by Andrew Gross
“Olf nodded grimly. ‘Germans.’
“He took his rifle off his back, knelt, and aimed at the first one in line. And fired. The German went down. The other three still bore down on us. Olf had his skis fastened, I was lugging some of the gear, and he took off up the slope, yelling, ‘Eric, leave it all. Come on!’ So as quickly as I could I affixed my skis and pulled out my Colt, the only weapon I had on me. I took a shot toward our pursuers, who were now only about a hundred yards away and closing fast. I saw I had no time to make it up to Olf, who was already halfway up the ridge and had now turned with his gun to cover me. ‘C’mon,’ he was yelling. ‘Quick. I’ve got you covered.’ I had to make a call. I decided my chances were better to put some distance between me and the people bearing down on us. I waved to Olf and took off down the slope in the other direction.
“Behind me, the Germans yelled, ‘Halt. Halt!’ and I heard the crack of three quick rifle shots and tensed. At my feet, bullets thudded into the snow. I raced down the slope in a tuck as fast as my skis could take me.
“So the Germans decided to let Olf go and come after yours truly. To my surprise, they could all ski pretty damn well. I thought I’d quickly be done with them and find my way back to the boys, but they kept up the pace. I was fortunate we’d had those six months of heavy training, otherwise, Kurt, I swear they would have caught me. We pushed up ridges with everything we had and glided across long flats, I was giving it everything I had, glancing behind me every few strides. Still, the fucking Germans stayed within a hundred yards or so. They weren’t giving up.
“After about an hour of going at it full out, I’d finally put a little distance between us. Two of the Germans started to fall behind and, exhausted, seemed to give up. But this one guy continued on. He was tall and athletic and clearly as powerful on his skis as any of us. I’d been on the run for two days by then and my skis weren’t waxed for shit. Plus, I had my rucksack on my back, all of which slowed me down.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nordstrum shook his head. “And I thought we had taught you how to ski.”
“I know how to ski, Kurt. But this guy … Anyway, the German was almost in range, and gaining … I hurried up a slope, digging my poles in with everything I had, my lungs on the edge of giving out. It became clear that while the German seemed to gain on the straightaways with fresh skis, on the hills, I was in better condition than him and built my lead back up. For another hour we continued the same way—gaining, falling back; it would almost have been a game, if I knew the outcome wasn’t life or death—until each new slope became excruciating and on each flat, gliding and working my poles at full speed, my legs began tire. Still, the fucking German seemed unwilling to give up. He had a Luger, and once or twice as he closed on me he got into a firing position and took a shot.
“Each time I could hear the bullet whistle wide.
“Finally, at the crest of a long and particularly brutal climb, my thighs were about to give out. My lungs could barely draw in the next breath. I knew I was done. As we went down the next ridge, the German would gain on me, enough that he would likely come into range. His next shot might not miss. So I just said, the hell with it, and pulled up. Fifty yards behind me, the German stopped as well. For a moment, we both just looked at each other, both of us too exhausted to even move. The fading light was flat and uneven and the distance between us was hard to gauge. Maybe fifty yards. Neither of us seemed like we wanted to take another step. Maybe it was better to just let it play out here, I thought. So I took out my Colt. Like the OK Corral.”
“What is that?” Nordstrum asked.
“A Western. Never mind. Anyway, the German shouted, ‘Hande hoch.’ Hands up. And aimed his Luger.
“I didn’t comply, knowing the guy had already shot four times, and that whoever emptied his gun first would be the loser, as from this distance and in the uneven light, you’d have to be a marksman to strike home.
“He took his shot, his hand shaking from exhaustion. I heard four more cracks. I crouched, waiting for one of the bullets to strike. And prayed.
“But they all whined harmlessly by.
“When there was nothing left in his chamber but empty clicks, the German turned to take flight.
“Now it was my turn. My hands were steady. I aimed and squeezed the trigger, just like we learned. The German arched upright and stopped dead in his tracks. He slumped over his poles. For a while, he didn’t move an inch. I wasn’t sure if I’d killed him or not. Part of me wanted to go find out, out of respect for the man’s pursuit. Instead I decided to get the hell out of there.”
“A good choice. Well done, Eric.” Nordstrum slapped him on the arm.
“I’m not done. By now, I was way too far away to simply retrace my steps and rejoin the group. And I had no fucking idea where I was. And no guarantee, of course, I wouldn’t run straight into a larger party of this guy’s bunkmates. So I continued down the vidda—southward. The plan was for us all to head east in the direction of Vegli, so I thought they might wait up for me there. Gradually it became dark. At some point, I was unable to see more than a few feet in front of me. I skied over what I thought was a rise but what turned out to be a sheer drop. I tumbled, it must have been fifty, sixty feet, coming to rest on my shoulder in a hard snow bank. I could barely move; I tried to lift my arm. I’ve never felt that kind of pain.
“My left shoulder was broken.
“Luckily, my skis were still intact, so I continued on, shaken and in pain, and took cover at a farm I finally came upon. And using my vast command of your mother tongue,” the Yank winked, “I found out from the sympathetic owner that a Hirden patrol was literally at the next farm, only a few hundred meters away. I was so beat and shaken I couldn’t take another step. I thought maybe the best plan was to head to Oslo now. We had resistance contacts there. But first I had to get my shoulder repaired. They let me stay a couple of days; I was far too exhausted to ski. After a few days I changed into civilian garb and continued on, ending up in Rauland, where the farmer said there might be help.”
“I’ve been in Rauland many times,” Nordstrum said. “What a shame.”
“Yes, but this was in the days right after the raid and the town was overflowing with Germans. One patrol stopped me on the street, and demanded to see my ID. Using the papers I was given in England and my Norwegian—you would have been proud of me—I told them I was a hunter and had witnessed a chase in the mountains. The soldiers brought over their captain and I pointed up to the hills, all the while my shoulder exploding with pain. The soldiers organized a patrol to make a sweep.
“At some point, though, my luck ran out. I was checking out this local hospital, knowing I had to have my shoulder attended to, when I gave out a few squares of my chocolate to a group of children who had gathered around. That was dumb. Minutes later, a German sergeant demanded to know where they had gotten it. Chocolate was clearly in low supply around there. ‘The man over there gave it to us,’ they pointed.
“So I was questioned again, but this time I was told to come along. My shoulder hung limply in my jacket and I had a Colt tucked into my belt, which, if they discovered it, would have given me away. I also had my cyanide pill. Still have it. A sergeant questioned me about the chocolate. I said I had met someone up in the hills who gave it to me; ‘Someone in a white ski suit.’ I just played dumb. They checked my rucksack and found only food and extra clothes, and this whole time, my pistol was here.…” He patted his belt. “Totally undetected.
“So they put me in a cell for a day—I wasn’t sure what was going to happen—then I was placed in a line of locals and loaded onto this bus filled with other civilians who had been rounded up as well. I figure the Germans clearly had to show some results from their sweeps. We were told we were all being sent to be interrogated at the concentration camp at Grini.”
“Grini!” Nordstrum glanced at Einar. “That’s where my father was.”
“Well, I knew it would be death for me to even get near the place.
The bus was an old-fashioned school bus with only one door, which the driver operated with a handle. Like we have in the States. There was one heavyset SS sergeant on the bus and three more on motorcycles that followed behind. Everyone was told that anyone who tried to escape would be shot.
“I realized I wouldn’t last a minute under a real interrogation. My only options were to escape. Or take my pill.
“I figured since it was all the same, I chose escape.
“As the bus sped along on narrow, winding roads, I sucked in the pain in my shoulder, which was killing me, and looked for the proper moment: a steep drop of woods on the right side, where I could avoid the aim of the motorcycle guards, who were only a few yards behind. I honestly said to myself, what would Kurt Nordstrum do? The guard in the front of the bus was an obstacle. I figured I’d have to shoot him and run. I put myself next to this gal. She was prettier than pretty, Kurt, and I started talking to her. At some point I shared that I couldn’t make it to Grini and needed to get off the bus. She played along, and called the guard back, kind of a jovial fellow who immediately started to flirt with her, and at some point I asked if he wanted to swap seats. Happily, the guard agreed, cautioning me no monkey business or else.… So I took his place in the front.
The bus motored on, winding on the narrow road, the cyclists forming a tight triangle a few yards behind. I kept my eyes peeled for just the right moment. Then, coming up on the right-hand side, there was a sweeping turn on the side of a dense wood that fell sharply from the road. I knew this had to be it. The bus driver downshifted into the turn. I waited until the vehicle was halfway into the curve and saw a break in the trees. With a glance back to the SS guard, who seemed happily diverted, I leaped forward and yanked on the door handle and hurled myself out of the bus.
“I landed heavily,” the Yank said, “my shoulder crippling me with pain. I rolled off the road into the trees. The bus and motorcycles screeched to a stop. ‘Stop. Now! Halt,’ the guards yelled. I threw myself into the woods as shots rang out from behind me. I felt a sharp pain in my ribs, but tumbled down the slope in the thick snow and rolled to a stop. I didn’t even breathe. The Germans chased me about twenty yards in, then lobbed grenades toward me. One landed about five yards away. I hurled myself behind a tree as the grenade detonated, shrapnel tearing through my leg. See…” Gutterson pulled up his pant leg and showed off a line of ugly red scars. “I’m lucky to still have it. Two more grenades were thrown at me, exploding harmlessly not too far away. I dragged myself deeper into the woods. The Germans went in a few more steps and sprayed bullets my way, but the dense trees shielded me. At some point they were only ten yards behind me. I lay there, exhaling, bleeding, not moving an inch. This is it, I thought. I actually reached inside my jacket for my pill. They fired another volley toward me, then I overheard one say that I was probably dead. Either that or I’d surely freeze in the night.
“‘The major will have our asses,’ I heard one say.
“‘Just tell him we shot the bastard,’ his cohort replied. ‘Who’ll know?’ They gave up the chase and went back to their cycles and the bus. I heard the convoy go on. One day I’d like to find that major and show him I’m alive!
“Anyway, completely bloody now and my leg a mess, I stumbled around for a day through the woods until I came upon the grounds of a hospital in the town of Lier. Turned out it was a mental hospital. A doctor on staff took one look at me and said I likely wouldn’t make it through the night. The next day, barely breathing, I was driven to a hospital in Drammen, where I was shielded from the Nazis by a sympathetic doctor and spent the next eighteen days recovering. The doctor had some friends in the resistance and contacted them. I was taken in a meat truck all the way to Oslo. When I had fully recovered, instead of finding my way back I joined a Milorg unit there. I’ve had chances to make my way to Sweden, but SOE said they could use every man they had in Oslo, now that the manhunt for the Norsk Hydro saboteurs was over, and put me to work. That part’s another story. Nine months later a tall, bald man in a gray coat from Milorg met me at a café in St. Olaf’s Square in Oslo and told me I was needed in Rjukan.
“‘You’ll find a man named Nordstrum there,’ he said. That was all I had to hear.”
* * *
“That’s quite a tale,” Nordstrum said with amazement. “Though I would have thought you’d be back in England by now. With a medal.”
“Who needs a medal?” the Yank said. “Besides, why waste all the training when there’s still work to do?”
“Spoken like a true Norwegian. And speaking of which, I see your Norwegian has dramatically improved. Einar, when I met this boy, he didn’t know how to say ur from er.”
“When you’re being questioned by SS, you learn the difference fast,” he said. “And you, Kurt, what have you been up to?”
“Me? Just the same. You know me.”
“‘The same’ means he should have been captured a dozen times himself,” Einar said, “but here he is.”
“It’s true. I’ve had my share of run-ins as well. But now we’re here. You said there was more work to do. Have they told you why you’re here?”
“All I was told was to show up. When they mentioned your name I knew it was worthwhile.”
“I’m afraid it’s the heavy water again, Eric,” Nordstrum said, switching to English. “They’re back in business, bigger than ever.”
The Yank nodded disappointedly. “Yes, I’d heard they’d bombed the plant before Christmas, so I suspected we hadn’t completely finished the job. You’re not planning on sneaking your way inside the factory again?” He glanced at Diseth, with his white hair, a little suspect. And Ox, with his heavy waistline and who was well over 250 pounds.
“No. Security is far too tight. Anyway, as of Sunday, it will all be on the move. It’s being shipped back to Germany. In metal drums marked POTASH LYE. Tell me, how did you get here from Oslo?”
“I took the train from Nottogen to Tinnoset. Then the ferry to Mael.” He grinned. “Just a bit easier than the last time we arrived here.”
“That’s the truth. Anyway, that’s pretty much how they’re planning on getting it out.”
“We’re going to attack the train?” Gutterson lit up, seemingly up for the challenge.
“Not the train. The ferry you just came on. We’re going to sink the ship and send their precious cargo to the bottom of Lake Tinnsjo.”
68
There were a few more details that needed to be gone over the next day, specifically what each person would do after the operation took place. No one wanted to be around to face a possible interrogation by the Gestapo.
Ox planned on going back to Uvdal and officially joining the resistance. Einar, who was forbidden from taking part in the operation, came up with the idea of checking himself into a hospital in Oslo on Saturday for an appendix operation Monday morning.
“My doctor’s been telling me for months it has to come out.” He clutched his side.
“Just be fucking careful what you say under anesthesia,” Nordstrum said, only partially in jest.
Nordstrum, Gutterson, and Larsen would make their way across the vidda to Sweden.
They also had to be sure the shipment would be boarded on the ferry as planned and not further delayed. They needed to know for certain that the drums were on the train and in motion before placing the charges, otherwise the ferry would blow and casualties would result for no good end.
That night, Larsen called Einar and said, cryptically, “Fried fish tonight for dinner, please,” confirming that his Nazi watchdog was close at hand, but that the loading of the drums onto the rail cars had begun.
The train would leave for Rjukan the next morning.
And they needed a car to get from Rjukan to Mael Saturday night. Ox knew someone who was in the country illegally who maintained one. He arranged that they could borrow it at ten o’clock Saturday night. A bunch of partygoers, he explained. They’d have it back the next morning.
“Hop
efully, in one piece,” the man said.
“Safe and sound,” Ox assured him. “You have my word.” If all went well, of course.
And they went over and over the plan, this time clueing in the Yank. He, Ox, and Nordstrum would be the ones going on board. If there was a guard, Ox would try to distract them. He had a routine of someone who had drunk just a bit too much aquavit that they hoped would do the job. Once onboard, they’d sneak below and set the charges. Twenty minutes max should account for it. If anyone had to be subdued all they could do was make sure the bodies were hidden well and hope for the best.
Word had come back from Larsen that the Germans were on heightened alert that their plans had gotten out. There were now, it seemed, more Germans than Norwegians in the area, and rumors were buzzing that something was afoot. The saboteurs dared not trust anyone now. They spent that night in Diseth’s workroom above his shop. For the first time all week, Nordstrum felt his mind wander to a place he’d kept it from going recently. To Natalie. She and her grandfather had a concert that Sunday and then they would be off the next day. Back home. Of course, by that time, the Hydro would be at the bottom of Lake Tinnsjo and Nordstrum on his way to Sweden. There was a part of him that felt the need to explain this to her—who he was, what he was doing—though he had only known her a few days. That in another life, another time, perhaps, things might have been different. Inside, he felt there was a part of him buried deep in his core that longed to feel attached to someone again, to love again. One day. It was a part of him that the hole in his heart over Anna-Lisette hadn’t killed, that had suddenly surfaced again, like a whale breaching the thawing ice in spring and majestically showing its face. Lying there, awake, Ox snoring, Gutterson drifting in and out of sleep, it made Nordstrum angry that he had met her in this time and not some other. That they had not somehow passed on the street a year from now, or two, say at the Karl Johans gate in Oslo, when there was no longer the smell of smoke in the air or the sounds of boots on the pavement. And that their eyes had met each other’s and they both suddenly stopped. Maybe her hat would fly off, just as it had on the ferry, and Nordstrum would sprint after it and pick it up, as fate had bound them. Instead, they met when there was no hope of a future. When it was all just another dream. After tomorrow their lives would part and never intersect again. She would be gone. And he might well be dead, or on the way to Sweden, and weeks later, back in the war.