain. She glanced up as Erik came to set both hands wide on the opposite side of the table, leaning his weight on them and grinning at her as she dusted off her floury palms, not a grain to be wasted.

  “How have you been spending your time then?”

  He had a habit of compelling answers from her, making her meet the dancing look in his eyes, showing that in no way had he been dissuaded from his original aim towards her and about which she had no illusions. The danger was that this time she was far more vulnerable. In that span of forty-eight hours when the coastal steamer had been torpedoed and before his telephone call of reassurance had come through, she had been tormented. When she knew he was safe, the force of relief had almost made her faint, something she had never experienced before. Johanna, who had come running to tell her of his phone call, had saved her from falling and seated her down on a boulder in the field where she was helping with the harvesting.

  “I made the most of the last days of summer.” She listed an account on her fingers. “Johanna and I had a final swim. Then there were picnics when we went to pick cloudberries, blueberries and wild cranberries. Three weeks ago I managed to get a pass to travel home where I stayed for a few days.”

  “What about a fishing trip up to the lake with me? I need some high mountain air. You and I shall go tomorrow and take a picnic.”

  He gave her no chance of excuse, swinging away to leave the kitchen and go to his father’s bedside where he sat with the invalid for a long time.

  Johanna saw the two of them off to the mountains next morning. It was fine and mild with no sign of the rain that Karen had predicted over breakfast as if seeking a reason to postpone the outing. She carried one fishing rod and Erik another, the rucksack on his back holding their picnic. Johanna hoped the two of them would draw closer together in the day ahead, for she believed her brother held genuine feelings for the girl and she had seen for herself how Karen felt about him.

  Past Ryen farm the lane became a cart-track and at this time of year the blueberry plants had turned crimson and many of the grasses on either side of the track had also taken on a pinkish hue as if reflecting the flaming autumn colours of the trees. Erik opened the last cattle gate and then they were on a winding path that began to ascend the mountainside through the forest and within sight, through the dark trees, of the thundering waterfall with its white spray rising high. They spoke only occasionally, keeping to th
e rule of saving breath for the climb, and since both of them had been born to the mountains, neither needed to stop and rest. Above the dwindling tree-line they came onto the high pastures near a cluster of saeter cabins at the side of the lake.

  In past decades the daughters of the valley farms had stayed in these ancient turf-roofed log cabins during the summer months to tend the cattle on the high pastures. Now the cabins were used by those skiing there at Eastertime, or staying on walking or fishing trips on that part of the mountain. Leaving her rod propped outside the low-lintelled door with Erik’s, Karen took the key from a ledge and led the way into the cabin belonging to Ryen Farm. Inside there was a doll’s-house look to the room with its small windows and primitive furniture, some of which had been there for a hundred years or more. Beyond a closed inner door, which bore a rose painting faded by time, was a bedroom with two beds. She opened a window, chased out a few sleepy flies that had settled in for the winter and took the frying pan from a cupboard in readiness for the trout they would catch. When she turned to leave the cabin and begin fishing, Erik barred her way, a tall silhouette against the open doorway with the shimmering lake beyond.

  “It’s time we had a talk. That’s why I wanted to be on my own with you today.”

  She regarded him steadily. He had had his own way all his life. Although probably neither he nor anyone else in the household realised it, he was his mother’s favourite child. Gina tried to be meticulously fair in her dealings with the family, but he had benefitted more than the others and all the signs were there to an outside observer who was herself tuned to a pitch of sensitivity just by being in the same room with him. At this moment she did not intend to let him know how threatened she felt by his aroused presence in the confines of the cabin.

  “There’ll be plenty of time to talk when we’ve fished for a while.” She made a move to go past him.

  He gripped her arm. “You’re wrong. We’ve little time left and a whole lifetime to discuss.”

  She raised startled eyes and jerked away from him. As she went out of the cabin he looked after her for a moment or two as if he would fetch her back. Then, on a muttered expletive, he followed her, snatching his rod as he went from its place by the door and feeling more like hurling it into the lake than waiting patiently for the fish to bite.

  She had already cast out her line. He followed suit a little distance from her. She was wearing her hair loose today, caught by a large tortoiseshell barrette at the back of her head, and all the autumn sunshine was in the wafting strands. From the first sight of her installed at his home, he had earmarked her, his intentions normal to any young seaman ashore. At that time, through some fluke in the early stages of the German administration, he had had five full weeks off duty. Everything should have gone as planned, for he could tell she was as attracted to him as he was to her, but somehow matters had gone wrong between them and he had returned to his ship in a state of disappointment and frustration. It was a new experience for him. He was not used to being rejected and found he could not stop thinking about her. She had got into his blood and into his bones, and it was as if he needed her in order to live. On subsequent visits home he had attempted to regain ground with her. Now time had dwindled down to less than she or anyone else at home realised, and he was being compelled to waste precious minutes in fishing. It was even more galling that she should catch three trout of a good size while he only hooked a small one that he threw back. Deciding that enough was enough, he stuck his rod in the cleft of a rock to let the bait continue to drift and went around to where she stood. The three trout lay on the bank threaded onto a birch twig. He glared down at them, hands on his hips, elbows jutting.

  “Surely that’s plenty, for God’s sake!”

  She wound in her line, a frown drawing her fine brows together. “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not angry with you.” He shook his head vigorously in emphasis. “Never with you. It’s knowing that I’m home for such a short while this time instead of having days and weeks and months to tell you that I love you. Do you hear what I say? I love you.”

  He had not raised his voice. On the contrary he had spoken quietly if vehemently. In the silence that followed it was as if his words still remained like an echoing shout in the air, reverberating against the high peaks around them. Colour gushed into her cheeks and there was confusion in her expression. She nipped her lower lip hard.

  He took the rod from her and threw it aside. Then he put his arms around her, her whole body tense and defensive. Gently he drew her to him and laid her face against his shoulder, talking softly to her. Lovingly he stroked her hair, threading his fingers through its luxuriance. Gradually she raised her face to his. As their lips met, she began to respond to his kissing and caressing. Then he said what she had never expected to hear from him.

  “I want you to be my wife, Karen. I’m not trying to tie you to any promises yet. I’m just asking you to remember what I’ve said. I love you. I’ll always love you. God knows when I’ll be home again, but when I do return it’s my hope that you’ll be ready to marry me.”

  She felt the last trace of restraint melt from her. Her expression was tear-stained and rapturous. With a sudden move she kissed him tempestuously.

  He made love to her in the cabin all the afternoon. It was a time of sweetness and tenderness and discovery that neither would forget, he lost in her beauty and her swift passion, she loving him totally. When the time came to lock up the cabin and leave, she felt she was turning the key on the most perfect moments of her life.

  They remembered to take the rods back home with them but not the fish, which still lay on the bank. When they were half-way down the mountainside she realised she had also left her tortoiseshell barrette behind in the cabin and her hair was still flowing free. They laughed at how forgetful love had made them, stopping in their descent down the path to kiss again and again.

  Johanna saw by the way they looked at each other upon their return and by the linking of their hands and fingers whenever they were close that there was a new understanding between them and she was glad. Karen, tolerant and gentle and warm-hearted, would be ideal for her brother, and well able to cope with the flaws in his otherwise generous nature. Throughout the evening she expected there would be some announcement of an engagement. When nothing was forthcoming she concluded they had decided to wait until they exchanged rings the next time he came home. The love in their eyes exacerbated an ever-present ache in her.

  Erik went to Karen’s room that night. It was the first time he had found her door unlocked, and he smiled over past disappointments as he went to her. Her arms were waiting for him as if it had been years instead of hours since they were last together. For the first time in his life he was moved to tears in the emotion of loving and leaving, holding her close with his face buried in her hair in order that she should not see. Never before had he known such sweet loving as he shared with her.

  At five o’clock, while she still slept, he slid from the rumpled warmth of the bed. It was time for him to leave and he wanted no goodbyes. She lay deep in the pillow, her gleaming hair a silken tumble and her lovely breasts uncovered. He looked back at her before he closed the door silently after him.

  In his own room he dressed in practical mountain wear. Lastly he took an anorak from the closet where his uniform hung on hangers, his cap with the shining peak on the shelf above. A whole new phase of his life must pass before he would get the chance to wear it again. Taking up a rucksack, which he had packed the day before in readiness, he crept quietly down the stairs, hoping the creaking of the treads would not disturb anyone in the house. He had thought to help himself to a snack in the kitchen but there was a sliver of light showing under the door. When he opened it, his mother was at the stove and breakfast was laid.

  “What are you doing up so early?” he asked her in surprise, putting down the jacket across the rucksack dropped to the floor.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Somehow I don’t seem to need a
s many hours these days.” No mention of wanting to see him once more before he left. No indication of the anxieties she had harboured of the chance of another torpedo destroying his ship, or how his father’s health made her fear the worst, or that Rolf’s struggle against the nazification of his pupils was bringing him into the greatest danger. Even Johanna had retreated into some existence of her own, the excuse for going to Oslo having been flimsy and improbable. “Sit down at the table. Everything is ready.”

  She ate with him. Her talk was mostly of the farm. When he rose from the table it was with the customary thanks for food received.

  “Takk for mat. I must get going now.”

  “I’ve made a packet of sandwiches for you.” She took it from the sideboard and handed it to him. As he packed it away she went ahead to open the front door. The chill morning air flowed into the warm house and the whole valley was bathed in dawn. On the opposite slope the rising columns of spray from the waterfall were full of golden sparks. She stepped out onto the porch with him.

  “It’s a wonderful morning,” he said, shouldering his rucksack. “Look after yourself, Mother.”

  Unexpectedly she stifled a moan in her throat and clung to him in an embrace such as he had not received from her since childhood. “Don’t let the Germans get you!” she cried brokenly.

  Then he knew that with some deep maternal instinct she had sensed throughout his short visit that it was likely to be the last for a long time. “Don’t worry,” he reassured her gently. “I’ll be all right.”

  Quickly he broke from her, hurrying away down the porch steps to reach the lane. He walked at a swift pace. Before the trees hid the farmhouse from sight, he turned and looked back. She was still on the porch and returned his last wave. Then he set his face forward again and went on down the lane.