“Go up to the station and get dry,” he said. “You too, Hanne,” he said to his wife. “I’ll stay here and watch for her in the other rescue boats.”
Without speaking, the three of them trudged with the two children along the dock to the station, where a cast-iron stove gave off some warmth. Other passengers were already huddled around it, but seeing how drenched Maarit was, they made room for her. She stripped off her coat and laid it over the back of a chair, then drew the chair up close to the stove to sit on it.
Obviously numb with fear, if not bereavement, Hanne still clutched her granddaughter to her chest and seemed unable to speak. Kirsten could have found nothing to say in any case.
The other passengers spoke in undertones to each other, thanking God for saving them and speculating about what had happened.
“I was near the ladder, so I got out. But I heard an explosion coming from the engine room.”
His neighbor disagreed. “No, it was lower than that. Right under the hull, like from a mine.”
“Who would mine the lake? Only Norwegians traveled across it, except for today.”
“You think someone wanted to blow up the Germans? We had a dozen of them, guarding their train.”
A third voice said, “Maybe they wanted to blow up the train.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I think they were carrying something special. That’s why they were guarding it.”
“If they were after the train, then the explosion came from the resistance.”
“Yes, the resistance, and they didn’t care how many of us they killed. The bastards.”
Kirsten cringed inwardly. The simple passengers crossing on the ferry had worked it out in short order. The Germans would have done so in even less time and would be searching for the saboteurs.
The crowd cursed among themselves, then fell silent, and Kirsten glanced toward Hanne, who stood clutching the children and sobbing softly. She drifted over to Maarit, who shivered on her chair, and laid a hand on her back.
Some ten minutes later, Hanne’s husband came through the station door. Hanne glanced up, but his appalled expression told them there were no more survivors. She pressed her face against her granddaughter’s blanket and groaned softly.
Her husband embraced her, pressing his cheek on her hair, then lifted the young Torsten into his arms. Then, seeming to hold back his own tears, he approached them as they huddled by the stove.
“I’m sorry. You saved two of my grandchildren, and I haven’t asked your names.”
“Kirsten.” She deliberately omitted her family name. At no cost could she let him make the connection with Jomar Brun and the heavy water at Vemork.
Maarit also gave only her first name.
He forced a polite smile. “My name is Torsten. The same as our grandson. And my wife is Hanne. No one was here to meet you?” he asked. Kirsten shook her head but provided no explanation.
“Then why don’t you come back with us? Our house is in Tinnoset, just a few kilometers from here. You can dry out properly and have something hot to drink.”
Kirsten exchanged glances with Maarit. They hadn’t planned on this, but it was clear that whatever they did next, they had to get away from the station, a place the Germans would surely investigate. Even if Maarit escaped scrutiny, Kirsten was still a fugitive.
“You’ll never get dry here.” Without waiting for an answer, Torsten nodded toward the station door. “Our wagon is just outside,” he said and, with his free hand, drew Maarit up from her chair.
Kirsten helped Maarit into her still-damp coat, and they all filed out. The same February air they had endured in the lifeboat hit them again, more cruelly than before, after their few minutes by the fire.
They rode silently, for they had nothing to say, until the wagon arrived at the house of Hanne and Torsten, a two-story wooden structure with a porch. It was painted black but enlivened with a bright-red door and red window casings. The roof was covered with turf, though at the corners, she could see signs of slate tiles. On one side, the house extended to a low addition with a double door. When Torsten unhitched the mare and guided her to it, she could see it was a sort of barn.
While he saw to the horse, Hanne led them up the steps and into the house.
The interior was rustic and warm, with a floor of varnished pine planks. Only the area in front of the fireplace was brick. On one side, a staircase led upstairs, and on the other a tall wooden cabinet was painted pale blue and decorated with rose garlands. Shelves on both sides of the fireplace held books, pottery, and framed photos. Two wooden armchairs covered with knitted blankets in front of the fire obviously served as warming places.
Hanne marched directly to the stairs. “Excuse me, but the baby needs changing, and I must find something dry for Torsten. Please, go warm yourselves by the fire.” Without waiting for a reply, she mounted the stairs, holding the baby against her chest and grasping the hand of her grandson.
Kirsten and Maarit stood awkwardly for a moment, then migrated toward the fireplace, where embers still gave off heat. A small pile of wood lay close by in a tin tub. Maarit drew a small log from the pile and laid it on the embers, stirring them until the new wood took flame.
“Oh, that feels so good.” She drew off her coat and hung it on one of the iron hooks embedded in the mantelpiece for just such purpose. After a moment of hesitation, she slid off her trousers as well and hung them on the adjacent hook. Both garments gave off steam.
Kirsten grabbed one of the blankets from the chairs and wrapped it around her. “Here. I’m sure they won’t mind.”
Maarit warmed herself, pivoting in a small arc to bring heat to as much of her body as possible, then looked toward Kirsten. “What are we going to tell them?”
“Well, I was thinking—”
The sound of the opening front door interrupted her. The elder Torsten stepped in, panting slightly, and drew off his hat and heavy gloves. “Oh, good. You’ve stoked the fire. We’ll be warm shortly. It’s a good fireplace.” He slid off his coat, hung it on the hook at the back of the door, and joined them in front of the flames.
“I’ll have to leave again soon to go to the post office to use their phone. Sigrid’s husband probably doesn’t know about the explosion, and it will be my terrible duty to tell him.”
“Yes, of course. We understand. We have to be on our way also, as soon as Maarit’s clothes are dry.”
He rubbed his hands and held them out over the fire. “I’m sorry we can’t offer you a supper, but as you can see my wife is in no state to prepare food for guests. The children will demand her full attention, and I have to leave in a while as well. But we are deeply grateful to you for saving two of our grandchildren. I will make you some tea to warm you while you wait for your clothes to dry.”
He strode toward what was presumably the kitchen.
“Tuddal,” Kirsten whispered when he was gone. “We were on our way to Tuddal. To visit your aunt.” She squinted for a moment, then elaborated. “Aunt…Birgit,” she invented freely. “A widow. No children, only you, the niece. She has gray hair and a cat, and reads Ibsen.”
Maarit chuckled. “You’re really good at making things up. You should write a novel.”
Torsten reappeared with two mugs of steaming tea. “I added a little sugar. You deserve it.”
He handed over the mugs, and they warmed their hands on the hot porcelain.
“Where are you headed, anyhow? Torsten asked.
“Tuddal,” Maarit replied immediately. My aunt lives there, and she lost her husband last year. She has only me and the cat, so we’ll be checking up on her.”
He stood next to them, rubbing his hands. “Tuddal is about seven kilometers northwest of here. How did you plan to get there after the ferry?”
“Well, uh, by ski, of course. We’re both good skiers, but they were lost, along with our luggage, when the ferry went down.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He stared into the flames for
a moment, then took a breath and spoke as if he had made a decision. “We owe you so much, I’ll be happy to give you skis. We have a pair from our son, old but still serviceable. He’s in Sweden and will never touch them again.” His glance swept over the two of them, acknowledging that one pair alone wouldn’t suffice. “And we have our daughter’s skis.” His voice grew soft. “I’m sure she’d be happy to know you had them.”
Kirsten nodded and glanced away, speechless. Maarit spoke for both of them. “You’re very generous.”
“Well, while you wait for your clothes to dry, I’ll check on my wife and grandchildren. Please excuse me.” He hurried away.
Maarit squeezed the arm of her coat. “Still damp,” she murmured, then reversed coat and trousers to expose their other side to the heat.
Kirsten stood next to her with her eyes closed. “How I hate this war,” she muttered, cringing at the banality of the sentiment. Everyone hated the war, and they were the ones who waged it.
They stood in excruciating silence, holding their outspread hands over the flames, Maarit adding wood as needed. Their alibi was established; they no longer needed to conspire, only to escape. Kirsten heard the wall clock ticking while they waited.
Torsten returned, just as Maarit was sliding on her newly dried trousers. “Oh, good,” he said, and stepped forward to help her on with her coat. “If you’re ready, we can go to the barn for the skis. Then I’ll go down with you to the road, though we have to travel in opposite directions. You’re going to Tuddal, you say?”
Kirsten avoided his glance. “Tuddal, yes.”
As they entered the barn, the horse snorted, acknowledging them. Torsten patted its flank, then grasped the skis that leaned against the barn wall. Maarit took the older, heavier skis, and he handed the shinier ones to Kirsten. “The bindings on both are simple and should fit over your boots.” He looked away as Kirsten tied them on, though it must have torn him apart to hand over his daughter’s skis.
They skied outside and waited while he closed up the barn. A farewell of some sort was in order, but pleasantries seemed out of place. Instead, he shook hands with both of them, said merely “Thank you. God speed,” and stepped off toward the post office and his grim task.
Still wordless, they began their trek northwest, not to Tuddal, but along the lake shore, then in a curve westward to avoid Mael, and ultimately back to the cabin at Lauvhøgdi.
They traveled through the night, until Maarit finally spoke up. “So, what are we going to tell Skinnarland? The others will have already reported back, and they probably think we’re dead.”
“They’ll see we’re not dead. And we’ll tell him that we accomplished his filthy mission, at a sickening cost. If SOE doesn’t care about killing Norwegian children, the king will care. Tronstad will care.”
Maarit grunted agreement but declined to say I told you so.
* * *
They reached the cabin late the next morning. Even before they knocked, the door opened. Skinnarland’s initial frown of confusion suddenly brightened. “You survived after all! Haugland and Sørlie saw you go on board, and we all thought you’d drowned.”
“No, we didn’t.” They strode past him into the cabin and marched to the stove, where they removed their gloves. Kirsten was brusque. “A cup of coffee would be good right now. And do you have any food? We haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
Obviously taken aback by her abruptness, Skinnarland hesitated for a moment, then reached for the kettle. “Yes, of course.” He spooned out coffee powder from a battered canister into the kettle and set it on the stove. “So, you’re going to tell me what happened?” He removed a cloth from a loaf of dark bread and sliced off two large hunks.
Only after they had finished their breakfast did Kirsten begin. “It was my idea.” She swallowed the last of her coffee. “I saw someone I knew among the passengers. She had three children, and one was a newborn.”
Skinnarland rubbed his forehead wearily. “What did you expect to accomplish by joining them?” he asked softly.
“I hoped to save her and the children. We rescued two out of the four.”
“And endangered the mission. What if you had been identified while boarding? They would have stopped the departure, and the bomb would have gone off anyhow. It was a reckless, sentimental act that could have undone months of planning. You know as well as anyone that removing the heavy water was critical to winning the war. Your impulsive behavior reminds me of why I don’t like to use women in our operations.”
You bastard, Kirsten thought, but said nothing. To her surprise, Maarit struck back.
“Don’t be an ass. If it were up to you, wars would be fought until annihilation and won by the last man standing.”
Skinnarland blinked at the insult, then took a breath. “Look, I’m a Norwegian citizen too, but we can’t all go around making up our own rules. Defense requires organization and trust in the leadership. No army could ever fight if every soldier applied his personal moral judgment, and neither could Milorg.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Kirsten muttered, but as soon as she said it, she heard how naive she sounded.
Skinnarland set aside his cup and moved to the radio. “In any case, I was about to radio Tronstad, and now I can add the news that you’re here. I’ll also mention your personal misgivings.”
He lifted his code book out from under the radio table and set about composing the message.
The all-night ski journey had left them both exhausted, so, having made their case, they both lay down on the two cots in the cabin. Sleep came quickly.
* * *
Kirsten felt a hand pushing lightly on her shoulder. She sat up, stupefied, focusing on Skinnarland. “Was I out long?”
“Long enough. Both of you slept through a radio transmission and a windstorm.”
She peered out the tiny cabin window to see a landscape of complete calm. The windstorm was old news. “Radio transmission? From London?”
“Yes, and most of it concerned you.”
She shook Maarit, who sat up beside her. “News from London. About us.” To Skinnarland, “What did he say?”
“He commended both of you for your service.” He handed them both cups of coffee.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Kirsten said between sips. “Did you mention my objections?”
“I said you found the loss of life excessive.”
“That was an understatement.”
“It was enough. Torstad thinks you should return to the UK.”
“Return? Because of my moral objections?”
“Partially. But there’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Your mother’s sick. Cancer of the pancreas.” His voice softened. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
She recoiled. “My mother? Cancer?” Her thoughts roiled. How to respond? What should she do? She glanced at Maarit but saw only puzzlement. Finally, she took recourse in the practical. “How am I supposed to get there?”
Skinnarland shrugged. “The same way you got there before. By fishing boat to the Shetlands.”
“They’re still in operation?”
“Most definitely. And as it happens, we need a courier to carry documents back to SOE headquarters. Aerial maps of the Norwegian coast, pinpointing German positions.”
The surprise news caused her to veer away from her personal crisis. “You mean the Allies plan to invade Europe through Norway?”
“Nobody knows the answer to that. But they’ve asked for the maps, and we need to send them. You’d pick them up in Trondheim. Someone up there would determine when and where you will meet the Shetland carrier.”
“Trondheim? That’s over three hundred kilometers.”
“Four hundred, in fact. The best route would be to trek the distance to Lillehammer and get on the train. They’ll be checking identification, of course, but you have an invented card, and Lillehammer is far enough away from Oslo that they won’t be so much on the loo
kout for you.”
Kirsten was speechless. The degree of detail suggested people had already made plans for her departure.
Skinnarland stood up and pulled on his parka. “Now that you’re awake, I have to try to find some meat for us.”
He pulled his hood up over his handsome head, picked up his rifle from the corner of the cabin, and marched outside, leaving them in a tense silence behind him.
After a few moments, Maarit collected the empty coffee cups and took them to the sink. “So, you’ll be leaving Norway,” she said lightly, staring down at her hands as she washed them.
“I…I don’t really want to. But…I’m not sure.”
Maarit turned to face her. “You have to be with your mother now, in her last hours. If you don’t go, it will haunt you for the rest of your life. I know.”
Her eyes closed, Kirsten nodded morosely. “And if the invasion comes through Norway—it’s what we’ve been hoping for. I can’t refuse to be a part of that.”
“No, you can’t. It would be more important, even, than Vemork.”
Kirsten came to her side and took her hand. “Will you travel north with me, to Trondheim?”
“Of course I will. I’ll stay with you until the moment you climb aboard your fishing boat for the trip back to the Shetlands. I’ll wave good-bye to you with a handkerchief.”
Kirsten frowned at the image. “It won’t be good-bye.” She leaned forward, enfolding Maarit in her arms. “I’ll come back. I promise,” she said into her hair. “Do you believe me?”
They held the embrace for long moments, as if each kept the other standing. Then Maarit breathed, “I believe you want to come back.”
“How could you imagine I would meet anyone like you again? Please trust me, the way I trust you to wait for me.”
“Of course I’ll wait, for the same reason.” She snorted. “Do you think I’m suddenly going to fall for the next Sami herder who shows up at my goahti?”
“It could be a long wait. I may not be free to come back until the war’s end. The Germans are losing on the eastern front, but it could be many months before they capitulate.”
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