He grinned at her. “I meant to have you since I first saw you looking out of the Alsteens’ window in Oslo at the Nazi bombers on invasion day.”
She raised an eyebrow comically. “Now you tell me!”
“I love you.”
That made it hard to go from him then, both of them hit by a wave of seriousness, not knowing when they would see each other again. She had to tear her eyes away from the gaze in which he held her and force herself to get up from the chair to leave the café. It would have been all too easy to change her mind and say she would go with him to England whenever that might be.
Far from clearing up the Resistance in his extensive district, Axel was finding that pockets persisted that he could neither locate nor subdue. He knew that small boats came and went on matters hostile to the Third Reich, that illegal transmitters provided London with vital information and that sabotage plots were hatched in the most commonplace surroundings. It was the secret agents he most wanted to ensnare and it was galling to suspect he passed them by in the street from the comfort of his large car, for there would be nothing to distinguish them from their fellow citizens.
At least he had made himself feared in the district. Spot checks had increased at his orders, people were brought in for questioning on the slightest cause and every trick in the book used to get information out of those likely to know something merely by observation of others’ change of routine. He did not hesitate to inflict torture on an obstinate suspect caught in a subversive situation, and when a man was finally broken it led to the arrest of those named if they had not already gone into hiding upon hearing that their confederate had been taken into custody. The constant challenge excited and stimulated him. There was not a morning when he did not wake in anticipation of the day, even when things were swinging temporarily against him.
Although his successes had been moderate, approval of his thorough and ruthless methods had been voiced by Reichskommissar Terboven, who was known to be increasingly exasperated that subversive activities should persist after all the reprisals and punishments meted out during three and a half years of occupation. Axel foresaw further promotion and commendation if he could just land a big fish in the nets that he set wider and wider in his personal battle against the Resistance.
He had nothing to do with minor matters such as hoarding and black marketeering unless it had a bearing on security. These matters were dealt with by the Quisling police. It was the suspicion that arms were hidden in an old warehouse that took him to the scene, only to discover that the crates held tinned food stolen from the army and other stores which were not in his field at all. Annoyed, he was about to leave when a crate was prised open with contents that caught his attention. Wrapped in protective covering were a number of silver fox skins. They could not have been recently produced, for luxury trades had been eliminated everywhere by the war. Without hesitation, he snapped an order at the sergeant in charge.
“Deliver that crate to my quarters.”
It duly arrived and his batman stored it in a cupboard. For a while he thought no more about it, his instinct never to let pass any spoils of war having been satisfied. He had more pressing matters on his mind. An informer had given him a tip-off that promised to be particularly fruitful.
When catering for the weekends at Tom Ryen’s house, Karen always took an order of bread from her brother-in-law. Previously she had made the bread herself, but she saw no reason why Raold should not have the benefit of the business, particularly as it eased the work-load at the time of the week when she had much to prepare. Her sister usually made the delivery with a horse and wagonette, using the excuse to see Karen and have a chat. Throughout the summer there had been none of the secret comings and goings to which Raold had referred, but with the arrival of the darker nights of autumn the stage was set once more. Marthe’s agitation was noticeable when she brought the bread into the house one Friday afternoon. Twice she dropped loaves as she was helping to unload them from the basket.
“What’s the matter with you?” Karen inquired considerately.
Marthe feigned surprise. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
Karen smiled at her. “Come on. I know you better than that. Aren’t you well?”
The reply came almost irritably. “If you must know, I do get nervous when we get important company after a break from having to watch for Germans night and day.”
“Oh.” Comprehending, Karen paused in putting the bread away. “I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known.”
“That’s all right.” Marthe took the last loaf from the basket. “There’s no harm in your knowing. Our visitor came in the middle of the night and tomorrow night he changes places with someone arriving by boat. I never like change-overs. It’s a double danger for everyone concerned. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.” She forced a smile. “I expect it will be weeks before anyone else comes and I’ll have time to calm down again.”
After Marthe had left, Karen finished what she had to do in the kitchen and then went upstairs to put clean towels in the bedrooms and make sure everything was in order when Tom and Johanna arrived. There were to be three house guests, including Axel Werner, while a number of other people were coming to a party on Saturday night. Tom was becoming less inclined to have large parties or to have more than a small number to stay, for food and drink were no longer as easy for him to come by. Fortunately, most of his guests brought bottles with them, and so far Karen’s culinary skills had disguised any major shortages. In her own mind she despised Tom for his boot-licking, being less forgiving than Johanna, who tolerated him for the weak man that he was, seeing his political aims as pathetically futile, for the Germans admired strength and his lack of stamina was easy to discern. To her, Johanna had expressed the conviction more than once that with some exceptions those who came to the house were simply taking advantage of him, and if the slightest thing went wrong in his managing of the office he would find himself transported into a compulsory labour force the next day. He had made no friends among the Wehrmacht, of that she was sure, even if he did believe otherwise.
On Saturday night the party was in full swing. Johanna kept the dancing to the newer part of the house and it was from there that most of the noisy laughter came. Two of the house guests, older men with no interest in dancing, wanted a game of bridge and had managed to find a third player. They asked Johanna if she could locate a fourth to join them.
“I think so.” She knew Axel was a keen bridge player and she went in search of him. Unable to see him in any of the rooms, she asked for him and was told he had gone out. Thinking this meant he was taking a breath of fresh air, she went outside, but could not find him in the porch or on the verandah. As it was raining, she thought it hardly likely he was taking a stroll. Deciding to waste no more time, she went back indoors, found another player instead, and left the four men on their own in the rose-ceilinged room while she took a tray of dirty glasses into the kitchen where Karen was washing up. As Johanna took up a cloth to dry, Karen glanced at her and noticed some splashes down her sleeve and damp on her long skirt.
“What’s that on your dress?”
“Raindrops. I took a quick look outside for Axel Werner. There was a bridge game in the offing and that’s right up his street.”
“Did you find him?”
“No. A naval man made up a fourth.”
Karen stopped washing the dishes and gripped the edge of the enamel sink, the suds slipping down her hands, a look of fright in her face. “Go and find out if he’s upstairs or in the bathroom or anywhere,” she implored harshly.
Johanna looked at her in anxious bewilderment, a half-dried plate still in her hands. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. It may be nothing, but he’s commandant of security and my brother-in-law has a Resistance fighter in his house tonight with another coming off a boat.”
Johanna thrust down the dish and the cloth to dash from the kitchen. Upstairs she checked Axel’s bedroom and
anywhere else where he might have been. Failing to find him, she hastened downstairs again and went through every room. He was not there. She rushed back into the kitchen.
“Tell me where your brother-in-law lives! I’ll change my clothes and get over there!”
“No!” Karen was adamant. “I’ll go. Nobody will miss me out here in the kitchen, but people expect you to be around all the time. I can reach Raold’s place without being seen if I row there.” She left the kitchen to fetch a sweater, slacks and sneakers from the room she occupied at the top of the house and changed into them when she returned, not wanting to be spotted in outdoor clothes. Johanna fetched her one of Tom’s flashlights and gave her some last-minute advice.
“Do be careful. The area will be alive with troops if things are as we fear. The two men will surely make for the cover of the mountains. Stay the night at your sister’s if you can. That would be safer than trying to get back here. I’ll cover your absence somehow, although with luck you won’t be missed.”
Karen slipped out into the darkness of the wet night. Running swiftly away from the house, she went down to the bank where the row-boats were moored. Within moments she had cast off and was settling the oars into the oarlocks. The rain pattered on the boards of the boat and struck cold through the scarf with which she had covered her hair. She was barely aware of it, gripped by fear of what the outcome would be for Marthe and Raold if they were discovered with freedom fighters in their house. With the rustling of the trees along the shoreline, the rain, and the choppiness of the water, she gained no clue as to whether there were any grounds for her alarm until she caught a glimpse of headlights which, in spite of the narrow chink of light allowed to escape ahead, enabled her to see that there was more than one truck approaching along the road. Her guess was that soldiers were being moved in to close upon the village. Desperately she lent her strength to the oars with renewed effort. Never had it seemed longer to reach the moorings below her old home. Once she thought she heard distant shots and strained her ears. When nothing more happened, she decided she must have been mistaken. Perhaps she was still in time.
In the bakehouse Gunnar was waiting and ready to leave, glancing constantly at his watch and pacing restlessly. It was stiflingly hot, for Raold was continuing with his night’s baking, the smell of yeast and dough overpowering. In the darkness of a room upstairs, Marthe was keeping watch on the road.
“My colleague is overdue,” Gunnar remarked edgily.
Raold, who had the same thought, was glad of the work to keep him occupied. “He is,” he admitted. “How much longer are you going to give him?”
“I must go on waiting. He’ll come sooner or later. Sorry I’m acting like a caged lion. If I could be outside I would be calmer.”
“You can’t go outside until you’re told where the boat is waiting. Everything depends on sentries and patrol boats as to where the actual landing is made.”
Gunnar gave an impatient nod, unable to check his pacing. He had gone out into the hallway several times to sit on the stairs and smoke a cigarette. Raold’s standards of hygiene would not permit the ash even of a secret agent in his bakehouse. It seemed about time for another nerve-soothing drag when a hasty knocking came on the door. Immediately Raold gave a tense nod and Gunnar went quickly through into the hallway, his revolver ready in his hand. Through a crack in the door he watched Raold open the outer door cautiously and then widen it immediately to admit a young woman he had never seen before.
“Karen!” Raold exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to warn you! Are the Resistance men still in the house? They should get away at once.”
Gunnar emerged from the doorway. “Who are you?”
Raold spoke for her. “My wife’s sister.”
“What do you think is wrong?” Gunnar questioned her abruptly, putting his revolver away.
She stepped forward in her frantic anxiety. “I’ve seen trucks approaching the village. More than that. I work at Tom Ryen’s house on the other side of the inlet and the S.S. security commandant in this area left a party there earlier for no apparent reason.”
“The Ryen house? Are you with Johanna?”
“Yes I am. She knows I’m here.” She broke off as there came a tapping. Both men recognised the prearranged signal.
“Come into the hallway with me,” Gunnar whispered, grabbing her arm. “Just in case the visitor is not whom we’re expecting.” Again he waited with his revolver raised. Karen pushed back against the stairs behind him and watched as once more Raold opened the door. It was Steffen.
Re-entering the bakehouse, Gunnar ceased grinning as he saw the ashy pallor of Steffen’s face and the way in which he slumped back against the wall. “You’re hurt! What’s happened?”
“I was nicked in the shoulder.”
Gunnar pulled Steffen’s jacket aside and saw a red stain seeping through the thick wool of the jersey beneath. “You must have that wound dressed. You’re losing a lot of blood.”
Steffen pushed him away. “That can wait. You can’t. Get out of here. Now! The mountains are your only chance. You’d never reach the fishing boat. That’s cut off by a nest of Germans. I went smack into them when I came across towards the village. When they don’t find me in the undergrowth, they’ll move onto the moored vessels and into the village. I only hope the skipper heard the shots, but it’s unlikely.”
“We’ll try for the mountains together.” Gunnar grabbed a wad of clean dough coverings from a bench. “These will hold you together until we can get you medical attention.”
“I’d never make it. I told you to clear out.” Steffen was becoming angry. “I didn’t wrench my guts getting here for you to behave like a fool. Any moment there’ll be a house-to-house search throughout the village. You won’t have a chance.”
Gunnar gave a mocking snort, continuing to make an emergency pad of the linen coverings under the shoulder of Steffen’s jacket and binding it around as hard as it could be fastened. “Don’t be so bloody pig-headed. It’s not only you they’re hunting. Raold’s sister-in-law here believes the Gestapo had a tip-off. You and I are both in the cart and that means we leave together.”
While he was speaking there was a scurrying of footsteps down the stairs and Marthe appeared, trembling with fright in the doorway. “Germans! Coming down the street in both directions!”
Karen ran forward to Gunnar. “I’ll show you where I’ve left a row-boat. Take it. Take Steffen to Tom Ryen’s house. I’ll tell you where to put ashore. Johanna will be keeping watch. She’ll find a place for you to hide. The house is full of Wehrmacht officers. Nobody would look for you there!”
A groan came from Steffen. “Not Johanna! We don’t want to involve her in this mess.”
Gunnar ignored him, intent on Karen. “Where’s this row-boat?”
“Come with me.”
When Steffen thrust himself away from the wall he reeled and would have fallen if he had not been given support, Gunnar pulling his uninjured arm about his own shoulders. Raold switched out the light and held the door for them, having been told to stay where he was and get on with his work, there being nothing more he could do. The two of them went with Karen out into the darkness. The rain had become torrential, stinging their faces as they hurried down to the water’s edge. Gunnar got Steffen into the boat first, but when he held out his hand to Karen she hung back.
“I’m not going.” She gave him instructions as to where to go ashore. “Tell me the name of the fishing boat you were supposed to take and the signal for the skipper. I might get through to warn him by following the rocks.”
“Fjellpike is the name of the boat and the password is ‘Midgard.’ ”
Steffen supplied the rest of what she had to know. “There’s only one place on the west side of the point where fishing boats can put in. You’ll find the Fjellpike there.”
“I know it. Good luck!”
“And to you.”
Gunnar pulled strongly away
from the shore and she vanished immediately in the wet blackness. Steffen, slumped in the bow, spoke his thoughts for both of them. “I hope she makes it. It’s likely to be curtains for the whole crew if she doesn’t.”
After that they kept silent for security reasons, it being automatic to them. The boat bobbed through the fierce little waves, spray showering over them continually and yet impossible to define in the downpour beyond a salty taste on the lips. Once the inlet was crossed Gunnar kept close to the shore, Steffen straining his eyes for the boathouses that were the landmark. They loomed up eventually and Gunnar located a place to moor. Whether it was the right mooring or not he had no idea. All that mattered was to get ashore and into hiding.
After helping Steffen out of the boat and into the boathouse, where he slithered to his knees, his head coming to rest weakly against the wall, Gunnar went to reconnoitre. He kept to the cover of the trees. In spite of the black-out, slivers of a gleam outlined some of the windows in the house, which blended into the night, making it impossible to pick out the roof or its proportions. The sound of music was a good guide as to where the party was centred and eventually he darted across to feel his way along the wall to the rear of the house where the kitchen was likely to be located. As he stepped onto the porch an old board creaked and immediately the kitchen door opened narrowly, flooding him with an arrow of light. There was a gasp of astonishment.
“Gunnar!” Johanna darted out to him, closing the door behind her. “Where’s Karen?”
“She stayed behind. I’ve the ‘Englishman’ with me. He’s wounded.”
“How badly?” Her voice shook.
“I don’t know yet. Where shall I take him?”
“It’s essential you come into the house in case there should be a search of the outbuildings in a general check. There’s a storeroom off the kitchen where I can hide you for the time being. I had intended to get whoever came into a room at the top of the house next to Karen’s and where only she goes, but that will have to wait. Do you want any help?”
This Shining Land Page 30