To Sleep With Reindeer

by Justine Saracen

  “I wouldn’t explain anything. I’d just do it. I could just say I heard rumors of someone planting a bomb. I’d be a hero, not a saboteur.”

  “I don’t like it,” Haugland said. “They’re bound to suspect you, and besides, if the bomb is revealed, that ruins our chance of doing the same thing later.”

  “But you just said the transfer was almost certain. I’ll just be the life-insurance policy—for the lives of the passengers.”

  Skinnarland had rested his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes darting back and forth between the two as they quarreled. Finally, he turned to Maarit.

  “Look, I respect your humanitarian instincts, and since there’s practically no chance the transfer will be halted, you can go ahead and join the crowd. Just stay on the edges, and as soon as the railcars roll onto the ferry, get the hell out of there. If, for some reason, they don’t, you’re authorized to tell one of the seamen you’d heard a bomb was on board and then disappear. If you’re arrested, you’ll be a major liability for all of us.”

  “I understand.”

  Kirsten studied Maarit’s face, which, in spite of her moral victory, was still somber. Understandably, she wanted revenge for the murders of her family, but they both knew that blowing up a Norwegian ferry for a few barrels of water was a far cry from punishing the murderers.

  * * *

  At seven o’clock Sunday morning, Kirsten and Maarit stood together at the periphery of the crowd of passengers on the dock at Mael. The saboteurs had done their work in the predawn hours, when the crew still slept and the seaman on watch waved them on board among the handful of early passengers who’d come from long distances and had no place to shelter before departure. Sørlie had assured them that the explosive was under the bilge water; only the clocks and detonator were visible, but only to someone who stepped halfway down the ladder.

  Maarit bumped shoulders with Kirsten. “Look, the train from Vemork’s pulling in. Seems like everything’s on schedule. But, just to be sure, let’s wait until the railcars are actually on the ferry before we leave.”

  Kirsten sighed and swept her gaze around the gathering crowd. The sight of the railcars rolling from the single land track onto one of the two tracks on the ferry had caught the attention of the passengers, not least because of the shouting and arm-waving of the dozen or so soldiers assigned to guard them.

  But for some reason, after two railcars had rumbled onto the deck, the whole process came to a halt. Her stomach sank. What was wrong? Had someone discovered the detonator? Even worse, had something gone wrong in the transfer process itself?

  “I don’t like this,” Kirsten muttered. “It’s set to go off at ten o’clock exactly. If they delay too long, it’ll blow up right in front of them, killing civilians while the railcars are undamaged.” She waited another five minutes, then walked toward an old man leaning against the administrative building. “Did they announce why they stopped loading?”

  “Nothing that I heard.” He scratched his throat under his beard.

  “Kirsten? Is that you?” A female voice startled her, and she turned. A woman approached her, carrying an infant partially buttoned inside her coat. Shocked and slightly panicked at being recognized, Kirsten squinted, trying to identify her.

  “Don’t you remember me? It’s Sigrid Thorwald. We were in school together. Dear Lord. So many years ago. But I’d recognize that red hair of yours anywhere.” She pointed toward the few strands that were visible. Grinning at her good luck, she stepped toward Kirsten and embraced her awkwardly, the baby pressed between them.

  Kirsten pulled her scarf back up to her forehead, horrified that she’d allowed her hair to show. Such an amateurish mistake. At the same time, a sudden wave of memory washed over her. Sigrid, at thirteen, a year older than Kirsten, the most beautiful girl in her class. Long, thick, blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and the beginning of a bosom. Every boy in the class was smitten, and so was Kirsten. Her infatuation went so far as to produce an impetuous kiss in the winter darkness on the way home from school. The timid flirtation might have blossomed into something else, but Kirsten’s emigration to Britain a few months later had prevented it.

  “Oh, yes. Of course. You look wonderful!” She swept her glance over the two children and the baby curved over Sigrid’s ample chest. Concealing her alarm, she feigned delight. “Motherhood becomes you.”

  “Well, I have gained a few pounds having these guys.” She glanced down first at the infant and then at the two older children at her side. “This is Torsten, my oldest.”

  A child of perhaps five stared up with interest at Kirsten and Maarit, as if deciding whether he trusted them. The younger boy, who gripped his mother’s coat, glanced up as well, with anxious eyes. Straw-blond, bright-blue-eyed, and angelic, he was the image of his mother. He clung to her coat and pressed his face against her leg.

  “Arno is three, and the baby is Fredrika. We’re just on our way to Tinnoset to visit my parents. They haven’t yet seen their newest grandchild.”

  At that moment, the train started again, and the third railcar crept up the ramp onto the right track behind the two others. Once it was fully on board, an engineer detached it, and the remaining cars backed down momentarily. After clearing the right track, the rest of the railcars moved forward once again, pushed from behind by a locomotive, onto the left track. All the while, Sigrid kept up a running narrative of what she’d been doing since leaving school, pausing occasionally to ask Kirsten about her life since that time.

  “Attention” came from the loudspeaker. “All passengers are requested to come on board. Departure in five minutes.”

  Kirsten was briefly relieved. The delay had been slight. The bomb would go off only slightly short of the deepest part of the lake.

  The bomb. Just then the infant began to cry, and Kirsten had to glance away. A newborn infant had no chance in the freezing lake.

  “Sigrid, are you sure you want to take these babies out on the lake in this cold? It can’t be good for them. A cousin of mine works for this line and told me this ferry is barely seaworthy. The engine room is held together with spit and string. Besides, you and I have so many things to talk about. Why don’t you come back with me to Rjukan and catch the ferry tomorrow? I really want to spend time with you. I’ll even pay for your ticket.”

  “Oh, you’re so sweet, Kirsten. That would be nice, but I can’t. My parents are waiting for us at the terminal across the lake. Their new grandchild is the first girl in the family. It’s also my mother’s birthday. We’ll have to meet another time. Give me your address when we’re on board.”

  Kirsten cringed inwardly, already imagining the sinking ferry, with passengers struggling toward a lifeboat, of Sigrid in the icy water with three drowning children. She was sick to her stomach.

  “Final call,” the loudspeaker crackled at them. “All passengers must be on board. Departure in two minutes!”

  “I’ll sit with you,” she said abruptly, drawing her ticket from the previous day out of her pocket.

  Maarit seized her by the arm, pulling her aside. “What the hell are you doing?!” she whispered.

  “I have to go,” Kirsten said. “I’ll stand near a lifeboat until the explosion. I have to get at least one of them on it.”

  Maarit snorted exasperation. “Look. Half a dozen fishing boats are on the lake. Someone will fish them out.”

  “Only those who can stay afloat for God knows how long. The icy water will kill the children. Don’t try to stop me.”

  Maarit closed her eyes for a beat, then nodded. “All right, then. I’m going with you so we can save two. If we can get on board.” Together they shuffled forward in the middle of the crowd that pressed toward the entry gate.

  In the hurry to urge passengers on board and make up for lost time, the seaman at the gate barely glanced at the ticket each person held up and waved them all through. The air over the ferry blew icy cold, and to escape the wind, all the passengers filed along the passageway down the ladder
to the lower deck.

  The ferry embarked immediately. In spite of her nervous excitement and fear, Kirsten knew this meant they’d probably be over deep water more or less according to plan. She checked her watch. Nine twenty. She had forty minutes to convince Sigrid to come up on deck, if she and her children would have any chance of surviving.

  She sat down next to Sigrid in the passenger hold, while Maarit remained standing and seemed to be trying to catch the eye of the oldest boy.

  “I’m sorry,” Sigrid said. “I was so busy babbling about myself and my family, I didn’t ask very much about you. What have you been doing all these years? I seem to remember you left Norway before we finished school. To Britain, right?”

  “Yes, in 1920, with my mother. But I came back to study chemistry at Oslo University, until Terboven closed it down. Oh, excuse me. This is my friend, Maarit.”

  “Chemistry. Oh, my! Well, you always were a smarty. We called you ‘sticky brain’ behind your back. Torsten, my oldest, is a bit like that. I’d be happy if he studied chemistry.”

  That seemed to be Maarit’s signal. She bent toward the boy and caught his eye. “I bet you like ships, too. All the smart boys I know like ships. How about we go up on deck and look around this one? Then we can look at the fishing boats and see if you can name them.” She threw a look toward Sigrid. “But only if Mama says you can.”

  Sigrid smiled, apparently relieved to have one less child to entertain. “It’s all right. Just be careful.”

  “Don’t worry. Lots of children in my family. I’m very good with them.”

  As they hurried toward the ladder leading up to the deck, Kirsten studied her watch, calculating how much time remained. Twenty minutes. Unconsciously, she tapped her foot.

  “You seem nervous.”

  “Uh…yes, I am.” She invented freely, as Maarit had just done. “Someone’s meeting me on the other bank also. A colleague, but neither one of us knows what the other one looks like. We’re meeting some others as well, and it would be a bad beginning to arrive late.”

  Sigrid leaned sideways and whispered, “Someone in the resistance?”

  Taken aback, Kirsten maintained a neutral expression. “That’s not something I can answer, is it?”

  Sigrid smiled conspiratorially. “Oh, I hope so. I hate it that the Germans control us and that so many Norwegians are quislings. If that’s your reason for the crossing, then go with my blessing.” She rocked her baby, Madonna-like.

  Kirsten swallowed hard but gave no sign of agreement. If Sigrid survived the explosion, she would know who and what caused it, would guess that Kirsten was somehow involved. A dangerous knowledge. And if she lost one of her children, an excruciating one.

  Arno tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “Mama. Pippi,” he mumbled, as if ashamed.

  “Oh, dear. I was afraid of this. He went back at the station, but he obviously has to go again. And he’s just now learning to tell me. I don’t even know where the toilet is.”

  “It’s over there, down the ladder to the second deck.” Kirsten snatched a quick look at her watch. Ten minutes. “I’ll hold the baby while you take him. But please hurry, before she wakes up and screams.”

  Smiling gratitude, Sigrid unbuttoned her coat and slid the sleeping infant into Kirsten’s arms. With an expression of maternal resignation, she took her son by the hand. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.” She hurried off with the toddler stumbling beside her.

  Four minutes passed, then five, then six, and Kirsten’s heart pounded. How long did it take a little boy to pee? Though perhaps he had soiled himself, too, and had to be washed. Her mouth dry with anxiety, she edged toward the ladder leading up to the main deck. Two minutes left. She climbed the ladder to the deck and saw the lifeboat in its place. Why was there only one? It couldn’t possibly accommodate all the passengers and crew. And where was Maarit?

  She held the newborn close to her inside her jacket as Sigrid had done, while a small part of her consciousness registered that they had made up the lost time and were indeed midway across the lake. One minute left. Dear God. Where was Maarit? How had the operation turned out so badly? She paced across the deck past working seamen and a couple of German guards idly smoking. She peered down the starboard passageway. No one was moving.

  Was there still time to call “fire” down to the lower deck to start the passengers running?

  While she struggled with uncertainty she heard the dull thud of the bomb detonating. She startled violently, and inside her coat the infant began to wail against her chest.

  The ferry continued to move forward for a few minutes, then stopped, and she felt the deck tilt as the bow began to drop. “The lifeboat,” Kirsten shouted toward one of the seamen. “Lower the damned lifeboat!”

  Another seaman appeared, and together they untied the boat, reeled it out over the water, then lowered it until its gunwale was even with that of the ferry. The bow continued to sink, and the entire ferry was listing toward starboard. A dull whirl behind her told her the screws were out of the water spinning uselessly. With the painful screech of metal against metal, the first of the railcars on the starboard side plunged into the water, dragging the others with it. Only the cars on the port side remained.

  Passengers were streaming up from the lower deck shouting and screaming, but none of them was Sigrid. Or Maarit. Dear God, where was Maarit? Desperate, she took a few steps toward the port side, hoping to catch sight of her, but the starboard list increased, and the port railcars began rocking, threatening to crash down onto the deck. Kirsten felt horribly alone and guilty. Sigrid’s infant wailed, as if in accusation.

  “Women and children!” One of the officers had taken charge of the lifeboat. A seaman shoved her toward the boat, and with a last desperate look around, Kirsten obeyed.

  A dozen other women and a few men crowded in with her, and when the lifeboat hit the water, two seamen rowed it away from the listing vessel. The ferry groaned for a moment, then slipped fully onto its starboard side. The port railcars separated from their tracks and toppled sideways, crushing the bridge and smokestack. A few remaining passengers who had managed to struggle up from below decks now slid or jumped into the surging water amidst the sinking railcars and debris.

  All around the sinking ferry, heads bobbed in the water screaming, hands waved, and Kirsten searched among them for Maarit. In the distance, fishing boats were approaching, two, then three, but how long could the passengers stay afloat in boots and winter coats, their limbs slowly growing numb?

  “Over there, a child,” someone in the lifeboat called out, and Kirsten turned. It was Maarit, swimming on her back and grasping Torsten against her shoulder. The seamen stopped rowing, waiting for them to cross the last few meters.

  Handing the still-wailing infant to her neighbor, Kirsten leaned over the side of the lifeboat and hauled the drenched Maarit and the child to safety. Maarit exhaled relief, but the little boy was unresponsive. “He’s freezing.” Kirsten stated the obvious as she yanked off his sodden little woolen jacket, then drew off her own dry coat and wrapped it around him.

  The first fishing boat came close and began heaving people on board, those who had not sunk from the weight of their boots and coats, and who hadn’t drowned from cold paralysis. Kirsten saw no more children; only the newborn Fredrika and the stunned five-year-old Torsten had made it.

  “You all right?” she asked Maarit. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said through chattering teeth. “I’m fine.” Dazed, she stared at the bubbles surrounding the spot where the ferry had sunk. Her dull glance seemed to say, We sank those goddam barrels. I hope to God London is finally satisfied. Kirsten too thought of the sunken barrels of heavy water and found it impossible to feel victory. She could only think of one name, Sigrid. Sigrid and her beautiful, angelic boy, who looked just like her.

  Kirsten leaned toward her neighbor and took the infant in her arms again. She had worn herself out crying and now o
nly whimpered. Maarit nudged Torsten and showed him his little sister, to comfort him, but all he said, finally, was “Mama.”

  Very soon no more heads were visible in the water, and the rescued passengers sat in stunned silence. The only sound was the creaking of the oars as the seamen rowed them on toward the other side of the lake.

  As they pulled up to the dock, a dozen or so people swarmed toward them along the pier, arms outstretched, ready to bring them in. Holding children, Kirsten and Maarit were among the first lifted to safety. Other passengers came immediately behind them, some staggering into the arms of relatives. Those, the lucky ones, walked together back up to the station. Others in the waiting crowd who didn’t see their loved ones stared out toward the incoming fishing boats, obviously frantic and hopeful.

  Kirsten stood for a moment, at a loss. How would they recognize Sigrid’s parents? Then, as the crowd thinned out and only a dozen people remained, they appeared, unmistakable.

  An elderly couple hurried toward them, obviously recognizing their grandson Torsten, and Kirsten felt tears welling. Sigrid’s mother was her very image, an older version of the stunning blond woman Kirsten had once been smitten with. Now her face was strained with fear as she knelt and embraced the boy.

  “My daughter. Have you seen my daughter?” she asked, looking up.

  Kirsten shook her head, unable to speak. Maarit replied, “We didn’t see her in the water. But…there’s still a chance.”

  The man, gaunt, clean-shaven, and with a full head of white hair, bent over the infant in Kirsten’s arms. “Is this…her baby?”

  Kirsten placed the child in his arms and forced herself to speak. “Yes. She gave her to me to hold while she took Arno to…” She stopped, choked by the ludicrousness and horror of two cruel deaths, because a child had wet himself.

  “This is your coat?” the man asked, indicating the jacket that was bundled around Torsten.

  “Yes. He was freezing when he came out of the water. My friend swam with him to the lifeboat.” She nodded toward Maarit, who was still drenched and shivered visibly.