A silence descends over them.
Vera looks up. ‘What are you going to do later this evening?’
‘Do? I’m all yours, Vera.’
She lowers her gaze. ‘I almost believe you, Sverre. You’re a good actor.’
‘Actor?’
‘What does Lillian say about you leaving home tonight?’
‘Lillian lives in the country with our child. It’s best like that.’
They exchange glances and let the silence speak.
Vera straightens her back again. The newly arrived German officer has taken to his feet and demands the restaurant clientele’s full attention.
There is a hush. Vera listens. Sverre leans back and thinks about the sad fate of Åse Lajord while the officer talks about the Führer’s advances on the eastern front.
Finally the officer raises his glass and proposes a toast. Other officers follow suit.
Vera raises her glass. She and Sverre exchange glances. She tilts her head peremptorily. Dutifully he raises his glass too.
There is a scraping of chairs closer to the exit. Laughter rings out. The officer standing up is drunk and almost falls. Sverre sees what is happening in the mirror on the wall. The officer begins to sing.
Vera and Sverre exchange glances once again. Vera laughs and swings her arms in time.
‘Heute wollen wir ein Liedchen singen, Trinken wollen wir den kühlen Wein…’
The ‘England Lied’ continues, and it isn’t long before several officers strike up the refrain. ‘Wir fahren, wir fahren, ja, wir fahren…’
The officer who started singing raises his arms. The song dies and the officer roars: ‘Gegen Stalingrad!’
The officers in the restaurant cheer and laugh. Vera laughs along and winks at Sverre.
The singalong carries on. More people stand up. The singing is so loud the room echoes. The waiters stop working and politely withdraw to the kitchen.
The officer at the neighbouring table motions to Vera and Sverre: Stand up and join in!
Vera gets up. Again she glares at Sverre, who rolls his eyes and laboriously staggers to his feet. When the refrain comes they clink their glasses with their arms entwined.
3
Sverre Fenstad wakes in the middle of the night. At first he doesn’t know where he is. Then he recognises the contours of the ceiling lamp. He is lying beside Vera in her double bed. He listens to her breathing. She is asleep. Carefully, he raises the blanket and gets up. From the end of the bed he watches her. She is mumbling in her sleep. Her curves are clearly visible beneath the bed linen. He walks naked into the sitting room. Their clothes are on the floor. He finds his trousers, shirt and jumper. Puts them on. A cough causes him to turn.
Vera is standing in the bedroom door.
‘You’ll get cold, Vera.’
‘Are you sure there isn’t a curfew?’
He has to smile.
‘When will you be back?’
‘Soon,’ he says, slipping his feet into his shoes.
‘Come here.’
He goes over to her.
She wraps her arms around his neck. Her body is warm from bed. She mumbles against his mouth: ‘Do you have to go already?’
He smiles.
She smiles back.
‘Believe me. I do,’ he whispers.
4
Outside, the night is so black he has to stand still for a good while until his eyes get used to the darkness. It is anything but easy to find his bearings. But he has been here before. Finally he can make out the kerb and begins to walk along Hegermanns gate. Passes the dried-up bronze Bull Fountain that appears from nowhere like a towering colossus. Oslo is still. Three years ago, he had been in the same place, in the same state. He and Vera had been making love for hours. It had been an autumn night, like now. He was on his way home. Although the city was still and sleepy, it glittered like a starry sky. Now it is all dark. As though the city were a wounded animal in hiding. He walks on beneath the extinguished street lights. The white lamp posts are all that help him find the way. Whenever one appears he counts the paces to the next. He follows the lamp posts and emerges in Vogts gate. Stops and waits. Hears rather than sees a taxi coming. The car has hoods over the headlamps and a wood-gas generator on the side. Sverre Fenstad steps into the street with his arm raised. The taxi stops.
He unlocks the door as quietly as he can. The ride in the taxi has woken him up. He goes into the kitchen. Washes his hands and face in the sink. Cleans his teeth. There is a strip of light under the door to the room where Gerhard is. Either he is still awake or he has fallen asleep with the light on.
Sverre pauses for thought. How little we know about each other. So Gerhard is a communist with war experience. His mind churns as it has done since he left Vera’s soft embraces. He has a problem which, if Vera is right, will grow and grow in the days to come. Sverre dries his hands. He goes to the door of the guest room. Hesitates. Lifts a hand to knock, but lowers it again. He and Gerhard can have this conversation tomorrow. He turns to go to bed as the door is wrenched open.
‘Well?’
Gerhard is dressed. He has a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and blue smoke billows through the door.
‘You haven’t been to bed?’
Gerhard turns back into the room and stubs out the cigarette in a makeshift ashtray on the chair. A saucer.
Sverre wonders how to phrase this and clears his throat.
Gerhard is motionless, as though dreading what is to come.
‘There’s no doubt that the dead person is Åse.’
Gerhard is still motionless.
‘The good news is that your child’s in good hands.’
A twitch runs through Gerhard’s body. He puts a hand through his hair.
‘Åse was murdered, Gerhard. They think she was suffocated.’
Gerhard leans against the wall. ‘Suffocated?’
They look at each other.
Gerhard speaks first. He blinks to check his emotion. ‘And Turid, my daughter?’
We’ll have to take this one step at a time, Sverre thinks. ‘She’s just fine.’
‘But where is she?’
‘With her grandmother, Åse’s mother.’
Sverre tells Gerhard all he knows without hiding anything. He tells him what the police found in the flat, about the Gestapo’s role in the investigation. What their thoughts are.
‘So it’s obvious someone visited her,’ he concludes. ‘Who could that have been?’
Gerhard looks blankly into the air. ‘Who? How should I know? I was in the mountains for a few days.’
Sverre Fenstad inhales and puts his hands in his pockets. He is about say something, but hesitates.
‘Come on,’ Gerhard says.
Sverre is still hesitant.
‘Say it.’
‘You and I know who has the best access to booze and cigarettes,’ Sverre says.
They stand their ground, looking at each other.
‘What are you trying to imply?’
Sverre chooses to keep his own counsel. Gerhard knows as well as he does how German officers go about bagging a Norwegian woman.
‘Actually I cannot understand how you can entertain such an idea,’ Gerhard says at length. ‘And right now I’ll turn a blind eye. The reason you can think like that is simply that you didn’t know her. Believe me. It’s out of the question, Sverre. I hope you realise that. You can get that idea out of your head this minute.’
Again they measure each other up in the dim light. ‘I’ll soon find out more about how the police are working,’ Sverre says eventually. ‘I have a reliable source. By the way, there’s one thing you’ll have to prepare yourself for.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘You’ll have to cross the border.’
Gerhard eyes him in silence.
‘And at once,’ Sverre says. ‘I’ll review the possibilities tomorrow.’ He is aware of Gerhard’s tense looks. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Why sh
ould I go to Sweden?’
‘Because there are several reasons why the Gestapo want to get their hands on you.’
‘Several?’
‘You were in the International Brigade.’
‘So what?’
‘So was Osvald.’
‘What’s he got to do with me?’
‘The Gestapo are trying to exploit this case to their own advantage. They found your gun in the wall. They’re going to plug that for all it’s worth and connect you with other cases. For the Gestapo the flat’s now home to a terrorist. The murder of a young mother, an innocent woman, took place in that nest. The Gestapo are chomping at the bit to broadcast to the Norwegian people that you – a terrorist – are nothing but a murderer who killed the mother of his own daughter and left the child by the corpse. Not only will they be able to blacken what we do, they’ll also use propaganda to catch as many of us as they can. They’re hoping informers will grass on us and I think they’re right – unfortunately.’
Gerhard looks sombrely into the air.
‘If you’re caught and questioned, you constitute a risk for many others.’
‘No one will be able to force me to divulge a thing.’
‘Nevertheless, there’s a lot at stake for many of us now. It’s safest for everyone if you escape, and Sweden’s the only good card we have.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you want.’
Gerhard takes a step forwards. He is angry. But Sverre is not about to give way. They stand eyeball to eyeball, and Gerhard says: ‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why. I have a daughter who’s just lost her mother.’
‘Your daughter’s fine.’
‘How can you say that? Now she only has me, and I’m not with her.’
‘Gerhard. We’re at war. The child has been taken care of.’
‘But Åse’s mother is ill.’
‘Your daughter will be much better off in the country than you can imagine. I’ve done the same myself. I’ve packed my wife and son off. They live with my in-laws in Kvam. They’re safe there. Your child will get enough milk and food and loads of love at her grandmother’s.’
Gerhard looks at him without saying a word.
‘I can promise you one thing. I’ll do everything in my power as far as your daughter’s concerned.’
Gerhard still looks doubtful.
Sverre fixes him with an icy stare and decides the moment has arrived. ‘Do any of our people know about your sympathies?’
‘Sympathies?’
‘Spain. You risked your life to fight for the socialist republic. A man like you must have strong sympathies for the Reds.’
‘You probably won’t understand, but this comes with your mother’s milk.’
Sverre has nothing to say to that. They hold each other’s gaze, for a long time.
In the end it is Gerhard who speaks. His voice has assumed a sharp undertone: ‘I’m fighting for my fatherland now, Sverre. Like you.’
Sverre raises a calming hand. ‘The thing is that the political side of all this gives the Gestapo a good hand if they want to blacken your name. What the Germans are best at is hating Jews and communists.’
‘But you and I don’t believe the Nazis’ lies, do we, now.’
The same furious undertone. Sverre Fenstad looks down. He turns and walks to the hallway. ‘You can stay here until we arrange transport and a guide across the border. Now let’s try and get a bit of shut-eye.’
Oslo, October 1967
1
Sverre Fenstad is sewing. He uses the thimble to press the needle through the leather, then holds the pliers to coax the needle out before tying the thread in a tight knot, making sure the pelt covers the seam, and preparing for the next stitch. He is bent over his old desk, concentrating hard, surrounded by everything he needs: the bottles of glue and solvent, bobbins, needles, awls, small scalpels, an ashtray and a cup of coffee. He enjoys sitting like this with the smell of glue, leather and alcohol, even if his back aches and his eyes are tired from concentrating so hard. This is how a hobby should be, he reflects. A hobby should create calm, keep every other intrusion at arm’s length and give you the satisfaction of mastering an activity.
He straightens his back and looks at the capercaillie on the chest of drawers. It is stretching its neck, head back, beak open, tail feathers fanned out, as if ready to lunge. You almost expect it to start strutting around. The otter, which he has attached to a tree root, seems to be smiling. The otter is playful. It is funny. Sverre is busy now with the biggest challenge he has ever faced. It is a rare pelt. A male lynx that was shot in Vassfaret more than a year ago. The hunter wants to decorate his mountain cabin with the trophy. Sverre pushes back the chair and gets up. He notices only now that the record has stopped playing. The stylus hasn’t risen as it should, instead it is jumping rhythmically on the inside groove. He goes over to the record player and lifts the pick-up. Places it carefully on the support. Discovers that he hasn’t closed the tube of glue. Goes back and screws the lid on. Lifts the cup. The coffee is cold. He pats his breast pocket, but the pouch of tobacco isn’t there.
He can’t be bothered to look for it. He stares through the basement window.
The shadows of Sognsvann Line carriages glide under the light illuminating the platform on Nordberg station. The metro train stops and stands still during the time it takes for the doors to open and close again before the row of lit windows moves on and is lost behind the trees. On the platform is the silhouette of one person. It is a man. He walks slowly down the ramp from the platform and disappears out of the light. To reappear under a lamp post in Holsteinveien. He is coming closer. The man seems to be on his way to Sverre’s front gate.
Sverre listens intently.
And sure enough. He hears footsteps outside. And then the bell rings.
Sverre grips the stick leaning against the desk and hobbles slowly up to the ground floor. He continues into the hallway and opens the door.
The man on the doorstep could be around fifty. He is a head taller than Sverre. Muscular chest. He stands with his hands in the pockets of a blue poplin coat; he has a plain hat on his head. The face has deep furrows around the mouth and marked lines around the eyes.
‘Sverre,’ the man says. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘Do we know each other?’
‘We did, once upon a time.’
At that moment the man grimaces. Sverre Fenstad angles his head at the sight of a familiar mannerism and recognises the features of the narrow head. ‘Gerhard?’ he says tentatively, until he is sure of himself: ‘Gerhard Falkum?’
Sverre places the stick against the door frame and proffers a hand, but the man keeps his in his coat pocket.
‘It’s a long time since anyone called me Gerhard. Most say Gary.’
Sverre doesn’t take offence. He grasps the stick and mumbles a ‘come in’.
Gerhard lays his hat on the pouffe inside the door. He has black, slicked-back hair; only around his temples are there specks of grey. He unbuttons his coat, but keeps it on.
At first Sverre thinks he should pass him a coat hanger, but decides to let his guest make his own decisions. Instead he shows him into the sitting room. He is puzzled by the visit and at a loss as to know what to do; he ends up by opening the cabinet in the shelving unit. This is where he keeps his collection of brandy. Five or six bottles. He brings out the Hennessy. He takes two brandy glasses from the adjacent cabinet and pours.
With his back to his guest, he says: ‘I thought you were dead.’ He turns back to the guest. ‘We all thought you were.’ He hands him a glass.
The situation with the glasses is a little strange as the other man has kept his coat on. But Gerhard takes the glass and looks around. With his free hand he picks up a photograph from a shelf. Studies it.
‘As you can see, I’m alive,’ he says in a low voice, showing the photograph to his host. ‘Your wife?’
/> Sverre takes it and nods. ‘Lillian’s dead. Cancer.’
‘And the child?’
‘A son. He’s a lawyer and … a state secretary.’
‘Power stays in the family?’
Sverre puts the photograph back and inhales, but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t like being interviewed in this way.
It is the guest who breaks the silence. ‘Grandchildren?’
Sverre angles his head, enquiringly.
‘Has the state secretary given you any grandchildren?’
‘No, not yet. I think they’re waiting.’
‘So he’s married?’
‘He is, yes. Skål.’
Gerhard raises his glass, but doesn’t drink.
They stand looking at each other, glasses in hand. Sverre enjoys the taste of the brandy as he tries to read his guest’s eyes. Falkum just looks at him, neutral and expectant. Those bluish-grey eyes focused and unmoving.
In the end it is Sverre who resumes the conversation. ‘How long has it been?’
‘About twenty-five years.’
‘Imagine. Twenty-five years.’
The guest nods.
‘But what have you been doing all this time?’
Gerhard looks down into his drink without answering. He raises his eyes and studies Sverre with the same expectant gaze.
‘Where have you been living?’
‘In the States.’ His pronunciation is so American that Sverre waits for him to continue. But he doesn’t.
‘Where in the States?’
The guest turns and takes in the room around him again.
Sverre himself looks at the room and its interior with a critical eye because it is being inspected by someone else. Some of the books in the shelving unit aren’t straight and some are piled up. The landscape painting from Fåvang has dust on the frame. There is a little spider’s web in the corner. The lithograph by Espolin Johnson is hard to decipher. The seat and arms of the wing chair in the corner are threadbare. The other armchair, a leather one, is facing the wrong way – at the television instead of the coffee table. Old newspapers on the table. Sverre has never been good at either decorating or tidying up.
The Courier Page 6
