Oslo, October 1942
1
Sverre Fenstad sits on the stool. It has accompanied him everywhere. His grandfather made it for his fourth birthday. A birch seat with four round legs, lathe-turned and neatly inset. It has moved with him to all his homes, then been stuffed into attics and cellars. Now it has a use again, after thirty years.
He leans forwards. With his penknife he loosens a plank in the floor. Lifts the plank carefully and leans it against the attic storeroom wall without making a sound. In the hollow under the floor are all the parts. He takes them out one by one and calmly assembles them. Two batteries, which he connects to two leads. Which he connects to the radio valves. Then he attaches the twined leads to the headphones, which he hooks over his ears.
A door shuts outside the storeroom.
He takes off the headphones. Not stirring from the stool, he raises a hand and opens the door a fraction. The reflection from the bulb on the untreated wood in the drying loft creates a cosy, yellow atmosphere.
He hears footsteps and narrows the crack in the door. A plump woman with a washing basket under her arm has come into the loft. She stops by the first washing line. Starts hanging clothes, humming as she does so.
Sverre Fenstad likes her. He likes her curves, likes the fact that she doesn’t know she is being observed. Her body is hidden behind sheets and duvets. Fingers run along the washing line. And underneath them her calves. Like a dance in a dream, Sverre muses, following the movement of her ankles. Her buxom figure reappears. The basket is empty. She leaves.
He sits still until he hears the attic door closing. Then he puts his headphones back on, twists the knob and waits. It takes the radio time to warm up, but soon there is a low buzz. He has to fine-tune. Searching. It is the noise of German jammers. A voice from Berlin, whistling, short snatches of melody. Until he finds London and he can hear nothing. He checks his watch. A few more minutes. He takes a pencil he from behind his ear. Licks the tip. Digs out the piece of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt. There’s the signal – da-da-da Dah – the opening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Followed by the reader’s voice. Sverre notes down the codes.
Finally he stuffs the piece of paper back into his shirt pocket. He switches off the radio. Removes the headphones. Rolls up the leads. Undoes the batteries and the valve unit. Puts everything back in the hollow. Gets up and replaces the plank. Checks the join, then leaves the storeroom, clicks the padlock and is off.
He goes downstairs to his own flat, but stops on the landing above – there is a man sitting outside his door with a rucksack between his legs.
Sverre regrets putting the paper with the codes in his pocket. He should have learned them by heart and then burned the paper. But he doesn’t hesitate any longer. He continues down the stairs at the same pace as before and the man looks up. Sverre Fenstad is relieved. It is Gerhard. Gerhard Falkum – codename: Old Boy. Sverre stops by his feet. But he says nothing. He unlocks the flat and holds the door open.
Fenstad closes the door behind them. He is annoyed at Gerhard for coming here like this. It shouldn’t happen.
But before he can say anything, his guest speaks. His voice is low and tremulous. ‘I know coming here is against the rules, but I have no one else to turn to.’
Gerhard passes him a rolled-up newspaper.
Sverre unfolds it. The evening edition of Aftenposten. The annoyance grows. ‘I’ve got it here.’
‘Read,’ Gerhard says, pointing to a news item on the front page.
‘I’ve read it. It’s about a dead person.’
‘It’s Åse.’
Sverre looks from the newspaper to Gerhard and realises how stressed his guest is. The situation is quite different from what he imagined.
‘Åse’s the dead person.’
Gerhard’s face is drawn, his eyes burning and the hand holding the newspaper shaky.
‘The police were in the block when I arrived. I have no idea what happened. I didn’t know anything had happened. Suddenly there’s a Gestapo officer in the doorway, and the woman next door shouts that I’m the husband of the woman who’s dead. I’m standing there with my rucksack on my back. Containing my gun. I had to run for it.’
Gerhard sways. He holds the door frame.
Sverre Fenstad reacts. Opens the door to the kitchen. ‘Here. Take a seat.’
They go into the kitchen where the blackout blind has already been pulled down.
‘I don’t know what happened to Åse and Turid, Sverre. I don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Number Thirteen,’ Sverre replied automatically. ‘Don’t use my name.’ At once he realises his response is ridiculous. After all, he is at home in his own flat. And he is correcting a man who has lost his partner and suffering from a terrible shock. The situation is dramatic. The Gestapo are obviously after Gerhard Falkum. And he has come here.
Gerhard can’t tell him anything for certain. That means neither he, Sverre, nor Gerhard, nor anyone else knows the extent of the incident. Sverre is in urgent need of information. At the same time he can see the state Gerhard is in and sympathises with him. In Oslo they are fighting a war, day in, day out. Then a disaster befalls an innocent woman, a young mother. Found dead. What is the story behind those words?
‘Could she have committed suicide?’
‘Why on earth would Åse take her own life?’
Sverre is about to say something, but Gerhard carries on.
‘We have a daughter. She never lets the child out of her sight. Why kill herself?’
‘What about her health?’
‘What? Åse’s as strong as an ox.’
Surely a housewife can’t die in her own home, Sverre thinks. He says: ‘You know what this must mean, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Someone must’ve murdered her.’
Sverre sees the colour drain from Gerhard’s face. Sverre turns away, staring at the wall and thinking all manner of dreadful thoughts while listening with half an ear to Gerhard blaming himself, saying he shouldn’t have been in the mountains. He should have been with Åse and his child. Taking care of them.
Thoughts race through Sverre’s mind. A young mother, strong – partner of a well-trusted resistance man – is dead and the Gestapo are involved. Could the Nazis be behind it? But in what way and why?’
‘We know nothing,’ Sverre says, as much to himself as his guest. He fixes his eyes on Gerhard again. ‘Are you sure the Gestapo were there?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
Sverre raises both hands in defence. ‘It’s just so odd. It doesn’t matter whether there’s been an accident or not, if people die it’s a police case. Not for the Norwegian Sipo.’
‘The man was Gestapo. He was wearing the uniform and he spoke German.’
‘But why the Gestapo?’
‘How should I know?!’
Sverre raises his hands again. ‘What I’m trying to get at is what might’ve happened.’
Gerhard stands up and grips the edge of the table. ‘When I left there was a suitcase full of copies of London News in the kitchen – but Hilde came before I left.’
‘Hilde?’
‘The courier. Ester.’
‘Ah, of course.’
‘She came to pick up the suitcase. Ester’s reliable. She must’ve taken it with her. I’m sure there wasn’t a single copy in the flat.’
‘Weapons?’
‘A gun. But well hidden.’
‘Nothing the police might’ve found while searching the flat?’
‘If they did they would’ve had to dismantle the fireproof wall. For all I know, they might’ve done. I don’t know.’
A silence settles over them. Sverre takes a deep breath, but is unable to repress an accusatory tone as he says: ‘You ran off with the Gestapo at your heels and of all places you chose to come here, to me!’
They look into each other’s eyes. Sverre sees that Gerhard has to compose himself. He can literally hear the man on th
e chair counting to ten before answering: ‘I can promise you one thing, Sverre. No one followed me here. This all happened several hours ago. I’ve been lying low and intentionally waited until it was dark.’
‘How long did you have to wait in the stairwell?’
‘Two or three minutes. Max.’
‘Anyone pass you while you were waiting?’
Gerhard shakes his head.
Sverre goes quiet again, reflecting. ‘We have to know more. For the moment it’s best if you stay here.’ He looks at his watch and calculates how much he can achieve in the course of the day and evening. He makes a decision. Then he goes from room to room checking all the blinds are down. Finally he turns off the light in the sitting room. He calls into the kitchen.
‘If you’re tired you can sleep in the guest room.’
He indicates the door and opens it so that Gerhard can see. ‘The bed’s made.’
He kicks off his slippers and sticks his feet in a pair of brown walking shoes in the hall. ‘Don’t sit up waiting for me.’
Gerhard’s eyes widen. ‘What are you going to do? Where are you going?’
‘Out,’ Sverre Fenstad says, taking the coat hanging on the hat stand. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’
2
There is a loud buzz of conversation around the tables. Sverre is sitting on his own. He fidgets with the cutlery. Thinking that, if nothing else, it will give the appearance of some sort of eccentricity. Sitting, eyes downcast, he swaps the positions of the knife and fork; immersed in thought, seemingly unconcerned, Sverre Fenstad, a Mr No One at a table in Studia restaurant in Observatoriegata 2. He has taken a seat at the back of the room, a corner table for four with high chairs. Sitting on the edge of his seat, he can see the front door. Fidgeting with his cutlery is his response to the curiosity he occasionally senses from the customers in the line of tables for two. Most are German officers accompanied by their Norwegian mistresses. Sverre stands out, a man with no uniform, no conversation and no lady. He looks up, scans the room, avoiding eye contact. Time to swap the knife and fork again. At least it helps with the waiting.
Finally there is activity around the head waiter’s chair at the entrance. Sverre smiles at Vera as she enters. She is wearing a tight, short-sleeved, apricot dress that suits her very well. Her gloves are the same colour as the dress. Her heels make her as tall as the head waiter. She isn’t wearing a hat. Her blonde hair is held in place with slides and reveals a fullish neck. A wake of glances and admiring looks follows her as she winds her way between the tables.
Sverre Fenstad stands up. ‘Dear Vera, how nice that you could come.’ He pushes the table aside to make room for her.
‘Not bad,’ she says, dropping into the seat by the window. ‘Inviting me to dinner in the lions’ den.’
He bares his teeth in a brief grin. ‘You know, lions are not known to eat other lions.’
She pulls off her gloves. He marvels at her small, slim fingers. ‘You look wonderful in that dress,’ he says, taking her hand.
‘Let’s not get carried away, shall we,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Many of the people sitting around us know me, and they’re bound to be curious as to who you are.’
He lets go of her hand. ‘It’s because you have such beautiful hands. They remind me of graceful female kittens.’
She laughs and spreads the serviette over her lap. ‘Heinrich says they remind him of a hen’s claws.’
He likes her laughter. It sounds like the ice melting in spring, he thinks, or the murmur of wine being poured. ‘No breeding,’ Sverre says with a smile. ‘You’re much too good for him, Vera.’
A waiter appears at the table.
Fenstad passes the waiter the menu and an impressive stack of ration vouchers: ‘We’ll have what we agreed.’
Vera’s eyes widen.
‘But what will he say to this?’ Sverre asks.
‘What will who say to what?’
‘What will … Heinrich say to you being busy tonight?’
‘He won’t get the chance to voice an opinion. There have to be limits.’ Now, when she laughs, there is a flash of gold in the corner of her red lips. ‘Joking aside, he has other things on his mind. A new girl’s started in the office. Lillemor. She’s just nineteen years old. The two of them are head over heels in love with each other.’
The officer at the neighbouring table apologises to his table companion, gets up and goes to the toilet.
Sverre watches him.
‘A krone for your thoughts, Sverre.’
‘I don’t think about anything other than what I asked you to investigate.’
‘Shall we change places?’ she says.
‘Of course.’
He stands up and waits with his back to the room until she has sat down again. She arranges the serviette and scours the room from under lowered eyelids.
‘Just to be on the safe side,’ she says, and adds: ‘Little pitchers have big ears, as my mother used to say. It’s my job to file the documents. So I’ve also read them. And I was a fly on the wall during a top-level conversation.’ Vera’s mouth flashes again. Then she leans forwards across the table: ‘The woman was in bed when she was found. The neighbour who found her lives opposite. She’d heard the child crying and thought it strange the front door was open. The poor baby wasn’t even a year old. They say the mother was suffocated, the poor dear.’ Vera shivers.
Sverre looks up and Vera straightens her back as the food arrives on the table.
The waiter says he hopes they will enjoy it.
Vera answers she is sure they will.
The waiter withdraws. She looks down at the plate and raises her eyes: ‘What have we ordered?’
‘French is not my strong suit,’ Sverre says, and adds: ‘But it looks good. And the mood of the customers around us suggests it will be good.’ He lowers his voice: ‘Why hasn’t news of the murder reached the press?’
‘They’re still discussing how best to handle this case.’ Then she mouths the word propaganda.
He looks up.
‘American cigarettes had been smoked and British sherry drunk in the flat. That and Scotch.’
He needs a little time to digest this information before he again raises his eyes and sends her a serious look. ‘Are they sure this is Åse Lajord?’
‘One hundred percent. Her mother has come from Valdres to identify her formally. What I’m trying to say is that, as far as death and destruction go, there are creative spirits in the admin department.’
‘Spirits?’
‘Such as Heinrich Fehlis and Siegfried Fehmer.’
Sverre strokes Vera’s forearm.
‘If you carry on like this, your food’s going to get cold,’ she says with a wry smile.
‘Why are the top Nazis interested in this case?’
‘The neighbour who found the poor mother alerted the police and they examined the flat. When they found those very unusual items, they called in our Norwegian Gestapo, the Stapo, who are thorough. They found a gun – hidden in the fireproof wall. The neighbours thought the couple were married. But they weren’t, even though the man the dead woman lived with is the child’s father, apparently. That self-same father has disappeared. Now you have to eat, Sverre.’
They eat. There is a commotion by the entrance. Vera looks up. Sverre turns to glance at the door.
A highly decorated German officer enters. Several of the customers jump to their feet and raise a glass. They clap.
‘Anyone you know?’
Vera shakes her head, but uses the fuss to lean forwards and say: ‘What made Heinrich Fehlis interested in the case was the gun. He’s ordered SS-Hauptscharführer Gustav Barschdorf to act as a consultant to the Stapo.’
‘Just because of this wretched gun?’
‘There’s more. The man of the house, Falkum – the one who’s legged it – is a commie.’
Sverre shakes his head in desperation. ‘Fantasy, Vera.’
‘You can believe what you l
ike. At any rate he was a volunteer in the Spanish civil war. Barschdorf considers him a terrorist, and thinks he has some link with Asbjørn Sunde, the man known as Osvald – the terrorist who planted those bombs in Oslo East and West stations in February.’
Fenstad leans back.
‘That’s given you something to think about now, hasn’t it?’
‘How did they find out the man had been in the International Brigade?’
‘The files.’
‘Which files?’
‘We have a Minister of Police who was very interested in Norwegian Bolsheviks long before Germany saved us from the British invasion.’ She smiles. ‘That last bit’s irony.’
‘Do you think he was under surveillance?’
‘Not recently.’ Vera shrugs. ‘But he was before. His name’s in the private files of our Nasjonal Samling party man, Jonas Lie. Falkum sailed with the Wilhelmsen Line until October ’36. Then he’s supposed to have made contact with a German communist agent. Afterwards he enrolled with the International Brigade. He served on the side of the Spanish Republic for a little more than a year, but was injured at the battle of Brunete. Then he was discharged.’
‘My impression is that Sipo, the Gestapo really, are not actually interested in the murder,’ she says. ‘They want to use the case against the resistance folk. There’ll be an official search for Gerhard Falkum. Which will lead to arrests, whatever happens. Look around you. No, don’t turn. My point is that there’s no shortage of informers.’
Fenstad nods pensively. ‘What about the child?’
‘I believe she’s been placed in a children’s home.’
‘Children deserve better.’
Vera smiles. ‘I can hear you care about this child.’
Sverre looks down. ‘Someone told me the deceased’s mother lives on a smallholding in Valdes. The child would be better off there.’ He lifts his head. ‘Could you use your influence in that direction?’
Vera looks at him quizzically and winks. ‘Someone told you?’
Sverre smiles back without answering.
‘I can’t promise anything. Lillemor’s the apple of his eye now.’
The Courier Page 5
