The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  He, Nordstrum, and Jens all exchanged hugs and warmly patted each other on the back, as they hadn’t seen each other since their first days in Britain after commandeering the coastal steamer.

  After explaining how the past months had been for him back here and providing some recon himself about the inside of the factory, Einar said to Nordstrum, “Kurt, I’ve something to talk to you about. Can we step outside?”

  “Of course.”

  The two went out and stood on the snowy ridge on the edge of the iced-in lake. “Look.” He pointed to a stubborn rodent digging out of the snow. “Even in this frozen wilderness, there’s life.”

  “He’s lucky he didn’t show his face until we got here with food,” Nordstrum laughed, “or I’m certain the Grouse team would have made him dinner.”

  “A little salt and margarine,” Einar shrugged, “yes, not so bad.… Look, Kurt, I’ve got some things to tell you about. On your father…”

  A stab of worry shot through Nordstrum. “Is he dead?”

  “No. He’s not well, of course, but he’s still around. But he’s been brought in by the police. Luckily, he wasn’t arrested. I’m afraid many in town have been by now.”

  “The police? For what? He’s never been political in his life.” Nordstrum chuffed out a disgusted breath. At the same time, he felt a weight in his chest, because in his heart he knew the answer. “Because of me, naturally.”

  “Look, no one needs a reason anymore. The NS and the Gestapo have their grips on the whole area. Because you’re his son, that’s all the reason they need. The local militia chief here, Lund … you may remember him from school?”

  “Dieter Lund…? That eel. His father was tax collector in Vigne, if I recall?”

  “He is an eel, but he’s the eel of the local Gestapo chief, Muggenthaler, now. You remember how he always sat in the back of the class, never saying a word. A real ass-sniffer, who always thought he was smarter than everyone else. Well, a uniform has only made him more so, only far more dangerous. And from what I hear, he seems to have a real wart on his ass for you.”

  “Me?”

  “About that mess on the ferry last year when you came back to Rjukan. Someone must have talked.”

  “The Hird…” Nordstrum recalled. An impulsive act, he always knew. One that one day might come back to haunt him. And now it had.

  His father wouldn’t survive a week in jail.

  “Look, even rats come to the defense of their own,” Einar said, “and this one is one of the worst. Anyway, the good news is your father’s still on the farm, not in the basement of the police station in town. Or shipped out to Grini yet, where he would stand no chance. But who knows how long he has? We looked in on him from time to time, brought him some food. But he was under constant watch. After a while it simply became too dangerous.”

  Nordstrum put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I appreciate that, Einar. You’ve been a good friend. And you’ve nothing to apologize for.”

  “My wife.” Einar pushed back his wavy, dark hair. “She brings out all my best qualities. You should find one yourself one day. When all this subsides. I mean—” He stopped, looked at Nordstrum with a sniff of apology. “I’m sorry, Kurt. I didn’t mean to bring all that up.”

  “No apologies necessary. And be certain I’ll look into it,” Nordstrum said with a half smile, “if after this is over I’m still around.”

  “If we’re all still around.” Einar nodded in agreement. “Our transmissions are becoming harder to conceal. The Germans have their W/T trucks sniffing everywhere. Especially in town. And this raid will be no sail on the lake, you know that? Anyway, I’m sorry to have to tell you this news.”

  “Thanks.” Nordstrum patted his friend on the shoulder. “I wonder if there’s a way to get him out?”

  “He’s under constant watch and in poor health. Where would you take him? And it’s not as if you don’t have enough going on here.”

  “Of course.” Nordstrum kicked the snow off his boot. “I meant after.”

  “After…?” Einar stared, probing for his meaning. Afterward, he’d be on the run. To Sweden. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you too. Something Tronstad asked of me. When this is all finished. But look, there’s Claus returning from town.” With a wave, Helberg had pulled himself up the last ridge to the cabin. “Let’s hear if he’s found a way to get us near the plant, or if tomorrow, we’ll all be dead on that bridge.”

  33

  Before they left that night, they went over the plans one last time.

  Ronneberg said to Nordstrum, “Once we get into the high-concentration room with the explosives, Kurt, you’re in charge. We’ve estimated it should take what to do the job…?”

  “Seven minutes,” Nordstrum confirmed. They had done the drill at least a hundred times in England on exact replicas of the factory and compressors. “Depending, of course, on what else we encounter in there.”

  “Of course. The only sure sign that the charges have gone off will be the sound of the explosion. By then, if all goes well, we should all be out of the building. The password for withdrawal, as you all know, is…”

  “Piccadilly,” Hans Storhaug said.

  “And the reply?”

  “The reply is Leicester Square.”

  “Good. Should anything happen to me or upset the plan, everyone must act on his own, with the one goal in mind to complete the mission. If we’re detected, or if the alarm is sounded in any way, the covering party will attack the German guards immediately.”

  Poulsson, Gutterson, and Storhaug nodded.

  “The demolition party will concentrate on getting inside the plant no matter what it encounters, but if they’re killed or disabled before the plant is reached, the covering party will take over the placing of the explosives. All that matters is someone must arrive at the objective to do the job.”

  It was basically an admission that they would all die trying to complete the operation.

  Poulsson nodded again. “We’ll be there.”

  “And finally, just to repeat what we were all told in Britain, Hitler has ordered every commando or saboteur, whether in uniform or not, to be interrogated and shot. So if any man is wounded or about to be taken prisoner, you have your pills. I know it’s a bitter thought, but in the end, it’s pretty much the same outcome.”

  It was one thing to talk about suicide in the highlands of Avainaire when it was just a concept that might never come to fact, another thing entirely when you knew that many in the room might not make it through the night. But the truth remained: If you were injured, there was virtually no chance of making it back up to the vidda, much less all the way to Sweden.

  “Count me in,” said Poulsson, with a drag from his pipe, standing up and turning toward the window.

  “Me as well,” said Nordstrum. In effect, it was the same result. Might as well spare yourself the pain.

  “And me,” said Jens.

  One by one, they all agreed. All that was left for Ronneberg was to add, “We leave here at twenty hundred hours, to give ourselves enough time. Claus, you’ll lead the way from here to the power line road. After we leave our skis, he’ll also take us down the gorge and up to the railway tracks. There’s a change of guard on the suspension bridge every two hours, on the hour. At half past midnight, we start our attack.”

  34

  Before the war, when Nordstrum was in engineering school in Oslo, no one knew, in spite of the troublesome events taking place on the mainland of Europe, if Norway would be dragged into the widening war.

  The country had managed to stay neutral in the last war, and Sweden and the king tried to hold firm to that again, despite both the British and the Nazis escalating tensions by clashing in their sovereign waters.

  Waiting those last hours before leaving the hut, Nordstrum remembered those days.

  The liberals rallied around France and Britain. Others railed at the Brits for threatening to mine the h
arbors of Bergen and Narvik. They saw the Germans as the saviors of Europe. Both factions turned their eyes to the country’s north, with its ice-free ports and overland transport routes for the valuable iron ore from Sweden.

  The night of April 8, 1940, made everyone take sides. Germany surprise-attacked by sea and air. In days, Bergen, Trondheim, and Narvik were overrun by advance troops from German destroyers. An enemy detachment headed down the Oslofjord toward the capital.

  In a day, the city was in turmoil. Everyone knew Norway’s army had no chance against the Nazi blitzkrieg. But to a true Norwegian, their homeland was their mother. Overnight, arguments over beers in the pubs in Oslo escalated into impassioned recruitment rallies. They cheered when the artillery and torpedoes sank the German flagship Blucher in the Oslofjord, allowing the king and his family to flee the city and set up a government in Elverum.

  Pandemonium reigned. Students were signing up in the king’s army; others fled to the supposed safety of the north, or to the east and to Sweden. Nordstrum, a person whom his peers always seemed to look up to, felt pressure both ways. His father had begged him not to do something rash. The king’s army was no match for the Germans. In the end, they would all be killed or put in prisons. In his heart, Nordstrum knew what he had to do. What all true patriots were doing.

  But he also had to think of Anna-Lisette.

  They had known each other two years—she was in her final year in economics—and they had talked of getting married after her graduation.

  “We’ve got to make sure you’re safe,” he said in the apartment he shared with two other students near the university. Oslo had become a maelstrom of fear, false information, people fleeing ahead of the German advance amid overtures of welcome by Vidkun Quisling and his Nasjonal Samling party, who had seized control of the public radio station in an ill-timed coup.

  “I have an uncle in Malmo,” Anna-Lisette said. “The trains are still running. If we leave now, we will be safe. They’d never dare invade Sweden.”

  They threw their belongings into suitcases. The city was rapidly becoming a ghost town. The Nazis could be there any day.

  “I have a friend,” Nordstrum said. “A Jew. His family is leaving for Stockholm tomorrow. You could go with them.”

  “You could go as well, Kurt. When I spoke of Sweden, I was speaking of both of us, not just me.”

  It only took one look at him for her to see he had already made up his mind. “You won’t be coming, will you?”

  He let out a helpless breath. “Anna-Lisette…”

  She sat next to him and put down the sweater she was folding. Her eyes seemed to reflect the same worry raging in his own heart. “You’ll only get yourself killed, you know. You all will. But if you won’t go, neither will I. I speak some German. They’ll need someone here to help with getting information through the lines.”

  “The fighting won’t be here,” Nordstrum said. “It’ll be up north. I’ve talked to Gries and Karlsson. They’re sending people up to hold the lines at Narvik.”

  “So that’s where you’ll be heading?”

  “Yes.” Slowly he allowed himself to nod. “Tomorrow.”

  “You knew all this, Kurt, and yet you didn’t say?”

  He put his hand to her face. “I can take you part of the way by train. As far as Lillehammer. Your folks are there. You should be safe. I can’t imagine what the Germans want with a bunch of cows and ski trails. If we can’t stop them at Narvik, I’ll make it back there and we’ll cross over the mountains to Sweden together. I give you my word.”

  She looked at him and smiled, wanly but bravely, filled with both affection and inevitability. “I know you, Kurt. You’ll never join me. You’ll keep fighting. Until someone wins.”

  He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “You’re wrong. I will.”

  She buried her face into his sweater. He felt tears there. He sensed there was something she was holding back from him. Like she knew then. Knew better. “No, you won’t.”

  They took the train the next day, and he went on to the north to fight.

  And she was right. After Narvik it was Honefoss. And then after Honefoss it was Tonneson, Haugsbygda, and the Gudbrandsdalen valley.

  What she held back from telling him in Oslo never reached him.

  Who knows, maybe she didn’t even know right then. It’s not just me, Kurt. And would it have made a difference? The fight needed him. Needed anyone who could shoot and had the nerve to hold a line.

  It was almost a year, months after she’d been killed, that the letter finally reached him, passed along by friends, soldiers in other regiments.

  From her mother, Regina, who Nordstrum always liked, who wrote him that Anna-Lisette had been carrying their child.

  * * *

  They sat around waiting for 8 P.M. They checked their guns and waxed their skis one last time, filled their rucksacks with tins of food, compasses, flashlights, bandages, chocolate bars, waterproof maps made of Chinese silk, extra bootlaces, and gloves. Nordstrum and his demolition group packed up their explosives, fuses, detonators, spools of wire, lighters, and small-nose pliers. Those in the covering detail took extra ammunition, hand grenades, even knives. Storhaug had a large wire clipper that he had brought with him from England. “You watch,” he made sure everyone saw it, “you’ll thank me for lugging this damn thing around.”

  Everything of foreign origin that might betray where they’d come from was destroyed. Empty food tins, fruit and chocolate wrappings, cigarette packs. To fill the time, a few of them cleaned their weapons. Others smoked and talked about family and heading home one day, so close were they to those they loved that it was painful not to be able to visit them, even for an hour, or get word to them that they were here.

  Storhaug even closed his eyes and caught a nap.

  Nordstrum’s thoughts drifted to his father. As a boy, after his mother’s death, he’d had to bring him home from the pub many times when the old man had had too much to drink, driving at fifteen—everyone knew and looked the other way—dragging him up the stairs against his stubborn grunts and groans, and tucking him in bed. He’d been forced to be a man before he could shave.

  He’d been so close his last visit, his father in the window, knowing Nordstrum was there, waving him on. He might never see him again. He thought of him coughing and hacking in a frigid basement jail.

  And then his thoughts turned to how they had to succeed, no matter how long the odds. They had to. Not just because everyone was counting on them in England. Or because of the stakes. It’s important to the world.

  But because something had to matter in this war. Something had to make his choice mean something.

  His choice not to come back for her.

  Because he’d kept on fighting, as she had always said he would. He’d never taken her to Sweden. And she had stayed and died, carrying his child.

  And because knowing that now, it was too late to undo it and bring it all back. He reached in his pocket and took out the baptism cross she had given him on the train. He pressed it to his heart. That’s why they had to succeed tonight. Some good had to come of it all. His choice to stay and fight.

  Because in the tremors of his heart, as he waited for the call to go, nothing else did matter.

  35

  At 8 P.M., skis on, packs strapped to their backs, weapons over their shoulders, Ronneberg looked at the nine men who had taken the fate of the Allied war machine onto their backs. “All right, boys, let’s go.”

  They took off down the mountain, single file, no celebratory yelps this time. In silence. Claus Helberg led the way, having made the trip down just that morning. The rest followed in his tracks.

  At first the slope was steep and straight, and they maintained a steady pace. An icy wind had kicked up, and the moon was bright; too bright for Nordstrum. As they made it down the mountain and approached Vemork, the hum of the factory’s giant turbines could be heard in the distance, a steady, deep, bellowing whoosh. On the
valley floor, a thousand feet below, the lights of Rjukan came into view.

  They swept down over the edge of the vidda on the western side of the gorge. The woods grew so dense that they had to remove their skis. The snow was alternately deep and soft, then hard and icy, depending on its exposure to the sun. At one point, they sank in all the way up to their waists and were barely able to take a step at a time, struggling with their packs. Other times, they slid on their backs on the hardpack, grabbing for shrubs and tree limbs to stop their descent. Using the telephone poles that ran from the valley to the top of the mountain as a guide, they slid from pole to pole, latching onto whatever they could, the wires above them sagging from the weight of the snow. It wasn’t cold. In fact, the wind down here was warm, and silently Nordstrum feared a foehn, which could melt the ice on the river and make their escape back up the side of the mountain even slower and more treacherous.

  Finally they came out at the upper end of the main road, which Helberg had traveled earlier that afternoon, and slipped their skis back on.

  They continued along the edge of the darkened road. The ice made it as hard and slippery as a skating rink, their skis clattering. Maybe the blowing snow and difficult conditions were, in the end, a good thing, Nordstrum thought to himself, for there was no sign of anyone out and around. It would be easy to spot a vehicle coming in either direction. The headlights, plus noise from its engines, would easily give them time to prepare.

  Then all at once, as they came around a bend, each of them stopped.

  Across the gorge, lit up by the moon, they saw their target for the first time. It was perched on its seemingly impregnable shelf of rock. The mammoth seven-story hydroelectric building towered over the valley and the Mann River that cut through it far below. Above the plant, huge conduits with diameters five and a half feet wide funneled endless supplies of water from above, some 1,750 cubic feet per second, powering its massive turbines. Only the narrow-track railway that led from its back gate down the gorge, and the slender suspension bridge that crossed the valley, connected it to the world below.