This Shining Land

by Rosalind Laker

  Due to bad weather, the crossing took almost forty-eight hours. It was nighttime again when the vessel put in to the Shetlands. British soldiers came on board to mount guard over them until morning. The escapees slept like logs.

  In the morning the skipper woke everyone in the cabin with a roar of rage. First up, he had completed an inspection of his boat only to find it had been practically stripped of everything that could be lifted or unscrewed by thieving hands. He had noticed first that the remaining oil drums were gone. Then he discovered that his tools, which he had had all his seafaring life, were also missing, together with his charts, his spare waterproofs, his ropes and his nets. Since he spoke no English the colourful abuse he hurled at the British sentries missed its mark. They, in any case, had only taken over their duty half an hour before.

  At his interrogation by Norwegian and British officials he was informed that the culprits would be traced and his possessions returned to him. It was explained that it was not often the skippers came in with their own boats; mostly the escapees had no idea what was aboard the boats borrowed indefinitely to get away; hence military pilfering rarely came to light. By the time Rolf and the others left him with his boat, he had had some of his tools returned to him. It had not affected his mood. He was still ready to do murder if ever he met the soldiers concerned.

  Rolf went through the same screening procedure as his brother and thousands of other escapees before him. His selection by the Free Royal Norwegian Air Force board went through quickly. Within a short time he was at “Little Norway” in Canada, training to be a fighter pilot. Local hospitality was almost overwhelming towards those at the base.

  It was a great day for him when he gained his wings. All the Norwegian wings, he learned later, were embroidered by the Royal School of Needlework in London, and it seemed an apt link since his King and government were settled in that courageous, blitz-stricken city. After the Wings Parade he was posted to 331 Squadron in England, just a year having gone by since his escape from Norway. The squadron was stationed at North Weald, not far from London. His first sight of the aerodrome was the Norwegian flag flying against an English sky. He wore the top button of his tunic undone in the tradition of fighter pilots and, with silent apologies to the ladies of the Royal School of Needlework, he had rubbed a little dirt into the silver threads of his wings to take away the bright new look of them.

  He was soon a veteran of many sorties across the Channel. The day a swastika was painted as his score on the side of his Spitfire he saw it as the first real blow against the Nazis at a personal level. He lived every minute of his hectic life to the full, whether in the air or off duty. On one leave in London, merry after a party, he and two of his fellow pilots had an unexpected lift in King Haakon’s car, the monarch being elsewhere, and the driver a former member of the squadron ground staff. The King was an avid attender of newsreel theatres, and would take the driver with him into the inexpensive seats, buying the tickets himself. Rolf only went to a newsreel theatre when he had a long wait for a train back to base. There were far more enjoyable things to do in London. He had tried to trace Erik, only to draw a blank each time. His hope was that one day his brother would walk into the County Hotel or the Shaftsbury, which were centres for Norwegian servicemen in London, and they would meet that way. For all he knew, Erik might be on a battleship anywhere in the world.

  On the day a third swastika was painted on the side of his plane, his life changed. He fell in love with an English girl. His blond looks, his accent, his blue uniform with “Norway” on the shoulder-flashes, and his wings on his broad chest had mowed down women for him. When he saw her across a dance hall in Epping, a village near the aerodrome, her vivacious presence and the rich sheen of her red-gold hair eclipsed all the rest. She, seeing him come purposefully across the floor towards her, had a feeling of destiny.

  “May I have this dance?” He saw her eyes were beautiful, a flawless green.

  “Yes, of course.”

  She liked the way he had bowed to her. The Scandinavians did that, whatever their rank. He was a flight-lieutenant. Softly she went into his arms, light as a butterfly. There was a look of discovery on his face as he drew her out onto the floor.

  “I’m Rolf Ryen. What’s your name?”

  “Wendy Townsend.”

  It had begun.

  Chapter 11

  For Johanna the first weekend party at Tom’s house was nerve-racking. At the office she had comparatively little to do in connection with the military there, apart from the exchange of messages, documents and so forth. Even the party she had attended at the officers’ mess had been bearable by being of short duration. With Tom’s house parties some of the guests arrived on Friday evenings, shortly after she and Tom got there from the office, and from then until Sunday evening she had to smile, be sociable and hide her hatred of their Nazism, which was rampant among the younger officers, less marked among some of the older men. She thought she would never forget her initiation when, alerted by a car drawing up outside, she had come down the stairs to see a man she had hoped never to see again among the three guests who had arrived together. Standing with two army officers was Axel Werner in his black uniform of the general S.S., promoted in rank since their last meeting. He was regarding her with astonishment.

  “Johanna Ryen! I had not connected the surname of our host with you, and yet I was told by Major Ryen that a charming relative was his hostess here. I haven’t seen you since you came to my office in Oslo. What a pleasant surprise.”

  It was anything but that for her. Apart from not wanting to come into contact with his unpleasant personality again, there was the devastating reality of his knowing that she had been under suspicion for anti-Nazi activities while in the capital. Her involvement with Tom and her whole project was in jeopardy. The muscles of her face stiffened to a point when she felt it must splinter like glass as she returned his smile with the biggest bluff she could bring to her aid.

  “This should be a big moment for you, Axel. You can see that your kindly advice did not go amiss.”

  His conceit swelled. Thoroughly egotistical, he was totally prepared to believe he had won her over during what he looked back on as a heart-to-heart talk. This belief was fed by the attitude persistently held by the Third Reich that the Norwegians were blood-brother Aryans still misguided by out-of-date ideas of democracy that would be dispelled with time. Until the country was subservient, the torture of individuals and the savage reprisals for sabotage were necessary measures to bring the people to heel. As for the scarcity of food and commodities, that was the natural outcome of war, particularly when a large army of occupation had to be fed and those at home in Germany were not to go without the privileges of conquest. Axel, biased already by the links of childhood, saw again in Johanna the perfect Aryan woman; that she was now converted to his own ideology was attested to by her presence in the house of a prominent collaborator. “Well done, my dear girl. I’m proud of you.”

  The taller of the two army officers raised interested, inquiring eyebrows. “What’s all this, then?”

  Axel chuckled, going forward to meet her and take her hand. “A little secret between us, is it not, Johanna?”

  She was able to project some warmth into her reply on the wave of his unwittingly helpful cooperation. “I agree.” Half leaning towards him, she added mock-conspiratorially, “I think there’s one secret we can disclose.” Her smile turned on the other guests. “Axel and I knew each other as children.”

  “How fortunate for S.S. Obersturmbannführer Werner.”

  “Some people get all the luck,” the second man commented, grinning at her. Axel’s smug smile showed that he agreed with them. “Naturally I was practically in my adolescence when Johanna was born,” he said with gallantry.

  Both men spoke the same thought with laughter. “You don’t need to tell us that.”

  Tom beamed as he carried out the introductions. Johanna was getting off to a flying start just as he had antici
pated. Moreover she looked stunning, wearing a simple dinner gown of creamy velvet with a string of unusual pearly stones linked by gold which seemed a reflection of her shining hair. If she had appeared in a potato sack she would have imbued it with her own particular flair, although it was far more satisfactory that she had access to a fine wardrobe lent by the woman in whose house she lived. He had managed to get her some French silk stockings and intended to keep her supplied with them as long as he could, although they were getting harder to come by. She had looked as if she was on the point of refusing them, and probably would have done so if he had not made it clear that he considered it part of her role as hostess to be as elegant in appearance as possible.

  “Now, gentlemen,” he said when the clicking of heels had subsided. “Frøken Hallsted will show you to your rooms. Then please join us for a drink before dinner.”

  Karen, waiting in the background, stepped forward. Johanna had made her a stylish turban-like head covering out of a piece of silk donated by Astrid. Her hair was growing again into soft curly strands, but she was too self-conscious as yet to display it. She failed completely to see it gave a piquant charm to her face, only conscious of its unfeminine boyish look, for fashion prevailed even during the Occupation and almost shoulder-length hair was the favoured style.

  While waiting for his guests to reappear, Tom poured Johanna a drink and handed it to her. They were in the room with the rose-painted ceiling, the firelight from the open corner hearth dancing over the centuries-old designs and flickering across the pine-white floor.

  “What a coincidence that you should know the S.S. Obersturmbannführer, Johanna.”

  “Where is he stationed?”

  “He’s in a commandeered house in Ålesund with several other officers of the security service at the present time. This district is to be his—in fact, the whole of the Molde Fjord and Romsdal Fjord area will be under his command for his own particular duties. He’s here to rout out the remnants of the Resistance in the area.”

  “Oh, is he?” Her face was straight as she looked into the fire, the glass winking in her hand. “That sounds as if he will be around for a long time.”

  Tom kept a wary look on the open doorway and lowered his voice. “I agree with you. He is under the impression that he can accomplish the task in a matter of weeks, coming in like a new broom, so to speak. It was the arms explosion that brought about his posting here. I hear that Reichskommissar Terboven thinks highly of him. He’s a dangerous man. His methods have been ruthless to date.”

  “That I can believe.”

  A rumble of voices sounded from the direction of the stairs. “They’re coming.” Tom went to the bottles on the side table in readiness to deal with his guests’ liquid requirements.

  It was a very civilised dinner party that evening. Tom sat at the head of the table and Johanna was opposite him. Karen waited on them all, quick and efficient in a white frilled apron, the simple food well cooked by her and attractively garnished. Axel was in high good humour, appreciating the food and the wine and liking the fact that he had known Johanna as long as Tom had. Somehow he seemed to think it gave him an advantage over the other two guests, and that in itself encouraged his mood. Too often the security S.S. was treated with lordly condescension by the more senior services, who were inclined to view them as a jumped-up brigade without traditions. His attitude towards her was similar to Tom’s in the role of the benevolent and protective member of the family or, in his case, of old acquaintance.

  The army officers made no secret between themselves that they found him a bore. He certainly liked the sound of his own voice, his anecdotes becoming lengthier and more tedious as the wine took a greater hold on him. They themselves were lively company, witty and intelligent and enjoying the presence of a young and beautiful woman. When the opportunity presented itself, both in turn made classic passes at her, just as many more were to do in the time ahead, some with more finesse than others. They accepted her firm and cordial turn-down with singular good grace. On their subsequent visits, until they were posted away from the area, she could easily have come close to friendship with them, something that would never have been possible with Axel. Neither of them was a fanatical Nazi; both were liberal-minded men serving their country to the best of their ability in political circumstances that had run amok. She was deeply grieved when one of them was killed in a British commando raid along the coast.

  Johanna kept to the policy she had decided upon in the beginning, of never asking questions about anyone’s war role or leaning towards anything that might suggest she was more interested in military matters than she should be as an apparent collaborator. With time she learned much to pass on to Gunnar for Resistance Intelligence, simply by sitting quietly in the after-dinner firelight and listening while the company relaxed and occasionally forgot she was there. No secrets were given away, but she was able to deduce military and naval movements, this information frequently substantiating that already known to the Resistance, who welcomed confirmation from any source. Long after the Resistance knew there would be no Allied invasion of northern Norway after all, the Germans continued to believe that it would come, a belief kept on the boil by subversive activities to suggest aid was being gathered undercover to assist the Allies when they came. Time and again Johanna was able to report German reactions to staged events that were keeping undiminished the vast number of troops stationed in the country when they might have been deployed elsewhere, particularly after the grave losses suffered by the Wehrmacht through the defeat of the Sixth Army at Stalingrad.

  There was always plenty of general discussion going on about the war. There was much talk among the officers as to whether timely reinforcements would have saved the North African campaign, which had ended disastrously for Rommel’s army. The Allied attack on Italy had also caused much vigorous discussion, their violently voiced opinions of their Italian ally in the Axis partnership anything but complimentary. Their confidence in the German Army as the best fighting force ever seen was still totally undiminished. They continued to see themselves as the master race, destined to dominate the world, and viewed these setbacks as only temporary.

  “If it has to be a hundred-year war we’ll still come out on top,” Axel said one evening when dinner was over and some of the officers had gathered in basket chairs on the verandah in the warm June evening, he himself leaning a shoulder casually against one of the wooden columns. “As Goebbels said, ‘Nobody has to love us, but we’ll make sure they damn well fear us!’ ”

  Johanna had heard the quotation before and knew it had originated as a declaration against her own country. She went on refilling coffee cups, something she did while Karen cleared the table in the dining room and dealt with the washing up.

  “It won’t take a hundred years,” drawled somebody else who was present. Johanna did not turn her head, but she recognised the drink-thickened voice of an officer on his first visit to the house, a loose-lipped, brutish-looking man who had tried to seduce Karen forcibly when she had shown him to his room. It was the first incident of its kind and was due mainly to his being half drunk upon arrival. His unsteadiness on his feet had enabled her to escape unscathed—pale, shaken and angry.

  “What makes you so sure, Oberleutnant?” Axel’s stance became hostile and defensive. It was the Army trying again to take the S.S. down a peg.

  “The sweet little product in Telemark that’s going to help us quell the world and bring it under the Führer’s heel.” The speaker lifted up and crashed down his own jackbooted metal heel, making a gash in the verandah floorboard that would be there forever, guffawing at his own demonstrative action.

  “Shut your damn mouth,” another officer growled from the next chair. Conversations continued as though uninterrupted. Even Axel turned away, putting an end to anything further. It was obvious to Johanna that, although a security gaffe had not been made, the drunken officer had come close to it in the opinion of present company. It was the heavy-water plant at Vemo
rk to which he had referred. When an Allied air raid in January had failed to put it out of order, a small band of exceptionally courageous Norwegian saboteurs had entered it in February and blown up vital sections of the plant under the most hazardous conditions. To the Resistance it had been a great boost to morale. So much of what the armed section did was mere harassment with no decisive effect on the war. This action at Vemork was different. The delaying effect on the production by the Germans of the dangerous weapon they were calling the atomic bomb was invaluable. The lieutenant’s drunken remark suggested to Johanna that something was still in the wind. She would pass it on for what it was worth.

  When she did, Gunnar received the snippet phlegmatically. “There have been extensive repairs carried out at the plant over recent months and a shipment of heavy water was dispatched to Germany a few days ago. I daresay the lieutenant had something to do with the transit en route. You did right to tell me what you heard. As it happens, it is nothing new. Our Telemark people have the matter in hand, I’m sure. I think we can leave things to them.”

  It was only on rare occasions that he gave back something in return for what she passed on. Usually he was completely noncommittal. For all she knew, nothing she had supplied over many months from the office or the house had been more than confirmation of information Intelligence already had and which would be drawn in from other sources anyway. At times it was frustrating to be so much in the dark, and yet she accepted that security came before all else.

  As she was about to leave, Gunnar dived into his pocket and brought out a letter. “This is for you. Don’t ask me how I received it or where the sender is, because I can’t tell you.” He gave her a grin. “Just be glad it reached you.”

  It was from Steffen. She read it later alone in her room at Astrid’s house. There was no date and it contained no news, gave no hint of his whereabouts, and there was no indication of how long it had been in transit. It was a love letter. Unashamedly and richly and poignantly a love letter, deserving of a bow of blue ribbon and lavender to keep it in until it was fragile with age. Instead she put it among her own everyday possessions and read it over and over again at intervals until it took on the appearance of being a delicate artefact and she had to keep it in another envelope to stop it from falling apart.