To Sleep With Reindeer

by Justine Saracen

  At two thirty in the afternoon, Martinson led a contingent of some hundred Milorg fighters, most in motley and with green arm bands, into the fortress at Akershus. Kirsten and her SOE comrades marched nervously behind them.

  Major Nichterlein waited in the Akershus courtyard. Hundreds of German soldiers stood stone-faced behind him, holding their rifles across their chests and prepared for an order from the commander. It looked for all the world like a trap.

  Martinson told his own men to halt, marched the final ten paces alone toward Nichterlein and his adjutant, and saluted.

  The contrast between the uniforms of the two men was deeply ironic. The victor wore old-fashioned, almost comical knee pants and, below them, hand-knitted, patterned stockings. His head was bare, his jacket was civilian, and only his bandolier and holstered sidearm hinted he was a fighter.

  The defeated Nichterlein was in polished boots and full uniform, peaked officer’s cap, belted tunic with shoulder bars, and decorated with the Iron Cross and a row of other medals across his left pocket. Wearing leather gloves, he saluted smartly. Martinson responded with his own salute.

  After what seemed like a long, tense moment, but was probably only a few seconds, the major barked an order, and his men laid their rifles on the ground. Still in formation, they did an about-face and marched back to their quarters.

  Martinson let another lengthy moment pass, as if to wait until the fortress courtyard was cleared of the taint of occupation, and when the only remaining sound was the fresh Norwegian breeze, he ordered his men to collect the weapons.

  It was what Kirsten had waited for. She turned to Poulsson, saluted, and asked, pro forma, “Request permission to be released from duty, sir.”

  A smile broke through his somber expression. “Permission granted.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  News came over the radio of the victory celebrations all over Britain, but Kirsten’s euphoria had quickly ebbed, and now she felt drained, just as almost everyone around her seemed to be. There would be a reckoning now, a bitter period of recriminations, as patriot accused quisling, and the courts would surely be full. Could one separate the genuine collaborators from the merely cowardly or lazy? She suspected it would be a similar problem in every country the Germans had occupied.

  At least her family was not tainted in that way and would return home in honor. But how was she different from the quislings? In service to the Allies, she had killed dozens of Norwegians, two of them an old friend and her baby. The recollection sucked away any joy she might have had in victory.

  Her one thought now was to find Maarit, who might be seriously or permanently injured. And married. Probably married. Oh, God.

  After a final supper at Birgit’s café, with Poulsson and the other survivors of Operation Sunshine who were preparing to return home, she announced her departure for Udsek.

  Poulsson puffed on his eternal pipe. “What a relief, eh? Now that SOE has paid us, and the Germans are gone, we’re free to travel any way we want, visible to the whole world.”

  “Mmm,” Kirsten agreed, though with less enthusiasm. “The freedom’s wonderful, but I still have to deal with getting there.”

  “Where’s the settlement located?” Birgit asked.

  “Just northeast of the vidda. About a day’s hike, or ski, from Lake Skrykken. Between Geilo and Dagali. I don’t think the trains, even if they’re operating again, come very close.”

  Birgit stood up. “We still have all the Milorg maps. Let’s take a look.” She unlocked a cabinet and withdrew a cardboard box marked “Flour” and fished a map from its interior. Blowing away flour dust, she spread it on the table and tapped a city to the east. “Just as I thought. There’s a station at Geilo, so you can go much of the way by train, though you’ll have to pick it up at Kongsberg. A lot of rail lines were damaged, and the service will be irregular, but you’ll get there eventually.”

  “Good idea. Even if it takes most of my budget, it’ll be worth it to ride most of the way.”

  “Now that’s settled, let’s have a round of drinks.” Poulsson tapped the ashes out of his pipe into an ashtray. “Come on, Birgit. I know you’ve got some akvavit hidden away somewhere.”

  She snickered. “You’re right. I’ve had it for months, and I wouldn’t bring it out for anyone but your lot.” She stepped toward the same cabinet that held the “Flour” box of maps and drew out another cardboard box labeled “Dried Fish.” Gingerly, she unwrapped a bundle of crumpled newspaper and revealed a bottle of the precious liquor.

  Fetching glasses from the same shelf, she poured out a double dose for each person.

  “Skål,” she said, raising her cup, and they echoed her before tossing back the scalding liquid in a single swallow.

  * * *

  Months of travel and homelessness had reduced Kirsten’s belongings to an absolute minimum, so packing went quickly. A change of socks, shirt, and underwear, and a sack of provender for at least the first day. Surrendering her skis to Birgit, she hiked out to the road leading westward and flagged down a cart.

  At the end of May, the air was tolerably warm, and the rains that had been heavy in April had stopped. It felt strange to be traveling toward Udsek in a green landscape and on public transportation.

  From Rjukan, she made her way southeastward toward Tinnoset, then directly eastward to Kongsberg, by farmers’ carts, and once, briefly, in a motor vehicle. But most of the time, she walked, and though the spring landscape was cheering, she made significantly poorer time than she had always done skiing.

  She chatted with strangers along the way, people who were resuming their lives after accommodating themselves, one way or another, to an occupation. They were poorer and hungrier than before but were certain that things would get better after king and government returned. A few refused to talk about the war at all, and she suspected they had compromised themselves. But who was she to condemn anyone?

  She reached Kongsberg in the afternoon and, luckily, a train was leaving that evening. The station clock showed nearly ten when she boarded, but it was still twilight, and the sky was not fully dark until she changed trains in Hokksund. Finally, she settled in and stared out the window at moonlit, newly liberated Norway.

  She dozed for a while and was jostled awake when the train stopped. Rubbing her face, she peered through the window. The station sign said NESBYEN. Good. Almost there.

  Awake now, she planned what to do once she’d arrived. She slid her hand into her jacket pocket and fingered the kroner she still had. She’d be too exhausted upon arrival to start the long hike to Udsek, along a route she wasn’t even sure of. She’d need at least one night of sleep in Geilo.

  She struggled with the usual doubts. The plan to be reunited with the woman she loved had lost its joy long ago. Now she asked herself whether Maarit would even want to be reunited. The sort-of vow of fidelity they’d taken to each other was based on the expectation of six months, and Kirsten had stayed away fifteen. How could she possibly expect Maarit to still be waiting?

  And then there was Niilas. The man who had been Maarit’s betrothed had rescued her and taken her home. She had no other family now, and little inheritance, so would certainly need him. At least in the beginning, he could give her a stability Kirsten couldn’t offer.

  So, what was the point of barging in on them? She cringed at the thought of surprising them in their family goahti or, more likely, in a real house, since Maarit had implied that Niilas was a successful businessman. She imagined them sitting together by a fire, at an actual table, preparing supper, perhaps expecting a child, and the scene almost brought tears. Why should she subject herself to such an excruciating confrontation? Much better to reverse course and leave, holding on to a shred of dignity.

  But what if she was wrong? Uncertainty made her feel like she was losing her mind. How to find out and save herself humiliation?

  The answer was obvious. She would send a message that she was coming. Maarit could either reply “I’m
married now” or simply ignore the announcement, and Kirsten would reverse course.

  Once she had resolved what to do, she was relieved, and when the train picked up speed, she fell again into fitful sleep.

  * * *

  The train arrived at six the next morning, in full spring daylight, and when she stepped out of the tiny station, she paused to take the measure of the place. Her map told her Geilo was situated between two vast areas, the Hardangervidda, to the southwest, and the Hallingskarvet, to the north, but her initial perspective was of a scenic village in a valley surrounded by hills.

  Mercifully, the retreating Germans had left it intact, if a little worn. It was colder than it had been in Rjukan, and though it was already mid-May, patches of frost and dirty snow lay here and there from overnight periods of freezing. With a long snow season, it would be a good place for vacation skiing, once people began doing that again. It even had a hotel, though her scant remaining cash would not permit her to enjoy it. But she’d already decided on the age-old traveler’s bargain of shelter for work.

  She strode along the main street, then turned left onto one of the side streets, where she spotted a cluster of houses with barns. Arbitrarily, she knocked at the first one. Someone must have seen her approach the house, for the door opened immediately. A gaunt man stood in front of her, frowning slightly in apparent puzzlement at the intrusion. He had a receding hairline and a wide gray mustache that curved around the sides of his mouth in the style of an earlier generation.

  “Good morning. I need to stay a couple of days in Geilo, and I’m looking for room and board in exchange for work. Maybe I could cut some wood for you?” She could see by the sudden brightening of his expression that he was interested.

  “A woman who cuts wood?” He scratched his cheek. “If that’s true, you can sleep in our barn. My wife and I can barely manage it.”

  “It’s true. I’ll cut all you want. Does that include meals?”

  “If you’re not fancy, my wife will cook for you the same thing she cooks for me.”

  “Sounds fine. If you’ll show me to my, uh, lodgings, I’ll start right away.”

  “How many nights do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. Three, maybe four. Oh, and my name is Kirsten.”

  “Very well. I’m Trygve Oleson. My wife is Ingar.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “So, come this way.”

  The barn was set back from the house, and once inside, she wondered why he kept one. It held two stalls, both of which were empty and in need of repair. She dropped her rucksack in a corner of what seemed the cleaner of the two.

  “Used to have two cows,” he explained. “But the Germans took one of them, and we sold the other when she stopped giving milk.” He glanced around, assaying his own barn. “But things will get better. My son was in the Royal Norwegian Navy, so we had no one to do the heavy work. If you can do it, you can stay as long as you want.”

  As he exited, he patted the barn wall, as if to reassure it, then said over his shoulder, “There’s clean hay in the loft. Help yourself.”

  * * *

  The war had obviously been hard on the Olesons, because Ingar was as bony as her husband. The midday meal, of boiled salt fish and potatoes, was the same basic fare Kirsten had eaten at Birgit’s place, but with more potatoes and a lower grade of fish. All the more reason not to stay long.

  “Are there businesses in town where I might find someone to deliver a message?”

  “Well, we’re not exactly Oslo, but we have a few businesses with things to sell. Back on the main street, turn left.”

  The meal warmed and fueled her for the walk, though the “businesses,” when she spotted them, could scarcely qualify as shops. Mostly they seemed to be houses with porches or garages containing a workshop.

  The first garage was a stable, the second a carpenter’s shop. Both were empty, but the third shop, where someone was banging out a metal pan on an anvil, was in business. Best of all, she spotted a Sami, who was apparently purchasing something. His gakti showed he wasn’t from Udsek, but he still might know someone there.

  After waiting for him to finish his purchase, she approached. “Good morning. I’m sorry to bother you, but do you know anyone in Udsek?”

  He looked puzzled for a moment, and she was conscious how strange it must have been for him to have a Norwegian woman confront him in a public place.

  “No. I don’t. Why?”

  “I have to get a letter to someone in Udsek and can’t go myself. I was hoping to find someone to deliver it.”

  “Sorry. I can’t help you.”

  Kirsten shrank inwardly. “Yes. All right. I understand. Thank you.” She turned away.

  “Maybe I can,” a voice said behind her. It was the metalsmith.

  The hope that shot through her was as palpable as warmth. “Can you? I’ll pay.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask for much; she simply didn’t have it.

  “Udsek, you say? I deliver there sometimes. And I’m going out tomorrow. Not directly, unfortunately. It’s toward the end of my route. Usually takes me two days, but I can deliver your letter.”

  “I’m very grateful. Here. I’ve already composed it.” She fished it out of her pocket, recalling its neutral simplicity.

  Forgive my silence, but they would not let me leave Britain. Not released from duty until now. So much to tell you. I wait in Geilo for word that you want to see me.

  “Deliver it to Maarit Ragnar, granddaughter of Jova and Alof, grandniece of Gaiju, the only one in the family still alive. I’ve written all their names at the top.” She laid it on his open hand, and he slipped it into a pocket on his jacket.

  “You don’t have to pay me for delivery, though you might buy something, to show good faith.” He smiled with feigned innocence.

  She calculated how much money she still had. “I’ll buy a coffee pot that you can deliver along with the letter. Will that be all right?”

  “It’s a deal. I have a nice one, not too expensive,” he said, and named the price. Kirsten counted out the kroner, grateful for the hundredth time for the money SOE had supplied her over the last months for her work. But now it was almost gone. “Two days, you say?”

  “A day to Udsek, then I go on to a couple of other places. So, I won’t be back for three or maybe four days to tell you what happened. Are you sure you can’t deliver it yourself?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll look for you here in four days. In the meantime, I’ll be staying with the Olesons, so any message to me should be through them.” She slid her hands that now seemed useless into her trouser pockets and strode from the metalsmith’s shop.

  * * *

  The next morning, for lack of other amusement, she watched the metalsmith load up his cart behind a sturdy fjord horse. Then, with a click of the tongue and a tap of the reins, he started off, her letter, she assumed, tucked inside his jacket.

  How would Maarit and Niilas react? She shrugged inwardly. No matter what happened, it would still take four days before she’d know. Four long, empty days. She turned away and began a slow, brooding walk through the town.

  Postwar Geilo was not a pretty place, but presumably it never had been. Sparsely populated and with little commerce, its main virtue was its proximity to the vidda on one side and the glacier on the other. Before the war, it had probably attracted hikers, and perhaps would do so again one day.

  But spring was in the air, and green moss was appearing here and there between the patches of old snow and pools of meltwater.

  The journey had been tiring, and she felt no desire to hike toward the sparkling glacier or to anyplace out of town. Nor was she much given to chatting with the residents or with passersby. She was, in short, morose.

  She fulfilled her wood-cutting obligation to the Olesons, though it turned out to be more strenuous than she’d expected. Clearly, she had overestimated her strength. But the hard, physical labor provided a means to blunt her longing and the torment of uncertainty.

 
To prepare for the worst, of having to return south, shattered and alone, she began to make plans for life without Maarit. It wouldn’t be much different from the way she’d always lived. With her mother gone, nothing called her back to Britain. On the other hand, her father, a distinguished resistor, would soon return to Norway, almost certainly to some position in the reconstruction of Norway’s hydroelectric system. And he had all but promised her employment. She could make a good living as a chemist.

  She swung the axe high and brought it down hard, splitting the log with a satisfying CHOCK!

  And surely, she could find other interesting women in Norway.

  * * *

  Three days passed, then four, and no news came. The Olesons had enough wood to last them into the autumn, and Kirsten could barely lift her sore arms to dress in the morning. Although the light would linger for some three more hours, she had no desire to socialize, or even stay awake, and so withdrew to her nest in the barn. She lay for a long time, sleepless, gnawing her lip, fighting back tears. The deadline was reached. The pot-smith was due the next day to tell her either that the message couldn’t be delivered, or that it was refused. Either way, she’d be heartbroken.

  The confidence she’d felt swinging the axe had left her now, and as she lay with her arm thrown over her eyes, she could only murmur, “Damn, damn, damn…”

  * * *

  She must have fallen asleep after all, for she awoke befuddled at the sound of the barn door sliding open. It was just becoming dark, and she squinted at the play of light. High at the top of the opening, the sky was still a rich blue, enough to obscure the figure in the opening. Figures, rather, for there were two of them, a tall one and a very short one.