In limbo, she once again applied to work at Vemork with her father, but the job Jomar finally offered her was as a courier to London and had nothing to do with chemistry.
An outburst of male laughter shook her back to the present. Her railcar was packed full of troops, and though their noise and smoking at first irritated her, her complete exhaustion and the clatter of the train wheels rocked her to sleep.
By the time she reached King’s Cross station in London, she was dazed, ravenous, and craved a bath. It was therefore a relief to discover that an agent waited with a car. He offered to carry her rucksack, but she refused. “I’m to deliver everything directly to Mr. Tronstad, and until then, I’ll hang on to it, if you don’t mind.”
Half an hour later, they arrived at the Special Operations Executive offices, abbreviated by everyone simply as SOE. The second floor held the Norwegian High Command, and at the end of a long hall, the agent led her to a door marked SECTION IV. After a brief knock, he ushered her into the office.
A man in the uniform of a major in the Norwegian Army, whom she recognized as Leif Tronstad, stood up from his desk. A slender, attractive man with long legs and short upper body, his large, warm eyes were at odds with his reputation as a hardheaded resistor and activist. She could more easily imagine him in an easy chair smoking a pipe and with a dog at his feet. Another man stood to his right, light-haired, balding, somewhat corpulent.
“Welcome to London, Miss Brun.” Tronstad offered his hand, and as she shook it, he glanced toward his portly colleague. “This is Colonel Wilson, head of the Norwegian SOE. He has a great interest in our undertaking.”
“We hear good things about you from your father,” Wilson said, requiring another handshake. “He told us you had a close call with the Germans while at university.”
“Oh, that. It seems they were giving us the opportunity to be Aryan masters in the new Reich. When blandishments didn’t work, they gave us our own Reichstag fire in the university auditorium. That, in turn, provided them with the excuse to close the university and arrest more than a thousand of us. Students and professors alike.”
“And you escaped?” Wilson seemed impressed.
She smiled weakly. “Nothing so heroic. They released the women students and about half of the men. The other half, which I guess seemed more promising, were sent to German camps for indoctrination. It remains to be seen what will come of that. In any case, I’d had it with the ‘master race.’ I’d have signed up for Milorg, but as it happens, my father needed me for this delivery.”
“Norway’s clandestine military organization has its uses for local resistance, but we feel we can accomplish more from over here. So, welcome to Britain and the Free Norwegians,” Tronstad said and gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. When she was seated, he asked, “How was the crossing?”
“Ghastly, but at least we weren’t intercepted or bombarded. Something to be thankful for, I suppose.” Getting to the point of the meeting, she drew the leather folder from her shoulder bag and held it out to him.
Tronstad took it with curiously little interest and laid it on his desk. “Actually, it’s the personal items I need to see.”
“My personal items? Uh, yes, sir.” Puzzled, she rummaged in her rucksack until her fingers found the soft purse her stepmother had given her. Fortunately, her normal “schedule” had been late, and she hadn’t needed any of the intimate products. But what the hell did Tronstad want with them?
She handed the package to him and watched, embarrassed and slightly affronted, as he drew out her spare undergarment and shook out the several unused tampons and pads.
“Is that necessary, sir?”
“It’s the whole purpose of your mission,” he replied, inserting a pencil into one of the precious Tampax tubes and forcing the cotton plug out the bottom. He pulled apart the wad of cotton, exposing a tightly rolled paper at its core, which, unrolled, revealed a diagram. He passed it over to Colonel Wilson, who sat across from him.
She watched, slack-jawed, as he emptied two more of the tampon tubes and then squeezed out the contents of the toothpaste tube. Each ejection produced a tiny roll containing a photograph or diagram. What would have happened if she’d needed to actually use the products? It seemed a major slip-up no one had considered.
“So, the letters were just window dressing,” she remarked, bemused.
“Not completely. King Haakon will be pleased to get them, of course. But these items…” He held up one of the still-half-curled diagrams. “These reveal the layout and design of the Norsk Hydroelectric Plant at Vemork. If you’d been caught with these, we would have had to cancel our whole operation. Congratulations for making it through.”
“Diagrams of the plant? Very interesting. I can probably supplement them from my memory of the place. I visited it once, a few years ago.”
Tronstad nodded, obviously pleased. “Another reason Jomar chose you for the delivery.”
“Can you tell me why you need to know about the workings at Vemork?”
“I’m afraid that’s a military secret,” Wilson interjected. “Let’s just say it has considerable interest for the British War Cabinet.”
“Is it about the deuterium? They’re producing quite a lot of it these days.”
Wilson looked taken aback, but Tronstad replied, “Ah, yes. We should have assumed you’d know about the heavy water.”
“Of course I would. My father is very proud of it and even showed me around the laboratory. This was before the Nazis took over, of course. Why is it suddenly so important to Britain?”
It was clearly a question she wasn’t permitted to ask, and in the silence that followed, she drew the obvious conclusion. “Has it some value as a weapon?”
Tronstad looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid that’s also secret, as you can imagine.”
She wasn’t having it. “Well, it doesn’t take a genius to see that the Germans control what the plant is producing, and the British want it. Or at least want to prevent the Germans from having it.”
More silence, which was beginning to annoy her. “Do you want Norsk Hydro to smuggle some of its heavy water to you? It looks just like normal water. I could have brought some in a bottle.”
Wilson shook his head. “No. The US has not asked for that.” Then he added with sudden candor, “Actually, we’re not sure what the Germans are doing with it, but the fact that they’re demanding mass production suggests it has a military use. Perhaps you can appreciate that it’s not your concern.”
“Well, it is a good medium to use for controlling atomic fission,” she observed lightly, and their renewed expressions of surprise annoyed her even more. She was essential to their surveillance, or could be, yet they were keeping her ignorant, no better than a packhorse.
“I have a degree in chemistry, after all, and have as much an idea as anyone of the difference between H2O, and D2O. I’m guessing the Germans want to use it for some sort of fission experiments, either for power or for a bomb. And that the West wants to stop them. Am I right?”
Caught off guard, Wilson winced. “I can’t reveal any information relating to military strategy. But you can help us by describing the facilities you say you’ve seen.”
“They’re in the lower basement, very well protected. So, if you’re considering, say, bombardment, you’d have to obliterate the whole power plant before you got to them. Vemork supplies power to all southern Norway, so it would be a very destructive act to an occupied nation. You wouldn’t reach the deuterium cells, but you might hit the liquid-ammonia tanks at the bottom of the valley, which would endanger all of Rjukan.”
Tronstad stared into space for a moment, then seemed to gradually accept her in the strategic conversation. “Landing a plane nearby and sending in troops is also under discussion.”
She glanced toward the same part of the ceiling where he looked, visualizing the terrain. “Well, you could land a plane on one of the frozen lakes near the plant, but you couldn’t be sure the i
ce would be thick enough to support aircraft.”
Wilson leaned back and crossed his arms. “What about dropping the men off in gliders? After the operation, they could escape through Sweden.”
“Gliders? All the way across the North Sea? Hmm. That’s a very long distance to tow an aircraft. You’d arrive on the Hardangervidda.”
“Vidda?” Wilson apparently didn’t recognize the term.
“Hardanger Plateau. We treat it as one word. Anyhow, it’s not really suitable for glider landings. Violent winds come up suddenly and blow sideways, and the ground is full of bogs, fissures, boulders hidden by the snow. Not to mention the Swedish border is four hundred miles away.”
Tronstad chewed his lip. “Yeah. That’s what we told them, but it seems the least awful of several bad plans.”
“So that is the plan. You’re going to send in gliders. To the Hardangervidda. In spite of the hazards.”
“That’s what the war cabinet has decided. I’m telling you this because you’ve already risked your life for the operation. But it goes without saying, revealing any of the plan to anyone would be a capital offense.”
“Understood. But does the war cabinet have any idea what they’re up against? How do they plan to move the men from the landing site to the target or even find it?”
“Those details are currently being worked out,” Tronstad replied vaguely. “But the order has come from the highest levels, that the plant has to be taken out, no matter what. It’s called Operation Freshman, and the men have already been chosen.”
She nodded, blinking, absorbing the dubious plan. “So, based on the diagrams I’ve brought, you’re sending British soldiers who speak no Norwegian to find a place to land on the Norwegian tundra all on their own, then travel to the Norsk Hydro plant, all on their own, and then to ski over four hundred miles to Sweden. All on their own.” She heard the sarcasm creeping into her voice.
Wilson looked slightly offended. “The sappers won’t be on their own. We’re sending a team of Norwegians to prepare the landing site and then guide them to the Vemork plant.”
She pressed a knuckle against her lips, weighing the possibility of success against the overall folly of the undertaking. The chances were about 70–30, heavily weighted toward failure. If that was the optimum plan, what were the worse ones?
At that moment, she heard a brisk rap on the door. Before anyone replied, an orderly stepped inside and held the door open. “His Majesty would like to have a few words with Miss Brun.”
“Certainly, come in,” Wilson said belatedly and stood up.
King Haakon VII was an angular, balding man with a full walrus moustache. Such a growth would have made an ordinary man, particularly such a slender one, look foolish, but it seemed to suit a monarch. His courage in refusing to name Nazi Vidkun Quisling to head the government and in enduring bombardment of the village where he had taken refuge gave him all the gravitas he needed, no matter his facial hair. That he had escaped Norway alive was due to widespread assistance from subjects who loved him. Once established in London, he became the symbol, if not the active head, of Norwegian resistance and encouraged it with regular radio broadcasts.
“Ah. This must be Jomar’s daughter.” He offered Kirsten his hand, and she took it with pleasure.
“Your Majesty.”
His narrow face radiated genuine interest as he spoke with a convincing sincerity. “We are very grateful for your service. With so many brave British lads sent to fight for us, I’m happy to see a Norwegian volunteering as well, though I would not have expected anything less from Jomar Brun’s family.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty, but all I did was deliver documents.”
“Critical ones,” Tronstad interjected, pointing with his chin to the diagrams still lying curled on the table. “We could not even begin this operation without them. In any case, Miss Brun has also carried letters for you.” Tronstad drew the envelope from the leather folder she’d delivered and handed it over.
The king took the envelope and tucked it under his arm. “Each of us does our part,” he said, which seemed to exhaust the conversation. But kings are nothing if not diplomats, and so he bent slightly at the waist in the hint of a military bow and offered his hand again. “A pleasure to meet a patriot, and now I will let you all get on with your very important work.”
Kirsten watched as they stepped through the doorway and the adjutant closed the door behind them. Half a dozen thoughts crossed her mind: remaining shock at the ill-conceived mission, admiration for the lads who had volunteered for it, and brief, intense loyalty to the Norwegian king. She turned to Jack Wilson.
“The mission to the Hardangervidda. I want to join it.”
Chapter Two
July 1942
Kirsten knocked at the door of the apartment she remembered with a mix of bitterness and homesickness. The spacious Brixton flat had been her home for nearly a decade, before she’d returned to Norway, but her military stepfather, whose status and income had secured the apartment, had ended the familial warmth.
The door opened, and she stood in front of the image of herself, twenty years older, the ex-Eleanor Brun, currently Eleanor Wallace. Eleanor’s hair, once gorgeously red, was now peppered with gray, but her narrow nose and sharp chin had remained unsoftened by age. Her face brightened as if a light suddenly had gone on inside her.
“Oh, my Lord! It’s you!” She embraced Kirsten lightly the moment she entered. “I thought you were still in Norway.” She coughed from excitement, then led Kirsten to the sofa. A cigarette lay in the groove of a crystal ashtray, sending off a thin stream of smoke, and as they sat down, knee to knee, she claimed it and took another puff. She exhaled from the side of her mouth, giving a token wave to waft away the smoke.
“I was worried when the newspaper ran the story of the Germans closing the university and arresting so many of the students. Fortunately, they listed the names of the people released, and I saw yours. That was a relief, but then I heard nothing more.”
“I’m sorry. But I couldn’t write, of course. And if I’d been in any real trouble, Dad would have gotten word to you.”
“I see, but that was months ago. What have you been doing in the meantime?” Eleanor leaned back and drew up her legs, and Kirsten noticed that she’d lost weight. Well, so had most people since rationing began.
“Well, I went back to Rjukan and tried to convince Dad to let me work for him.”
“That’s where you’ve been? Up in Rjukan?”
“Uh, no. Not exactly. I can’t tell you very much. Suffice it to say that he sent me back here to do war work for Norway. But please don’t ask for any more details.”
“You and your father always did have your secrets. So now he’s involved you in espionage.” She pressed out the stub of her cigarette in the ashtray. “Will I see more of you, now you’re back home?”
Kirsten glanced away. “Uh, no. I’m doing work that takes me out of London. I’ll be off training.”
“Training? Blimey.” Eleanor took another cigarette from a porcelain holder and ignited it with a lighter in the shape of an Aladdin’s lamp. She took a deep inhalation, coughed into her fist, and finished her thought. “What are they going to teach you? Boxing, rifle practice, jujitsu?”
“Nothing so masculine. Closer to administrative work.” She was lying again, but lying was now part of her job. “You don’t have to worry. But let’s not talk about me. How are you? You’re looking good.” Another lie.
Eleanor shrugged. “As good as can be expected. No bombs have dropped in our street. But it hasn’t been easy being married to a career officer. It was bad enough before, but since the war, Harry’s never here, and I’m alone when I’m not working at the newspaper. Now that he’s been promoted to captain, he’s gone for days at a time. Your father was a much more attentive husband, even if he was dull. I guess I’ve jumped from the frying pan into the fire.”
“You may be counting too much on your husbands to make life meani
ngful.” Kirsten leaned back and appraised her mother gently. “You know, it was possibly as much a curse as a blessing that you were so beautiful. Sorry, are so beautiful. It made you a bit of a coquette.”
“Coquette? Me? Don’t be silly.” She took another puff, then held the cigarette up between two slender fingers. “You really think I’m still beautiful?”
“Of course I do. You definitely are.” She patted her mother’s shoulder. “Anyhow, I just stopped by to check up on you and let you know I’m alive and well. I probably won’t be able to stay in contact with you in the coming months, but if anything bad happens, Dad’ll let you know.” Kirsten stood up.
“More of your secrets. Well, that’s the way it is, I suppose.” Eleanor stood up as well and followed her to the door. “At least give your mother a hug.” They embraced warmly, which felt strange to Kirsten. The last maternal embrace was when she left Britain to return to Norway, years before.
“Take care of yourself, Mother.” She placed an awkward kiss on Eleanor’s cheek.
“You too, dear. Don’t hurt yourself boxing.”
“I promise.”
* * *
July 1942
In the late July afternoon, the SOE training camp STS 26 in Aviemore, Scotland, was shrouded in fog as Kirsten stepped off the bus from the train station and made her way alone to the main lodge. A heavy wooden door opened to a small anteroom where a corporal sat at a tiny desk. He looked up as she entered and strode toward him.
“Good afternoon. I’m Kirsten Brun, and I’m assigned here starting tomorrow.” She handed over her orders.
He glanced through the papers with marginal interest. “Welcome to Camp 26.” He read a few more lines. “It says here you’ll be training with the RAF engineers.”
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