Chapter Nine
Iced Out
In September, the Germans ordered that every window be "blacked out" with dark paper so Allied planes would have a harder time hitting German targets at night. The slightest glimmer of light through a blackened window could lead to a knock on the door by the Gestapo—the dreaded Nazi police force.
By day, under the bell tower of the white octagonal church, Marit joined the other fifty-three students. They went from singing "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" on Sunday to doing math, reading, and language lessons on Monday. At the island's makeshift school, the youngest children sat in the pews on the right, fourth- through seventh-graders met on the left, and the oldest students gathered in the balcony. Even with the war, each grade had to get through its own pensum, a series of required subjects.
At first, the teachers—Miss Halversen, her aunt; Mrs. Hammer, who had an irritating habit of tapping her pencil when she corrected papers; and Mr. Moe, who loved to sing louder than anyone in the upper grade—refused to let students wander through the adjoining cemetery. But as the month passed, their rules slackened.
Miss Halversen wore A-line skirts and cardigan sweaters and always started the day with a beaming smile, as if to lift her students' spirits. The smile and cheeriness were something Marit seldom saw at the farmhouse. When Miss Halversen's students finished their lessons early, she let them play board games, spend time outside, or read books of their own choosing. Marit enjoyed this new side of her aunt, as if she were more herself as a teacher than when she was living in the same house with Bestefar.
One day during free time, when Hanna and Marit were leaning against the apple tree, its ruby fruit hanging heavily, Olaf joined them. He sat cross-legged, took his comb from his pocket, and tried to tame the cowlick above his forehead, though it always twisted stubbornly upward as soon as he tucked away his comb.
"How's Kaptain?" Marit asked.
Up close, Olaf's eyes were as smoky gray as lowhanging clouds. "He's coming along. He loves to outrun me, and I'm teaching him to roll over."
Lars came running toward Marit, fell into her lap dramatically, and cried, "Save me, Marit! Save me!"
Two boys circled, sticks drawn like guns.
"Go on," Marit said, and waved them off. They ran away, and Lars bolted after them—stick in hand—around the church.
Hanna wasn't saying a word. Marit curved toward her and raised her eyebrows. "Hanna, are you still here?"
Her friend nodded, and then looked away at the gravestones.
"What's wrong?" Marit pressed. "We're friends. You can tell us."
Hanna refused to answer.
Marit gave Olaf a shrug.
"So what do you think of school here?" Olaf asked her. "I mean, compared to your school in Isfjorden."
"It's different having school at a church, but it's fine. I really like Miss Halversen." She laughed.
"Since you're her niece, she'll probably be easier on you."
"Or harder."
For a few minutes, they talked. He fidgeted with his leather shoelaces, and before long he said goodbye and walked away.
Marit turned to Hanna, whose eyes followed Olaf as he left them. "Hanna. That was rude. You acted like you didn't even know Olaf. Why wouldn't you talk to him? It's as if he had head lice. I thought you liked him—as a friend, I mean."
"Ice out," she answered.
"What do you mean, 'ice out'?"
"Guess you haven't heard. We have to ice out Olaf Andersen. His parents are NS—the Nasjonal Samling, the Norwegian Nazi Party. Marit, they've sided with the Nazis." Her eyes narrowed and she whispered, "His parents handed a Norwegian over to the Germans!"
Olaf's parents? Quisling was a traitor, but Marit couldn't believe that any islander, let alone Olaf's own parents, would join the Nazis and turn in other Norwegians. She shuddered. "I can't understand how they ... but that doesn't make Olaf ... he wouldn't do that."
"Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. If anyone in the family is NS, a 'quisling,' then the whole family gets iced out." She nodded toward the tombstones, where Olaf was wandering alone. "It just happened. Yesterday. My parents told me about it last night. By now, most everyone on the island knows."
A wave of cold swept through Marit's body. What if someone turned Mama or Papa over to the Nazis? How could anyone do such a thing? Why would anyone do such a thing? Her heart went out to Olaf, but how could she ever understand his parents? "It's like he's dead then?" she asked. "Treated the way we treat the Germans?"
"Sort of like that."
"Like a dog?"
Hanna huffed. "My papa says we try to treat our dogs much better."
It seemed cruel, but if "icing out" was a means of uniting against the Nazis, then Marit had no choice but to take part.
After school that day, outside the church gates, steps sounded behind her and someone tapped her shoulder. She spun around, expecting to see Hanna. It was Olaf. His gray eyes were pleading, and for a moment Marit thought he might start crying.
"Listen, Marit," Olaf said, smoothing his hair back with his hand. "I know what Hanna probably told you, but listen—I'm not a Nazi. I'm not my parents."
Marit felt sorry for him, but in this war—a war in which her parents were risking their lives and his parents were turning in Norwegians—there was no middle ground. She grabbed her brother's hand and turned away. "Lars, let's go."
She hurried ahead, and Lars kept glancing back. "Why aren't you talking with Olaf?"
"I'll explain later."
That night, instead of cod stew, which seemed to get thinner each night it was served, Aunt Ingeborg served a feast: fish cakes in brown gravy, boiled potatoes, and small pancakes with jam for dessert. Bestefar spoke about his day's catch of herring, and Aunt Ingeborg talked about how the quality of flour was getting worse.
All Marit could think about was Olaf and the haunting words of the soldier on the shore months earlier.
War has many unexpected casualties.
Chapter Ten
If You Breathe
In late September, Marit learned from the radio broadcast that the German leader, Terboven, had stepped in and declared the Norwegian Nazi Party to be the official "New Order" in Norway. There would be no more voting.
One evening, Bestefar brought home a newspaper that was being illegally copied and sent all around the country. Before sharing it, he double-checked to make sure the black paper was tight against all windows.
"If any of us should be asked to trample ideals we cherish," he began reading, looking intently from Marit to Lars to Aunt Ingeborg, "to adopt a new way of life we scorn, there is only one course to take. If this is the New Order, our answer is: No Norwegians for sale. Several hundred Norwegians have sacrificed their lives for something they held sacred. It is also sacred to us."
When he finished, Aunt Ingeborg clapped her hands. "Ja, that's right. No Norwegians for sale! Let the Germans hear that loud and clear."
"Unfortunately, the author of these words has been arrested," Bestefar said. "With every day it's becoming clearer. The lines are being drawn. You're either a Nazi or a jøssing."
"A jøssing?" Marit asked.
"A loyal Norwegian," he answered quietly.
After that, it seemed almost everyone was a jøssing. Even at school, where the red, blue, and white Norwegian flag was replaced with the German swastika flag, little signs of unity sprang up. Along with fishermen, everyone started to wear nisselues, red stocking caps like those worn by gnomes. And if not nisselues, then they wore red caps, scarves, or sweaters as a sign of unity.
When a German officer stopped by their school, they all pretended to have a scratchy throat and started coughing uncontrollably. Marit had heard that in Ålesund, when a Nazi soldier sat down on a bus, nearby passengers would get up and move to other seats. Nearly everyone, except Bestefar, started sporting a comb sticking out of chest pockets on coats, which meant "we Norwegians can take care of ourselves."
At school, Marit
kept an eye on Olaf. Once, she watched him arrive at the church gate. He paused, pulled a red nisselue from under his jacket, and when he thought no one was looking, he donned it. Then he walked around, his stocking cap matching those of the others. It didn't matter. Everyone ignored him. Marit wondered how he could stand coming to school. Many times she wished she could talk with him, but "icing out" was not only a punishment, it was also a warning—a way to remind others to stay loyal. Fair or not, Marit determined she would not cross the invisible line dividing loyal Norwegians from traitors, jøssings from quislings.
Yet Aunt Ingeborg still talked with Olaf. If he raised his hand, she allowed him to speak. In fact, all three of the schoolteachers spoke with him, one on one.
That evening at dinner, Marit blurted the question. "Aunt Ingeborg, if 'icing out' is a way of reminding everyone to stay loyal, then why do you and the other teachers talk with Olaf?"
Her aunt set down her fork. "Marit, I know it's difficult to understand. But you see, I'm a teacher first and foremost. My job is to teach, to help all students learn, no matter what their family background, their personality, or if they're eager or reluctant to learn. And to do that, I need to treat every student fairly. At school, I cannot 'ice out' Olaf."
"But it's not fair!" Marit said, pushing away from the table. "We were friends, and I have to turn my back on him. If I don't, then the 'ice out' doesn't work. I don't have a choice."
Bestefar kept eating, but was clearly listening.
Aunt Ingeborg sighed. "But you do have a choice, Marit." She reached for Marit's elbow, eased her closer, and then, just as Mama used to do, rested her hand on the small of Marit's back. "There are no easy answers these days. All I know is that you must do what you believe is right—and so must I."
***
Soon, warnings were posted all around the island, with notices such as "If you remove public notices, you will be severely punished." And the list of warnings grew longer every day:
• IF YOU RISE FROM A SEAT WHEN A GERMAN SITS DOWN, YOU SHALL BE SEVERELY PUNISHED.
• IF YOU WEAR SIGNS OF STANDING WITH THE ENEMY, INCLUDING WEARING PAPER CLIPS, RED HATS ... YOU SHALL BE SEVERELY PUNISHED.
• IF YOU CLEAR YOUR THROAT WHEN A GERMAN APPROACHES, YOU SHALL BE SEVERELY PUNISHED.
On one such list posted on a dock pier, someone had boldly added in pencil: "If you breathe, you shall be severely punished."
Chapter Eleven
Christmas Eve, 1941
One Year Later
It was Marit's second Christmas Eve on the island, and she felt like a prisoner in her own country. Not only was every window on the island darkened with black paper or fabric, but now anyone caught trying to escape Norway would be imprisoned or put to death. This night, more than ever, she missed the cheerful flicker of the season's lights when candles filled everyone's windows.
But not even Nazis had stopped Aunt Ingeborg from preparing for Juletid. Since soap was scarce, Marit had helped wash the floors with water and sand. They washed the cotton and lace curtains on the scrub board and hung them to dry. Then they starched, ironed, and put them back up again. Aunt Ingeborg set out bright green, red, and blue table runners, while Lars and Marit polished a few pieces of silver and copper. Together they decorated a pine bush with paper-woven baskets, but this year they would have to skip the tree candles. Candles were too valuable. After the requisition—the fancy word the Nazis gave to making every Norwegian turn in their blankets, gum boots, tents, rucksacks, and the like to help the German army—it was surprising that anyone had anything left. Aunt Ingeborg had insisted that the children keep one dyne hidden away during the day and take it out only at night. "Paper blankets are not enough to keep children alive in the winter," she'd said angrily.
Unlike other years, when baking had filled the air, they merely talked about their favorite cookies: sandkaker, krumkake, and fattigmann. Herring and salted cod were stored in the cellar—Bestefar made sure of that—but sugar and white flour were impossible to come by.
"Christmas isn't the same without Mama and Papa," Lars kept saying, as if by saying so he could make them magically appear.
If he said it only their first Christmas apart, it wouldn't have bothered Marit so much. But this year, she couldn't stand it any longer. "Stop!" Marit blurted, turning on him. "If they really cared about us, they wouldn't have sent us away!" Her angry words flew out. "They don't even remember they have children!" She cupped her hand lightly over her mouth. To her own surprise, her words had come seemingly out of nowhere.
Aunt Ingeborg spun around, holding a wooden spoon in the air. It dripped batter. "They sent you away for your safety, Marit. Don't say such things!"
For a few long moments, Marit studied the floor. It seemed that lately every word and thought about Mama and Papa made her angry. Though they'd received a few vaguely worded letters in the past year—it was a comfort that they were alive—it would be so much easier to go through the hardships of war together with her parents than apart from them. If she were a parent, she would never send her children away to be cared for by others. In a time of war, didn't kids need their parents more than ever? And yet, beneath her burst of anger, she really did understand that Mama and Papa were doing what they had to do. On Christmas Eve especially, she knew they'd rather be together as a family, too.
"I'm sorry," Marit said quietly, glancing up at her aunt and then at Lars. "I know they care. It's just so hard sometimes."
Her aunt hugged her. "I know."
After Marit bathed with the last bit of soap, Aunt Ingeborg wrapped Marit's hair around narrow strips of paper, just as Mama would have done. That night, with knots all over her head, she struggled to sleep. She wanted Christmas to come, but another year without Mama and Papa made her almost wish away the holiday.
On Julften—Christmas Eve—they sat down after their chores to the traditional dinner of boiled potatoes, brown goat cheese, mashed green peas, and lutefisk. Aunt Ingeborg had worked many days soaking the dried cod first in water and then in a lye solution to soften the fish, then in water to remove the lye. The fish filled the house with a nose-pinching odor, worse than Papa's socks after a long day of skiing.
"Lutefisk stinks!" Lars complained.
"Wouldn't be Julaften without it," Aunt Ingeborg replied.
Even without sweets—or Mama and Papa—Christmas was under way.
After dinner, they put on their cleanest clothes—no new outfits. Not even the bunad, which her aunt had apparently lost courage to work on. Marit brushed out her curls and tied her hair with the red taffeta ribbons Aunt Ingeborg had saved for her.
Although risengrot—the traditional porridge of white rice, cinnamon, sugar, and a little butter—wouldn't await them after church this year, Aunt Ingeborg had promised them something made out of millet. And whoever found the almond—this year it was a button instead—was assured a good year ahead.
"To church," Bestefar said, and held the door open.
In wool scarves and coats, boots and mittens, they trekked to church, each wearing a required "blackout mark." With the small illuminated tag on their coat lapels, the Germans could see them moving about after the six-o'clock winter curfew.
Nearly everyone on the island was at church and wished one another "God Jul!" and sang Christmas hymns. In the back, in a row all by themselves, sat Olaf and his family.
Though Pastor Ecklund's skin was splotchy red and his hair thinning and stringy, his voice was as soothing as dark honey. He spoke about God's love and the gift of sending His son to die for everyone's sins—a message Marit had heard many times before.
As they quietly stepped outside, the stars pierced the sky with a thousand lights. Marit listened to her breath as they walked along the snow-covered road toward home.
Halfway there, a set of car lights suddenly switched on, startling them. They jolted to a stop. Aunt Ingeborg squeezed Marit's shoulder, and Marit clutched Lars's hand.
A car door opened. "Halt!"
M
arit blinked in the lights' blinding glare, unable to see. A wave of nausea passed through her. Was this to be one of those unexpected arrests she'd heard about? Would they all be hauled away—or shot? She braced herself for the worst possible outcome.
"Marit," Bestefar whispered, "not a word."
He didn't have to warn her. Even if she had wanted to, she wouldn't have been able to speak.
"Identity cards," the soldier ordered.
Aunt Ingeborg and Bestefar reached in their pockets and held out the mandatory identification cards. Anyone fifteen or older who was stopped without identification could be sent to reeducation camps in Norway or Germany—or worse. Executed.
The soldier turned his flashlight on the documents, studied them, and then waved them away.
"And these children?" His flashlight drilled into Marit's eyes, as if the car lights were not enough. Blinded, she looked at the snowy ground. Her hands trembled in her mittens.
"My grandchildren," Bestefar said. "And my daughter Ingeborg's niece and nephew."
"They live here on the island?"
"Ja."
"And their parents? Why are they not with their children on Christmas Eve?"
"They were killed when their village was first bombed." Marit squeezed Lars's hand tighter, trying to let him know that Bestefar was telling a lie. Lars squeezed her hand in return.
Like a hound losing the trail of a promising scent, the soldier sniffed, seemingly disappointed. "I see," said the soldier. "On your way then." He snapped a salute, arm extended. "Heil Hitler!"
The car rolled on, crunching over snow and abandoning them.
The stars had dimmed and the darkness seemed menacing and endless. Could the Nazis not allow them a moment of peace?
The Klipfish Code Page 5