The Courier

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  Here she forces herself to walk slowly, trying to breathe normally, and strolls as calmly as she can back to the station building. Glances left. Sees a man sprinting down the slope to the platform on the opposite side. Could this be the same man? Could he have run that fast?

  Ester forces herself to walk even more slowly.

  The man is wearing a cap. Ploughing his way through, he looks like the man from Valkrie plass. Breeches. It must be him. He must have turned immediately, shot back up the stairs and run along the street. And now he is walking along the platform, scanning the crowd. He stops, shades his eyes and searches for the train she took. She doesn’t look in his direction. Ester stares at the ground. She will soon be gone. She joins a crowd of passengers.

  The bike, she thinks.

  But she can’t go and fetch it; not now. Åse can do that, perhaps tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.

  6

  The bare branches of the treetops stretch out to the sky. Ester wades through leaves along Kirkeveien. It is like shuffling through coloured paper. On another day she would have kicked at the leaves and rejoiced at the different hues. Now she is walking with her eyes peeled and her ears pricked. The motor of a machine drones and some workers are shouting to one another. They are building pillars for a gate into Vigeland Sculpture Park. Ester has to pass through a group of German soldiers. She looks down as she steals between the uniformed backs, trying to think about something else. But she can’t. Even when she thinks she has left them behind she doesn’t dare look up to check. She studies her shoes. They are wearing badly. Her father tried to drum it into her: Save your shoes, Ester. Catch the tram, cycle, walk as little as possible.

  She carries on, her eyes boring into the pavement. Turns left into Frognerveien. Now she is taking her old school route back home. Yesterday seems a very long time ago. Only when she turns into Eckersbergs gate does she lift her head, slow down and look around her. Everything seems normal and still. Nobody is on the street, no cars. She stops outside the entrance to number ten. Checks again. Looks up and down the street.

  She walks past the entrance. Stops. Thinking once again that the arrest of her father was an attempt to frighten him. That they checked his papers and let him go in the evening or the night. Perhaps he is already at home. Perhaps everyone is. Waiting for her.

  As she visualises this, she knows it is a dream. Wishful thinking. She looks up at the windows of their flat. Everything looks normal.

  She makes a decision. Goes to the entrance. Opens the door. Enters. Inhales the familiar atmosphere of the stairwell of her home. But her state of mind is the same. The fear is still there. It feels as if she is wrapped in a cloak of unease.

  She hesitates on the first landing. Takes a deep breath and forces herself to go up to the next floor. Passes the doors and continues upwards.

  She stops on the landing at the top and takes in the sight before her.

  She is not sure what she expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. The door to the family’s flat has been smashed open. Ester registers what she sees with the same dead eyes she has seen everything since her father was dragged into the police vehicle. White splinters stick out from the door frame, there is a hole where the lock should be and the door is open.

  The sight of the splintered door frame is the irrefutable proof. Her wishes will not come true. Her father has not been released. Her mother is still with her grandmother. And Quisling’s paramilitaries have been here again. They have forced their way in, smashed the door. In her mind’s eye Ester can see the crows, the black crows with greasy beaks, hopping around on the bodies in the forest.

  She observes the destroyed door and listens. All she can hear is the usual silence in the stairwell. She raises a hand, touches the door and pushes it. The hinges squeal. She walks in. Again she stops and listens. The hallway looks as it always does. Mum’s elegant coat and dad’s light gabardine hang where they usually do, and there is not a sound to be heard.

  But they have been here. They have destroyed the door. Forced their way in. It strikes her that they still might be inside, just in a different room. So she stands still and listens, but hears nothing. And tells herself that those who broke in wouldn’t be so quiet. Unless…

  Unless they are waiting for her.

  She makes herself move on. Pushes open the door and goes into her father’s study. Here, things are strewn across the floor, papers are scattered around his filing cabinet, the drawers have been pulled out. The bottle of ink on his desk has been knocked over. A very black stain has spread across the inset writing pad and the woodwork. The drawers have been smashed. There are white splinters around the locks. Her foot slips on a piece of paper. The noise makes her freeze. She is still for a few seconds. Curiosity drives her on. She supresses her fear and continues over to the desk. Takes hold of a drawer. Pulls it right out. It is empty. Her heart sinks when she sees this. Nevertheless she has to check. She runs a hand carefully over it. Next drawer. Puts a hand in and searches in vain. Desperation clouds her eyes. How will she and the others get away now?

  She hears a thud in the adjacent room.

  She quickly crouches behind the desk. Stays stock still. Listens to her heart pounding. Whoever is in there must be able to hear her heart, smell her fear, smell her sweat, she thinks. Whoever is in there is bound to know where she is hiding.

  The door creaks as it swings open. But she hears no footsteps. The silence persists. Why has no one come in? She hugs her knees so hard it hurts.

  It really hurts.

  Was the noise she heard just her imagination?

  At length she makes herself stick out her head and have a look.

  The ginger cat is sitting in the doorway. When it sees her it gets up and comes in through the door. Strolls over with its tail in the air, rubs up against her legs and starts purring.

  The relief turns to a groan as she staggers out. Grabs Puss. Stands up with the cat in her arms and buries her face in its fur. She laughs out loud. ‘So it was you, was it?’

  Ester feels braver now that she is no longer on her own. She goes into the room with the grand piano. The family’s polished, gleaming, nut-brown Steinway. The sight of the piano is like looking at a picture of another era – the era before yesterday. She can see her grandmother on the piano stool, her father with a pipe in the corner of his mouth, listening to the music with his eyes closed. Now I am the little match girl, now it is me, dreaming about the comforts that once existed.

  She has to speak to them.

  She puts the cat down on the lid over the keys. Turns to the telephone. Lifts the receiver, dials and asks the switchboard for a number.

  Ester breathes out and closes her eyes when she finally hears her mother’s voice:

  ‘Thank God, Ester. I thought something had happened to you. But where on earth have you been? We were so frightened for you.’

  ‘They took Dad,’ Ester says, fighting to keep her voice under control. ‘I didn’t get here in time.’ She is aware the woman on the switchboard will be listening. Someone has probably been informed that the Lemkovs’ telephone is not private.

  Her mother says she knows. ‘The police told us when they came here, to Gran’s.’

  Ester says she saw her father being arrested; she arrived just a bit too late. She tries to stop herself, but can’t. She starts crying and blames herself for making the situation worse with her snivelling. She doesn’t want her mother to console her. There are others who need that comfort more.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Ester.’

  She can’t waste valuable time making her mother say silly things, Ester thinks. She has to be strong. She has to pull herself together.

  Her mother asks if she is still there.

  Ester says they have been here; the front door is smashed to pieces. ‘I think they broke in. Dad’s desk has been broken into and all the contents have gone.’

  Her mother says nothing. Eventually she asks: ‘Everything? You know what I mean. Has all that gone?’
<
br />   ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there no end to this evil?’ The despair in her mother’s voice makes more of an impact than her words.

  Ester takes a deep breath. ‘Mum, we have to get out. We have to go – now.’

  ‘I can’t leave Dad, Ester. Not until I know more about what they want to do to him. If they’ve stolen things from the desk, we’re poor. Can you have a look for my jewellery?’

  Ester puts down the receiver and goes into her parents’ bedroom. The cat is sitting on the piano, watching her pass. It is happy. It is kneading the piano with its front paws. It thinks the world is as it was yesterday. That it will continue to be like this for ever.

  Ester is in the bedroom. At once she sees what has happened. She goes back, lifts the receiver. Takes a deep breath.

  ‘It’s gone.’

  Ester hears a vehicle stop outside.

  She knows what it is. Nevertheless she puts down the receiver and looks outside. She is right. Uniformed men.

  She lifts the receiver again. ‘Mum, I have to go. They’ve come back.’ She hangs up. Meets the cat’s eyes. Makes a decision and takes it in her arms. Leaves through the battered door.

  At that moment the front door downstairs bangs.

  7

  Ester lets the door close without making a noise. Stands motionless with the cat in her arms.

  She looks down. Dark-blue uniform sleeves on the banister. The stomping of feet echoes against the walls.

  Then the neighbour’s door slides open. Ada is in the doorway. She beckons Ester over. Ester goes in. Ada closes the door without a sound. Locks it.

  The two of them say nothing, just stand holding each other. The cat starts purring again. Ester lets it go. It strolls through Ada’s flat with its tail in the air.

  Ester flips up a corner of the curtain over the glass in the door. She stands on tiptoes and gazes out. Two men in Norwegian Nazi uniform and one man in civvies study the smashed door frame. Ester’s calf muscles begin to ache. At last all three men go into the flat. Ester gives Ada a hug, takes a deep breath and frees herself from her arms.

  Ada shakes her head. Tries to hold her back.

  Ester mouths: I have to go. She lowers her head. Remembers something. Mouths again: Take care of Puss!

  Ada nods. Twists the lock and opens the door without a sound.

  Ester slips out onto the staircase. She glides down, staying close to the wall so that the steps don’t creak.

  Downstairs at last. She runs to the front door and tears it open.

  A black car is parked by the kerb. A man in a dark-blue uniform is smoking a cigarette and leaning against the bonnet. Ester notices too late. It is not a good idea to turn around now. She continues straight on, breathing deeply. Turns left. She is about to pass the car and the man in the uniform. Then she sees a polished black boot – it is stretched out in front of her, blocking her path.

  She stops.

  The man in the uniform locks his narrowed eyes on her and clamps his lips around a cigarette. His skin is pale and he has pimples around his mouth and by his temple. He is young, perhaps younger than her. A farmhand, she thinks. Eighteen maybe, possibly nineteen. Someone who can stop her simply by raising a leg. He has probably done the same to many others. Who knows what horrors this poor boy has already committed? She looks him in the eye. Meets the self-assured gaze and observes he is puffing on the cigarette in a pseudo-macho way. She can see that appearing nonchalant comes at a cost.

  Again she looks at the raised boot and says nothing. Then she feels a slap on her bottom as he lowers his boot. She carries on her way, head down. Her backside burns where he struck her. I should have hit him back, she reflects, slapped his face. Is it suspicious not to react?

  Her neck is burning too. From his eyes – or something. She crosses the street. Continues down the pavement on the opposite side. The crossroads is ahead.

  A tram rattles past along Frognerveien. The noise means that she can’t hear what is happening further away. The tram is soon out of view. Two more metres. Now she finally dares glance over her shoulder. The two Hirden men and the one in civvies have emerged from the block of flats. All four are standing by the car and watching her. She forces herself to walk slowly over the final stretch. Rounds the corner. Out of sight. She breaks into a run. The tram is heading for the stop by Frogner cinema. She speeds up, crosses Odins gate. The tram has stopped. She is panting and crosses the next side street. She couldn’t care less what she looks like. She is going to catch that tram. She strides out. The tram sets off. She is going to make it. Ups her speed again. Steadies herself and jumps onto the platform at the back. Tastes blood in her mouth, stands there, chest heaving, recovering. The distance from the corner of Eckersbergs gate grows and grows, and there is not a uniform in sight.

  Oslo, October 1942

  1

  Åse holds a hanging strap as the tram crawls into Carl Berners plass. It stops. She manoeuvres the pram to the door. The conductor is a bit slow. He is making his way through the passengers, but can’t get to her. Two men vie to help her with the pram. In the end she lets go and allows them to take control. She thanks them and waits until the tram has moved off before heading towards the crossroads by Trondheimsveien. Here she has to wait. A police officer is directing traffic. Soon he raises a palm to the line of cars. They stop and she sends him a questioning look. He nods briefly. She pushes the pram across and walks up the hills to Hasle, stopping for breathers on the way. The pram is heavy. Fortunately her baby is still asleep. From the corner of the pram hangs a shopping net, which swings to and fro in time with her strides. She turns into Hekkveien. Now and then she holds the net to stop it banging against the pram and waking her child. She comes to a halt. The linden hedge is still covered with yellow leaves, and behind it she can glimpse the roofs of two greenhouses. She turns into the gravel drive of the nursery. Comes off the drive and aims for the space between the greenhouses. Here the flagstones are uneven. The wheels get stuck in the gaps between them, and Åse has to push hard to make any progress.

  She has to pass a lorry. The generator is smoking. A man is loading sacks of generator fuel onto the back. Åse steers the pram past and heads towards a line of cold frames. Two young men are walking either side of them. They lift the glazed lid from each in turn and carry it to a pile. They place the glass on the pile, turn and go back for the next. The sound is monotonous: the crunch of footsteps on gravel and a little clunk as the lid falls into position. One of the young men leans forwards and checks that the last lid fits snuggly onto the previous one. Both glance at her furtively.

  Åse sits down on the bench by the entrance to a greenhouse. The man with the sacks of kindling has finished. Åse says hello. The man pretends he has seen her only now. He has red hair and freckles. A red fringe curls over his forehead. He stops in front of Åse, who has crossed her legs and is rocking the pram.

  Åse points to the pram and puts a forefinger to her lips. ‘I’ve got a little something for Ester,’ she whispers.

  The man goes to a small shed, which appears to be leaning against the hedge behind the plot. The door is crooked. One hinge is almost hanging off. He goes in. Comes back out, followed by an athletic man wearing work pants and high boots.

  Åse gets up.

  The man proffers a muscular hand. ‘Alf Syversen.’

  Åse grips his hand and says her name.

  Syversen asks how he can help.

  She repeats that she wants to see Ester.

  He looks at her. ‘There’s no Ester here.’

  Åse is puzzled. ‘No Hilde either?’

  ‘Hilde?’

  ‘Hilde Larsen. Dark hair, long. My height, slim, about twenty…’

  Syversen shakes his head. ‘Afraid not. There’s no one here but us.’ He points to the boys moving the cold-frame lids, the man with freckles and himself.

  Åse looks down, thinking, so that is that, we won’t meet again. She fights her emotions. Unhooks the shopping net. ‘Then I’d
like to ask you a favour. Please could you give this to her from me.’

  He raises a palm, not wanting to take it.

  ‘She needs it.’

  ‘I can’t give something to someone who isn’t here.’

  They stand looking at each other. She searches his gaze, but fails to find any understanding or sympathy.

  ‘I just wanted to say goodbye,’ she says. ‘Properly. The last time we met went so fast.’

  He turns away from her. He leaves.

  Åse watches the broad back and shoulders, wondering for a moment if he was right – she had been imagining things.

  At any rate, she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. She pushes the pram back the same way she came. Turns when she hears someone running.

  It is the man with the freckles. He says he will help her past the lorry, grabs the pram and pushes. It is tight and they have to coax it through. Turid wakes up. Starts whimpering. They reach the entrance. She wants to thank the young man, but Turid is bawling now. She asks him to wait and lifts the child onto her shoulder, mumbles reassuring phrases and rocks her.

  Finally Turid is quiet and Åse puts her down again.

  The young man has gone. Åse walks down Hekkveien towards Carl Berners plass. It is only when she reaches the tram stop that she realises what is different. The shopping net with the clothes and food for Ester has gone.

  2

  Åse puts a hand in the pocket of her woollen jacket for what must be the tenth time. Counts up the ration vouchers and stuffs them back. Leans over the pram to confirm the tiny tot is asleep. The queue is slow. She has been standing outside the shop for an hour and a half. But now there are only a few people ahead of her. A little boy of four or five is sitting on the step in front of the door. He yawns and rests his head on his hands. Åse thinks he is a good boy to have waited for so long without complaint. She leans over the pram again. Turid is still asleep. The doorbell jingles. The woman coming out seems angry. This is a bad sign. Åse has been uneasy for a while. The queue is moving faster now, and the people emerging have lean shopping nets and grumpy expressions on their faces. She guesses there is no more meat. But she won’t leave. She has been waiting here for so long that she is going to try, to ask, when it is her turn.