The Courier

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  The first thing he says is: ‘Hi, Ester.’

  ‘Hi,’ she says, looking up as her right hand bangs the roller back to start a new line and her fingers find the rhythm once again.

  ‘How do you do that?’ he asks from somewhere behind her.

  She stops tapping. ‘I went on a course once. Besides, it helps if you can play the piano.’ She regrets her response immediately. Markus comes from the East End of Oslo and probably thinks playing the piano is snobbish. He has played centre-forward for Dæhlenengen and can reel off ad nauseam the results of the AIF league 1939 season.

  The dismissive comment about playing the piano fails to materialise.

  ‘Can you read music?’

  She swivels round on her chair and looks at him.

  He is holding out a letter.

  The handwriting is unmistakeable. Ester snatches the letter and turns it over. No doubt about it. The envelope has been opened.

  Censorship, she thinks, and is annoyed. Someone already knows what her mother wants to say to her. They have weighed up and assessed the contents and graciously allowed it through. Ester has strong opinions about this. She can – at a pinch – understand how people can join the far-right Nasjonal Samling party and make themselves believe the arguments of Quisling, Irgens, Riisnæs, Meidell and whatever they are called, but opening other people’s letters … That is dirty.

  She forces herself to stay calm. On the one hand, it is reassuring to receive letters. Simply holding one in your hands takes a burden from your shoulders and dampens any fears that the rumours are true. However, she still dreads reading the letter. She dreads bad news. And she doesn’t want to share it with anyone. She wants to react to it alone. She puts it down and pulls her chair in to continue doing her work.

  Ester types away doggedly, hardly aware now which keys her fingers are striking. After a while she looks up and finds Markus watching her with both hands in his pockets.

  ‘Anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Well, look at him!’

  Mildred appears from behind them, tickles Markus with both her hands and asks him if he thinks he is allowed to have favourites in the office.

  Ester grasps the opportunity, takes the letter, wriggles past them and into the little snack room. Closes the door. Sits down. Rips open the envelope with a tremulous forefinger. Unfolds the sheet of paper and looks at the date. It is more than three weeks old. But old news is better than no news.

  Dear Ester,

  I’m told that your journey went well. That was so good to hear. We have been worried about you. Mostly, though, I am happy you have got away. It gives me some peace of mind to know you are in a safe place and can move around without being frightened, without being noticed or feeling in other ways that you are valued less than the rest. I am sure you have written to us, but now the situation is such that hardly any post gets through. It is safest to send news via friends.

  Things here have taken a turn for the worse. The flat and our possessions have been confiscated and we, Gran and I, have to report to the police. It is humiliating, but still better than being in prison, as Dad has been for three weeks. Night after night Gran and I have discussed what to do, weighed up the pros and cons, but we have decided to wait before we follow you. Gran isn’t sure that she could manage the trip now it is getting colder and winter is approaching. It is no joke covering large distances at her age. She and I are living with fru Gleichmann in Tøberg now. Her husband has also been arrested. Dad and Gleichmann are both in Berg Prison, outside the town. Here in Tønsberg we have each other, and I hope I will have the chance to visit Dad soon.

  My dearest daughter, you have always been capable, strong, proud and intelligent. I am sure someone in Stockholm will find a use for you, a job. I am…

  That is all there is. The second sheet is missing. They have removed it!

  Ester takes all of this in. Whether it is the censorship or the content of the letter she was allowed to see that increases the pressure behind her eyes she cannot say. What is important is that all three of them are alive.

  Eventually she gets up and examines her face in the mirror above the washbasin. Washes. Blows her nose. Blinks. Her eyes are still red around the edges. Nothing she can do about that. She takes a deep breath. Opens the door and walks past the other girls. Markus has gone, fortunately. She looks down. Sits at her desk. Someone coughs. Ester looks up.

  2

  Torgersen is standing in the doorway to his office. He says he has to talk to her. He ignores the others in the outer room, all of whom are following the conversation with interest. He coughs again. ‘Privately.’

  Ester stands up. Follows her boss into his office.

  Torgersen resumes his place behind the desk. He is the kind of man who is always correctly dressed – in a dark suit with a waistcoat, a watch chain over his stomach. He is in his late fifties. He has short grey hair, a sensitive mouth and round frameless glasses. The eyes behind the lenses are blue and cold.

  ‘Ester, I need to ask you a different type of favour today.’

  Ester waits quietly.

  ‘A job. It might take you a little beyond your working hours.’

  As if that matters, she thinks, and says: ‘That’s fine. I haven’t got anything else to do.’

  ‘There’s a resistance man I understand you know: Gerhard Falkum.’

  Surprised, she looks up. She nods.

  ‘Falkum’s come to the refugee centre in Södermanland.’

  Ester sinks down onto Torgersen’s soft visitor’s chair while he tells her what he has been told by his contacts in the Swedish police. ‘They – the police, that is – want to remove him from the centre and question him here in Stockholm.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘He’s wanted by the Norwegian police.’

  ‘There are lots of Norwegians here who are.’

  ‘This is a bit different. Kripo in Oslo suspect him of murder.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘A civilian. A woman. Murdered.’

  ‘Gerhard? I don’t believe that.’

  ‘It’s a complicated case, Ester. This might be Nazi provocation. We don’t know much. Barely anything; and that’s highly problematic because Falkum’s an important person for us. He’s trusted.’

  ‘But who’s the dead woman?’

  ‘Her name’s Åse Lajord.’

  Ester gasps. ‘I know Åse. I know her well. I mean, I knew her…’ She whispers the last words.

  ‘My sympathies, Ester. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But I didn’t know.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Ester struggles to believe what she has heard and has the same sinking feeling she had when she was reading her mother’s letter. She has to force herself to straighten up, to be present.

  ‘As this concerns a serious crime – the murder of a civilian – no one can know how the Swedish authorities will react. I presume there’s little to fear. But you can never be totally sure. Falkum’s a highly trusted man with a great knowledge of resistance work in Norway, especially about how Milorg is organised. The last thing the legation here wants is a situation where extradition to Norway becomes an issue.’ Torgersen leans back in his chair and closes his eyes as if searching for the right words. ‘The reason I’m asking you this favour is that you know Falkum. I’d like you to go to the refugee centre and bring him back to Stockholm before the Swedish police can react. I think I’ve managed to delay any reaction from the police, but for no more than a day or two.’

  Torgersen fidgets restlessly with the edge of the desk. ‘The way I see it is that Falkum’s a capable sort. The challenge is to get him to be a team player.’

  She nods.

  ‘I’ve organised a car and a driver. Go there. Use us, the office, to gain access. Sort out the practical details with the driver. We have to make an attempt, and this is the best we can do, the situation being what it is.’

  Ester nods again and takes a deep breath. ‘When do you want me to go
?’

  ‘Can you travel now, as quickly as possible?’

  She nods again.

  ‘Then there are a couple of items here.’ He rummages through a desk drawer. Hands her a passport and a little box. ‘Le bon dieu is in the detail, as Flaubert once said.’

  3

  The dark shadows of trees flicker past. The frost has left a layer of rime on the fields and ice across the water. Ester is sitting on the back seat of a Ford, which is moving at a considerable speed. The driver is in his forties. A taciturn man. Twice she has tried to initiate conversation, but with no response, other than a cool look in the mirror. He doesn’t like this situation, she thinks. He doesn’t trust me. He thinks I am small fry, too young, inexperienced and stupid. Besides, I am a woman. He thinks this is irresponsible.

  On the other hand, he may appreciate silence. It is good not to have to talk when your mind is circling around the incomprehensible. It is one thing to tell yourself this is the way things are now. But to visualise it? Åse was strong; she believed in herself, lived with a man she loved without being married to him, bore and gave birth to a child at a time of occupation, insecurity and shortages. Ester admired her courage, will power – her refusal to let others govern her life; her refusal to let life stop. The Germans may have taken control of Norway, but they never controlled her. A sudden memory flashes in front of her: her and Åse hanging over the fence of the pig pen and feeding their sow with chickweed, and the pig that attacked them when there was nothing left to eat. The hysterical panic when Åse lifted her by the legs and she almost fell into the pig pen. How old were they then? Eleven? Twelve?

  Then she remembers their embrace when she was keen to get away and deliver the newspapers. Ester closes her eyes. Now she can’t see Åse anymore, only dad’s fingers on the bars of the police van. She is back in the confusion and shock of waking up in the darkness, as mum leans over her in bed. Torn from her sleep, she hears harsh voices behind her mother as she whispers: The police are here. They say they’re going to arrest Dad. Hurry to the shop and tell them what’s going on.

  Ester wrings her hands in her lap as the old panic sets in. What if the rumours are true? What if it is the same with her parents as it was with Åse – that they never meet again?

  She tells herself she has to concentrate on things it is possible to do something about. Gerhard is her concern now. Immediately an unease creeps in again. What has happened to the child? Could he really have left his daughter – a daughter now without a mother – in Norway? But if there are two of them, how will she get them out of the camp unobserved?

  She takes a deep breath to try and compose herself and earns another look in the mirror from the driver.

  The sun is low and shines from behind tall tree trunks with next to no undergrowth – pine trees: elegant skirts against the sky. She recognises this countryside and realises they are getting close.

  The driver stops twenty to thirty metres from the gate. Finally he opens his mouth. He speaks facing the windscreen. ‘You’d better get out here. Think that’s the best.’ Then he turns and looks at her, silent and expectant. Ester realises he is waiting for what she has to say.

  ‘Behind the sports ground,’ she says.

  He nods.

  ‘But it might well take time.’

  His cool expression softens. ‘Time is something we have enough of.’

  She opens the door. Quickly collects her papers. Shuts the door, but hesitates when she sees a movement ahead.

  The driver rolls down the window. He winks at her. ‘She who wants to reach the source has to swim against the current,’ he says. ‘You’ll do just fine.’ He winks again.

  Ester puts on a weak smile, then fills her lungs with air and starts walking.

  4

  The camp manager is a friendly man in his sixties. He wears a wig, she notices. Because her focus is now on him, she supposes. The last time she was here the focus was on everything else around her. She tries not to stare at the brown toupee balanced on his pate like a slightly too-small beret. He has grey sideburns and white stubble. But he is polite and says he remembers her. She doesn’t believe that for a moment. Ester tells him she has come on behalf of Torgersen. And it seems that, unwittingly, she has used the magic word – as soon as she mentions the name Torgersen the manager is all ears. She takes out a piece of paper and a pencil. Tells him that Torgersen is writing a report for the legation. With this in mind she would like to interview a random selection of Norwegian refugees about their experience of the situation. ‘It won’t take long,’ she assures him.

  ‘Take all the time you need.’ The manager is kindness itself. Could he read the report when it is finished? Naturally.

  She walks slowly along the path following a stream of people drifting towards the building that constitutes the central hub of the place. They are independent here. Most have community duties. And new refugees keep arriving from across the border.

  She waits until she is certain everyone has gone into the refectory. Then she walks to the door, enters and stands on the platform inside, surveying the assembled crowd. Meat soup is on the menu. The women in white aprons ladle it from big pots into bowls. At the long tables they sit close together, line upon line of men and women eating.

  From where she is standing she can be seen by everyone in the room. She has chosen this position intentionally. She lets her eyes wander from table to table and finally sees him watching her. He is sitting almost at the back, by the wall. His spoon hand hovers over his bowl. After exchanging looks he puts down the spoon.

  She beckons and goes outside.

  She moves away from the building, and walks over to the tall elm tree she always liked to be near when she herself was staying here. She takes off a glove and feels the bark, looks up at the gallimaufry of black branches – thick tapering lines that at the very top are like a spider’s web. She is dreading meeting Gerhard, but can feel her body calming down, here under the tree. She turns only when she hears his footsteps on the gravel.

  They look at each other without saying a word. In the end she takes two steps forwards and hugs him.

  His body is as stiff as a poker.

  She backs away and has to blink tears from her eyes. ‘I was rather dreading seeing you again.’ She could now say it’s nice to see him again, but she refrains. Silence is eloquent enough. It is a good silence.

  He asks if she has heard about Åse.

  She nods and moves towards the bench beneath the tree.

  They sit down.

  ‘You were one of the people she loved most,’ he says.

  She has nothing to say in response.

  ‘Perhaps the person she loved most of all,’ he says.

  Her daughter, Turid, she thinks. And she loved you, Gerhard, and her mother. But Ester is frightened her voice will fail her if she says what she thinks.

  ‘She’s supposed to have been suffocated,’ he says. ‘That’s all I’ve heard. But no one knows if there was a breakin or an assault, or if it was the work of a nutter.’

  She knows there is more to come and she has to be patient.

  He swallows. A lock of hair falls over his forehead. He looks away and runs a hand through his hair.

  He tells her that the police were in his flat when he arrived. He had been away for a few days, and he went up the stairs in the same way as he left, with a rucksack on his back. He stopped in his tracks when he saw a Gestapo man in the doorway of his flat. He turned and fled. After all, he had a gun in his rucksack. What he found out afterwards was that someone had paid a call on Åse, someone with rarely seen items from abroad – cigarettes and whisky.

  Ester stares into the air and tries to imagine it. Nosy neighbours in the block, men in uniforms. And Åse lying there naked while they tramp around her, talking in strident voices.

  Ester becomes aware of a movement on a branch above her head. It is a blue tit. She watches.

  Gerhard rubs his hands on his thighs. ‘The police would probably have
come to their senses if they hadn’t found one of my guns in the flat. Then they dug deeper and found my name on a register of people who volunteered for the International Brigade in Spain. Since then they’ve used the investigation to round up all the Milorg resistance people who came to our flat. I became a wanted man. They stuck posters of me on lamp posts all over the place. That set the informers off. So Sweden was the only solution.’

  Ester remembers the moment when the little girl gave a toothless smile, kicked her little feet and gripped her fingers. She manages to say without her voice breaking: ‘What’s happening with Turid?’

  He tells her that Åse’s mother is taking care of her. ‘So I know she’s fine. In the country. Apparently a young mother living nearby has a lot of milk and is breastfeeding our little one too.’ He averts his eyes.

  All that can be heard is the fluttering of the blue tit as it moves between branches. Then a door shuts in one of the barracks. A man comes out onto the doorstep, lights up a pipe and says something to a figure standing behind an open window.

  Ester can’t get the image of the little child out of her head. She is there again, in the bathroom – Turid kicking her legs happily and the silence outside the door where Åse and Gerhard whisper words they don’t want her to hear.

  ‘You’re the priority now,’ she says. ‘The police here are after you. You’re not safe in this camp.’

  A woman carries a pile of bed linen along the footpath between the barracks. The man holding the pipe calls to her.

  ‘The resistance committee in Stockholm has decided to give you a new identity. I have a car here. You and I have to travel back to Stockholm. We have to go now.’

  He straightens up and eyes her attentively. ‘I can see you have a plan.’