The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  “You are here, of course,” Lund sat back down, “it’s sad to say, like so many others, through no fault or action of your own. But only because keeping the order requires different measures now, as outside agitators are in this country and bent on doing their new state harm.”

  “Doing harm? I’m a farmer.” The old man glared. “I’ve always shunned politics, war or no war. What do any outside agitators have to do with me?”

  “Not with you exactly, perhaps. I perfectly understand the confusion.” Lund pushed back his chair and crossed his legs. “But, perhaps, with your son.”

  “My son…?” The old man’s dull gray eyes suddenly came alive. “My son is dead, I’m told.”

  “Dead?” Lund laughed dismissively. “Then I have wonderful news for you, Pere Nordstrum. Your son has made a remarkable recovery. Almost Christlike, I would say. In fact, I am sure your son is quite alive. Possibly in England, training with those who would disrupt our national unity party. But more likely—and forgive me for thinking this might not be news to you—perhaps even back at home. In Norway. As we speak. Though whatever business he is on, he will no doubt not be showing his face much around here, as he is wanted by the state.”

  “Wanted? My son fought for the king like many boys did. He was a soldier. Not a criminal. That’s no offense. What do you say he’s done?”

  “He is wanted for crimes committed against the Nasjonal Samling party. Murder, in fact.”

  “Murder? You must be mad.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not. Against a member of the Hirden guard, to be clear. As well as the illegal appropriation of state property, specifically a coastal steamer, used in his escape. To England.”

  “My son was a soldier.” The old man sniffed back. “One of his regiment came to me a year ago and told me he was killed in the Gunbraval Valley. I told him from the start not to get involved. That whoever wins, it would only end up with him dead and everyone else still fighting it out. And so it is. I haven’t heard from my son for two years. Yet you say he is wanted for crimes against the state? You will have to tell me, Captain, with all the murder, bribery, family informing on family, and the disappearances in the dead of night that go on here in the name of keeping order, how can you call anything that defends against it a crime?”

  Lund put down his cup and leaned back with amusement. “You say you are a farmer, Pere Nordstrum? You should argue in a court of law. You are almost convincing. I brought you here for a chance to make your own situation easier, not for us to devolve into a dispute over this side versus that. Or, who holds the cards in this matter, and who does not…”

  “Cards…? What cards do you hold?” The old man looked back.

  “Enough playing around. Your son, Herr Nordstrum. I want to know if he has been in touch with you.”

  “You drag me in here to, what…?” The elder Nordstrum forced a smile in the eyes of the man with the light hair slicked to the side, a smooth face with sideburns that had barely filled in, eyes the color of rain. “Inform against my son? Turn him in? You have your thugs remove me from my home, without a thimbleful of cause, and you expect me, even if I knew, to divulge his whereabouts? I’d rather you take out my own eyes, Herr Lund. Or my heart. Kurt is a resourceful boy. I say he’s dead and you say not, we’ll see.… But if he is not … If he is somehow back here as you suggest he is, it will likely be all the same in the end because I promise you will never find him until he has done whatever he has come to do.”

  “Listen, old man.” Eyes narrowed, Lund leaned forward. “Let me be clear. When I spoke of holding cards, it was not some metaphor. I believe your daughter, Kristin, and her two children live in Trondheim with her husband. Trondheim is a long way away, but not so long when it comes to the reach of the law. I could have them here in days. I could put them, and I’m just speaking as a possibility, in the very cell underneath where we are now sitting. That would be a cruel and almost unjust irony, would it not? Perhaps she could persuade you of the wisdom in cooperating on this matter. I’m sure you have also heard of the detention camp outside Oslo at Grini. They are always accepting new residents, I am told. Women and children too. I assure you, they don’t ask too many questions there. So in this matter I simply want you to understand your choices. If I choose to leave her be, you will be under watch, and we would expect to know if he is in the region the moment he makes contact with you. And if not…” Lund pushed the saucer and dish away. “… then it is not as if I did not offer to help.”

  The elder Nordstrum’s hands balled into fists and he gazed with simmering anger at the policeman. Yes, he was a weakened man these days, but still capable of lunging across this desk, putting his hands around the man’s skinny neck, and doing what the whole town would regard as a blessing. “Herr Lund…” He paused on the policeman’s family name. “Your father was the tax collector in Vigne for many years, I believe?”

  “I am honored that you remember him. Sadly, he died three years ago.”

  “From drink, the world knows. Or greed. His reputation, if I may say, was ‘two coins for the town, one for the pocket,’ if you know what I mean. Not only a drunk and a wife beater, but a gambler, and with other people’s money. I used to see him holding his cards and sweating like a fish in the Oar and Bow. Was that the man, Herr Lund…?”

  “Captain Lund,” the policeman said, his jaw tightening and his smile disappearing. “A rank you ought to pay a bit more heed of.”

  “Captain Lund…,” the elder Nordstrum said as if with a vile taste on his tongue. “Even as such, it would seem when it came to character he had far more than he passed on to you. For even a thief like your father would never have traded in his country for some well-pressed uniform and phony ribbons on his chest. So I must ask you again, under what law do you restrain me here? I have committed no crime. I ask you to either show me that I have, or let me go.”

  “You are not restrained, old man. Pick up your filthy mule outside and go. But just know, I need no law to do what I said regarding your daughter. I am the law here now. So do your family a favor and give heed to what I said.…” He stood up, and with a wave, indicated his patience had ended.

  The old man got to his feet as well and tugged at his pants. “I’m just an old mechanic, Captain Lund, turned farmer. Not trained when it comes to expressing myself. So I hope the right words come, to convey what is in my heart. That thugs like you will never, not for a single day, be thought of as the new Norway. The true Norway will lie buried a thousand years before the people turn to cowards and traitors like yourself. And if my daughter or her children are harmed, one day, whether I’m around to drop the noose or not, you will surely be hanged for it. That is, if that ghost of a son of mine doesn’t come back and do the job himself. So take me away, put a bullet in me, if you must. Like so many others. But no … I suspect if what you say is true about Kurt, I’m far too valuable to you alive. But for now, I’m just a man who has lived too long and seen too much of this new Norway.”

  “Shoot you…?” The Hirden laughed. “Where did you ever get such a notion? Not a chance. But you are right,” he fixed on him, “I’m going to enjoy having you around. I want you to be the one to confirm it when I bring his body and throw it like a dead fish on your doorstep. Now back to your fields, old man. You’ve wasted too much of my time. Sergeant, escort this old farmer back to his mule.”

  31

  It took a few days to nourish the Grouse team back to full strength, with the provisions the Gunnerside team had brought from England and a reindeer they managed to kill on their way back to the cabin.

  They spent the time sharing how each team had remained alive during the storm, and then going over the best route for them to make their way across the vidda to the target. Claus Helberg knew of an abandoned hut just a few kilometers from the edge of the plateau above Vemork that would suit their purposes.

  By latest accounts, there appeared to be around fifteen Germans in the guard hut at any time of night, plus two more on the
suspension bridge spanning the gorge. Another patrolled the giant penstocks that supplied the Norsk Hydro plant’s massive turbines their water for power. The guards worked two-hour shifts and changed like clockwork due to the extreme cold.

  Additionally, there was also the possibility two more guards might be on rounds at any time inside the factory. As well as a Norwegian watchman or two stationed inside the electrolysis room itself, who might have to be subdued. It was clear that if they had to engage the main detachment stationed in the hut or on the bridge, the alarm would quickly bring reinforcements from Rjukan or Mosvatn, only a few kilometers away, where hundreds of troops were stationed. Then even if they did manage to take out the targets in the plant’s basement, it would basically be a suicide mission. There would be no way back.

  So secrecy, not a direct assault over the bridge, was deemed to be the best plan. But that meant taking on the most challenging terrain in all of Norway to best approach the target.

  The cliffs above, which rose to three thousand feet, were considered far too steep to rappel down at night, even for experienced climbers. The area around the giant conduits, which brought in the water from rivers, lakes, and mountain streams on the vidda to run the giant turbines, had been heavily mined.

  On the other side of the river, the slope was more forgiving, but it also came with the risk of crossing the river at night with searchlights fanning the valley, and then making their way back up the rocky heights at the rear of the plant, a difficult climb in daytime not to mention in darkness with heavy packs of explosives on their backs and weapons strapped on. If they made it up there, Claus Helberg said, the railway tracks leading to the plant had not been mined, but getting to them would be no easy feat. The plant’s defenders, however, did not think it possible any threat could come from that direction. The Germans considered the only real threat to storming the facility was from a direct assault over the suspension bridge that led to the front.

  Once on top of the ledge, the saboteurs could break into the plant by one of the three ways Tronstad had mapped out in England: It was possible the steel side door would be left open, since guards routinely patrolled inside. If it wasn’t, there was the side door around the north side of the building on the first floor, but who knew what was inside? Lastly there was the narrow valve duct Jomar Brun told them about that led from the outside literally to the basement where the heavy water stocks were located, an access even many who worked in the plant didn’t know of. However, as Tronstad had explained, this entry could only accommodate one person at a time, crawling on hands and knees, and once inside, any second they delayed setting the charges could be critical.

  “If everything is locked, and the valve duct unavailable, we blow the basement door,” Ronneberg declared. “That will, of course, alert the Nazis.” He looked at Poulsson, Gutterson, and Kjelstrup. “Covering team, you will have to take care of them then.”

  “That’s no problem.” Poulsson shrugged. The flimsy exterior of the hut wouldn’t provide much protection against a hail of bullets, and with three submachine guns trained on them, anyone who managed to make it out wouldn’t get far.

  Once inside, Nordstrum and Stromsheim calculated, it would take around fifteen minutes to get to the target and set the charges. It would be early Sunday morning and Tronstad and Brun estimated the crew inside would be light, maybe only a single guard. That left only two minutes to make their way back out of the building since the fuses couldn’t be any longer; the last thing they could accept was to allow a German or watchman to stumble on the charges after they’d been set and disengage the wires. They reasoned that the explosion from the blast would be loud; Stromsheim, who among them knew most about explosives, thought it was possible that the entire building would go up. Who knew what chemicals were stored inside? Which left no doubt in anyone’s mind that the soldiers in the guard hut would be alerted right away. At best then, they’d have to fight their way out and back down the mountain. And at worst, in minutes every German in the valley would be on them.

  Which made the choice of their escape route all the more crucial. Otherwise, it would just be a one-way mission. Poulsson and Ronneberg, the two senior men, made the case for fighting it out back across the bridge.

  “Getting past the guards won’t be the problem,” Poulsson argued, “but climbing back down the cliff to the river will be slow. And we’d be sitting ducks for the searchlights over the river and the valley. We’ll never be able to retrace our steps to here. Therefore, it makes sense to go back up via the cliffs.”

  “So then we don’t come back here,” Nordstrum said. “But climbing three thousand feet in the dark, with heavy packs on our backs and weapons, is no easy feat. We’ll get separated and we’ll be easy to pick off. I think it’s far better to have the darkness and the rugged terrain in the gorge working for us and go back up the way we came. Do you know if the Ryes Road is mined?” he asked Helberg.

  “I’m told it’s not,” he said. “So yes, we can cross and go back up the cliffs that way, underneath the tram. It’s steep. One advantage, of course, is they’ll never think it possible we went that way. Once on top, we could make our way back to the cabin. What do you all say?”

  So they voted: straight up the cliffs or back across the river and up the Ryes Road?

  Most sided for the Ryes Road.

  One who sounded a differing voice was Olf Pedersen. He was the weakest climber in the group, and had always been unsure of the trek up and down the mountain. “To be honest, I never expected to see Sweden anyway,” he said. “I knew that when I volunteered. So I’m for whatever is agreed to.”

  “If we make it out of that plant, I’ll make sure you make it back to your skis,” Nordstrum said to him. “That’s a promise.”

  “And I’ll be there as well,” Gutterson said. “We’re one in this all the way.”

  “Thanks, boys.”

  “Okay, then it’s settled. We’ll go back down the way we came.” Ronneberg spoke for the group. “And pray the Germans don’t shine their lights on us.”

  Also on their minds was the risk of reprisal in case any of them were captured and were found out to be Norwegian. That’s why they would all wear British uniforms and had their suicide pills. Helberg, Poulsson, Jens, and Nordstrum all came from the area and still had family there, who would certainly be among the first lined up against a wall if their identities were discovered.

  On that subject, each knew that not everyone would make it back out alive. It was likely a few might be trapped inside the plant, or shot on their way out, or surrounded on their escape back across the valley. They had a frank and lengthy conversation, including a bet on just how many would make it out.

  No one seemed particularly optimistic.

  It might not be a suicide mission, each man knew, but it surely was the next closest thing.

  32

  The morning of the raid Ronneberg asked Claus Helberg, who still had contacts in town, to go into Vemork on a final reconnaissance trip to scout out the best route into the gorge and up the rock face on the other side.

  Dressed in everyday clothes, he skied off bravely with a wave, leaving a trail of powdery snow as he took off down the mountain.

  It took only about an hour for him to get there. Setting eyes at last on the giant Norsk Hydro factory they’d talked so much about was both exhilarating and terrifying. Not to mention the sight of Germans all over his home village. That he hadn’t seen before, and it made his chest tighten with resentment and anger.

  Posing as a factory worker, he walked in plain view down the main road that wound from the suspension bridge down to Rjukan, past traffic headed up to the factory and German troop trucks rumbling down the hill. From a side construction road on the less steep side of the gorge, he found what he thought was a manageable route down into the valley.

  Looking further, he hid his skis in the snow and followed the steep terrain all the way down to the river, sliding on some icy spots, grabbing on to bushes to break
his fall, sometimes stepping all the way up to his waist in softer, sunlit snow. On the valley floor he found the Mann to be little more than a trickling, frozen stream—which answered one of their big concerns, whether they’d be able to cross it. He then kept on going all the way over to the other side, to the rock face at the back of the factory, which loomed above him like an impregnable fortress six hundred feet up. He searched around for some way to navigate up the slope, and in spite of its steepness, he spotted something that made his heart rise happily.

  To mark the spot he pulled out a handful of berries.

  Six hours later he returned to the hut with a grin on his face.

  “The good news is there is a way down,” he said. “By the wide bend on the Rjukan road. It will be dark and slippery, but it’s definitely doable. Even at night. I made the trip myself. And the light from the searchlights on the bridge won’t reach there, but should illuminate the way.”

  “And the river?” Ronneberg asked. “Can it easily be crossed near Vaer?”

  “Even better,” Helberg said. “Closer to town, the river is completely iced over. It won’t be a problem at all. Unless it warms, its flows are no more than a trickle. On the other side, it’s steep back up the cliffs, I admit, underneath the factory. But there’s a route up that I found. Leading straight up to the railway tracks.”

  “You’re certain it can be climbed?” Nordstrum pressed. He had grown up in the region, but he had never been in the gorge that deep. None had. “Even with heavy packs on our backs, and weapons?”

  “Look.” Helberg dug into his pocket. He held out his hand. “What do you see?”

  Nordstrum looked with interest. “Juniper berries.”

  “Where juniper bushes can go, so can man,” Helberg said with a sage grin. “I even went a third of the way up to be sure of it myself.”

  * * *

  While Helberg was away, Nordstrum’s old friend Einar Skinnarland skied up from Vigne and met them at the hut where they were located.