“You’ll know when you get there.” The lines of Astrid’s upper lip became fan-shaped as she compressed her mouth briefly. “I’ve learned not to ask him anything any more, although in this case I happen to know it’s one of Steffen’s engineering colleagues in this area. Hurry along now. I mustn’t delay you. Those were my instructions.”
Under the stairs Johanna tapped the Morse signal of V for victory on the panel. Contrary to her expectations it was not Steffen who drew it back to admit her. She was helped through by a large man in his late twenties with rough brown hair, thick brows and a tanned, good-natured face. When he greeted her with a hearty handshake his clasp inadvertently crushed her ring into her finger, making it difficult not to wince.
“Glad to know you.” His strong voice came deeply from his broad chest. “In the Resistance I’m known as Gunnar.”
She smiled back at him, an instant liking mutual between them. Here was someone whom she felt she could trust. “Are we to be comrades?” she asked.
“You’ll probably see quite a lot of me from now on, but our friend here, known as the ‘Englishman,’ is in charge.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where Steffen sat awaiting her at the table in the lamplight. “He says ‘we’ sometimes instead of ‘I’ when he’s referring to the Resistance in general, but I tell you, everybody jumps to his orders in this region.”
It was the first time she had heard Steffen’s alias, and she liked his choice, understanding that it was a play on Viktor Alsteen’s little joke. As she went across to the chair that stood ready for her, she thought it curious that a man who loved her as much as Steffen did should be able to regard her with such a glittering and uncompromising eye. She knew why. He had explained it to her on their night together at the school house. Until he became accustomed to her facing danger through his directions in the Resistance, he had to divorce himself entirely from his feelings for her. Otherwise he would not yet be able to find the will-power to commit her to an assignment. It was why his attitude had been so distant from her in the cabin on the night of Delia’s arrival by parachute, quite apart from the strained relations between them at that time.
When she was seated in front of him, Gunnar having settled his big frame on the bench, Steffen went straight to the business in hand. “I’ve been waiting for something special to come up for you, Jo. Now it has. There’s an important post being advertised locally and I want you to get it. You would be working for your father’s cousin, Tom Ryen.”
She was astonished. “He’s a quisling.”
“That’s why I want you in his office.” There was a newspaper with some writing materials at his right hand. He picked it up to hand it over to her. The advertisement was ringed in pencil. She read it through. Her qualifications would cover every requirement, including a stipulation on being able to read, write and converse in fluent German. He prompted her. “Well?”
“I’d stand a good chance if I could manage to stay civil to him,” she declared frankly. “When I met him in the fjord steamship I didn’t know then that he was a collaborator and I haven’t seen him since.”
“You’ll stay civil,” Steffen stated flatly. “Anything else?”
“Tom won’t show favouritism just because we’re distantly related. He would hold it against me that I have one brother escaped to England and another somewhere in a concentration camp. Surely in Tom’s eyes that would make me a bad security risk, particularly since his department is in the German headquarters.”
Steffen waived this point aside impatiently. “There are few people these days without a member of the family in the Germans’ bad books for one reason or another. In any case, collaborators don’t trust their own kind. If Tom Ryen thinks you want the job for its own sake, everything should be straightforward.” He surveyed her intently as he gave her warning. “I have to say you couldn’t be taking on the job at a more dangerous time. Last week nineteen Resistance fighters, no older than you or me, were executed by the Gestapo’s firing squad for less than what we’re expecting you to do for us.”
She was aware of the other man’s scrutiny. If he was watching for any cracks in her resolve, he was wasting his time. Deliberately she tapped the pencil-ringed advertisement with her forefinger. “I’ll write my application from home this evening.”
Satisfaction snapped in Steffen’s penetrating gaze and he exchanged a glance with Gunnar. She sensed a faint relaxation in the atmosphere and realised how much importance they were placing on her securing a position in Tom’s office. “That’s right,” he endorsed, sitting back in the chair. “No delays. Now Gunnar will tell you what’s involved.”
Gunnar shifted his chair forward and leaned towards her with a forearm across the corner of the table. “Basically you are to keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might be of use to us, however trivial it may appear. Listen to any snatches of conversation in your hearing. Watch constantly. Let no letter or document or any other official paper, even a simple work enrolment form, go through your hands without a second glance. Find out where certain classified material is filed in Ryen’s office or elsewhere.”
He paused to let Steffen, his face without expression, continue the instructions in a hard voice. “In order to make communication easier, we shall want you to leave the farm and move in with Astrid. She has already agreed to this arrangement.”
“What should I be looking for?”
“First and foremost, for any connection, however remote, with chemical factories, laboratories, or depots, including the shipment out of an end product, or the lack of it, which is equally important.”
Gunnar gave the explanation. “As you know, Tom Ryen recruits workers for every type of building erected by the Germans from power plants to gun bunkers, and transfers some of this work force from place to place according to where they are needed. These movements can reveal a great deal to Intelligence, particularly when a new building goes up with some mystery about its purpose. That’s the kind of specialised information we are sending to London. That’s what we want from you.”
Steffen commanded her attention again. “You see, Jo, some of us have begun to believe that something especially sinister and dangerous has begun to develop.”
“What is that?” She could sense the intense gravity in both men. It made a chill run down her spine.
“It’s the making of a new bomb by the Germans that has yet to be tested. All that is known is that its effect will be devastating.”
“Is there a name for this terrible weapon?”
“Not yet.”
She shivered and rubbed her arms from an inner chill of trepidation. “Is it being made in our country?”
“No, but a vital moderator essential to its construction, known as heavy water, is being produced in the district of Telemark at the Norsk Hydro Electric Company plant.”
“That’s at Vemork. I remember that Rolf went there once on an instructional tour during his student days.”
“I was there myself quite often in more peaceful times. Now German secrecy and security surrounds it.” His next words came harshly, not sparing her. “If Germany should gain the advantage of this monstrous weapon, then it could be the end of freedom for a thousand years. Maybe forever.”
She stared at him incredulously, assimilating the horrific threat looming on the horizon. Now she knew why they had given her the test sortie to Oslo and why she had been forbidden to distribute the underground newspapers. They had been waiting for a chance like this one to come their way and were plunging her into it. She had wanted to become a full-time Resistance fighter and here she had landed a task that would make her a cog in the wheel of such gathering momentum that she was almost dazed by it. Her pulse began to quicken with excitement.
“To whom shall I report?”
“To Gunnar or to me, according to which of us can get through to you.” His face remained expressionless. “A replacement will always be sent by the S.O.E. if the Gestapo catches up with either of us. You’ll have a co
de word for that contingency.”
He scraped back his chair and stood up. “I’m leaving now. Gunnar will see you back into the house. I’ll be in touch again with the finalised details about the delivery of your reports when you’ve secured that position as Ryen’s secretary.”
She wrote and posted her application that same evening. For a suspenseful week she heard nothing. Then a standard reply came, giving her the date and time of her interview.
When the day came she gave careful consideration to what she should wear. Tom was a man who loved women for being women and he would appreciate her presenting an extremely smart appearance. It would flatter his ego to have a secretary who gave presence to his office, particularly when matched by her secretarial abilities. There was certainly an advantage in knowing the character of a prospective employer. Too much was at stake for her not to use whatever means were available to gain that post.
She settled on a smart black costume which had not been worn since her Oslo days. It had the widely padded shoulders, long jacket and shorter skirt that had been coming into fashion when Hitler invaded Poland. The silhouette had been oddly prophetic, almost foreshadowing the uniforms that were soon to become the daily garb of so many. With it she wore a treasured, impossible to replace, white chiffon blouse with a softly gathered collar that billowed around her neck, and she topped the outfit with a beret of crocheted black silk that had a Paris label and had cost her almost a week’s salary, an extravagance she had never regretted.
A pair of high-heeled shoes, again not worn since her employment at the fur shop, awaited her decision as to what she should wear on her legs. Her last pair of silk stockings had disintegrated while she was still in Oslo. The choice lay in home-knitted stockings, a pair of lisle ones with darned heels or another in a new lacy pattern that everyone was knitting since it saved wool, which was often unpicked and unravelled from an earlier garment, and were more flattering to the legs. She decided on a black pair of these. The effect was not comparable to silk with her costume, but the appearance was quite svelte on her legs, which had not lost their tan from the hay-making and harvesting of the preceding summer.
In his office, Tom Ryen took a break with a cigarette before interviewing the next applicant. It was a German cigarette. No rolling his own for him out of tough, home-grown leaves. Having access to German supplies was one of the perks in the job he did, and in a cupboard here, and in his cellar at home, he had a good supply of wines and spirits with the exception of scotch whisky which he missed. He had not gone hungry or thirsty since the days of the fighting when he had been prepared to die for his country, but when the Germans took command and the ultimate sacrifice had passed him by, he had decided to make the best of the situation and had had no cause to regret that decision. He prided himself on being a realist.
He pushed his bulk out of the chair and went across to the window of his roomy, comfortable office with its teak furniture and hand-woven curtains in rich, dark colours that had been designed and made at a pre-war art centre. The sunshine had a strong warmth through the glass, stinging into the back of his freckled hand holding the cigarette. Outside, a wind off the sea, blowing across the harbour, flapped the long coats of the sentries on guard outside the gates of the fortifications that the Germans had burrowed into the solid rock. It was a section of the slope that banked the town and up which the houses climbed, spreading out into lawns and orchards. Leisurely he drew on his cigarette and unbuttoned his well-tailored jacket for greater comfort. He was aware of having put on some weight, particularly since military discipline had become a thing of the past. He kept his army uniform hanging in a wardrobe, although he doubted he would be able to do up the buttons again for he believed his paunch had expanded beyond recall. The Germans, respectful of all things military, always addressed him by his rank of major, which gratified him, although his rank was all that remained of the career he had known before.
Born in Bergen with the good humour natural to Bergensers, but without their appetite for hard work, he was the youngest son of a well-to-do branch of the family. After travelling abroad and seeing something of the world, he had returned home to settle on a career in the army. It appealed to him for its social aspect, its lack of tedious overseas commitments and the fact that it was a far from arduous existence once the training was over. Since he could work when it suited his own ends, he did exert himself until he reached the rank of major quicker than most, whereupon he took events as easily as possible. Although his wife, whom he had married after a brief courtship, had bequeathed him a handsome amount of money and property, theirs had been a love match. She had been a lively, happy woman, almost as pleasure-loving as himself, and neither of them had wanted children to interfere with their lives. The ten years since she died had dulled the edge of an untimely bereavement and he had been about to marry a Swedish woman when the invasion had come, keeping her within the boundaries of her country as it kept him within his. When everything had settled down and the Allies had been defeated, he hoped for a revival of their relationship.
In spite of how the situation might appear to outsiders, he was not in favour of the Nazis. He would have preferred conditions to be as they had been before the invasion, but since that was not possible he saw no harm in being an opportunist, particularly when nothing could change the rule of the Third Reich which had come to stay. As a result of his philosophical attitude he was well liked by the Germans. They appreciated the services of an intelligent collaborator who had their best interests at heart, while at the same time wanting the fairest deals that could be arranged for his own countrymen. Had he been a complete traitor they would have despised him. He knew they despised Quisling. They had their own jokes about the portly minister-president, mostly about his incompetence and big-headedness. It had become apparent that the Reichskommissar had finally lost patience with the blunders perpetuated by the man, considering it a current disgrace that Quisling’s ham-fisted methods had resulted in the churches being left as empty of administration as the schools.
Tom stubbed out his cigarette in a silver ashtray. He frequented the officers’ mess, able to come and go as he pleased, and it was there that he had heard that Hitler himself had expressed great displeasure with Quisling, wanting to hear of no more trouble in Norway. Had this been related to him directly he would have had difficulty in restraining his amusement at such a faint hope, but fortunately he had merely overheard it at a neighbouring table while having a drink at the bar. The Germans’ Achilles heel was their complete failure to understand the Norwegian temperament. Until they came to terms with the average Norwegian’s iron will as far as his rights to freedom were concerned, they would never succeed in establishing their New Order in any shape or form. He was not particularly proud of his own method of gaining personal independence, but hardship, pursuit and torture were not experiences he cared to invite.
Returning to the chair at his desk, he flicked a switch and asked for the next applicant to be shown in. If he had wished, he could have been allotted an army clerk, but he tried to keep military personnel out of his own realm, not an easy matter when they occupied every other set of rooms on all three floors. Anyway he liked female company and considered an office bereft without the shimmer of a blouse over soft breasts, the click of high heels and the gleam of silk-stockinged legs. His former secretary had been married to a German officer, which meant she was better dressed than other Norwegian women these days, and she had brightened the office for him until she became pregnant, distorting her face and her figure. He had been thankful to receive her notice. The door from the outer office opened.
“Frøken Ryen,” the temporary army clerk announced, showing Johanna into the room.
Tom rose to his feet, a broad smile creasing his face, and extended his right hand, a gold ring shining on his little finger. “Good morning, Johanna. This is a pleasure. I haven’t seen you since we met on the steamship. Sit down.”
She shook hands with him. His palm was like silk, his na
ils manicured, his grip firm. She noticed at once that he had put on a considerable amount of weight, not an easy thing to do in Norway these days, and it was like a final confirmation of all she had heard about him.
Sitting down in the proffered chair, she found herself subject to his old charm. In view of their surroundings she could no longer accept him as the friend he had always been, but that did not mean she could switch to disliking him. Although he was weak, self-indulgent and everything she abhorred as far as his collaboration was concerned, she could not dismiss his many kindnesses in the past, the occasions of laughter in happier times and the encouragement she had received from him when she had first wanted to go to Oslo to work and her parents had been set against it.
“You’re looking well, Tom,” she said as an opening.
“Never been better.” He was still beaming at her, his sandy-lashed eyes narrowed into fat folds. Her beauty washed over him. She was, as the old adage says, a sight for sore eyes with her bandbox appearance and the nifty angle of the beret on her golden hair. Only her stockings met with his disapproval. Admittedly she even imbued those with style. It was simply that home-knitting had no place on legs such as hers. With his sense of humour coming to the surface, he thought that if he had any influence with the Führer he would have ensured supplies of silk stockings in all the shops. Personally he felt deprived of the sight of straight seams rising forever and fancy clocks on the sides of trim ankles. The Germans had no sense of priority in such matters. The twinkle in his gaze reflected something of what was passing through his mind. “I was most interested to receive your letter of application to become my secretary, Johanna. Have you had enough of life on the farm? It must have been tough having to return to it again.”
His own home, outside of Ålesund, had once been the house to a large farm. His wife had inherited it upon their marriage and from the first day they had rented the land out for others to farm. They could have lived elsewhere, except that the house itself was a treasure with large rooms for parties, its own shallow bay for swimming, access to the fjord for sailing and some of the best ski slopes in the district. He still gave parties, his guests high-ranking officers of the Wehrmacht who appreciated the surroundings and liked to stay there instead of in military quarters when visiting the area. Many privileges had come his way in return for his hospitality, including the use of a splendid car with a generous petrol ration to replace his wood-burning model, which he had sold for treble the price he had given for it.
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