‘Don’t ask,’ he says. ‘I tell myself every day I’m getting better. This is my life-lie. I’m more dependent on my stick now than the day I was discharged from hospital in 1944.’ Sverre takes the last step and he is down. ‘The irony was that it was our own boys in the car,’ he says. ‘Even though I was several hundred metres away, the driver still managed to hit me.’
‘Our own boys?’
‘They’d liquidated Gunnar Lindvig, the Nasjonal Samling police inspector.’
‘You didn’t tell me that then.’
He smiles. ‘You didn’t tell me everything either – then.’
She smiles back.
‘The worst thing about the whole business wasn’t that I was left with a broken hip. It was worse that Reinhard started up Operation Blumenpflücken. It was an act of revenge that cost a lot of good men their lives.’
‘I was still frightened for you,’ she says.
‘I know. You wrote to me in hospital,’ he says.
They are silent as a heavy lorry passes them. ‘It’s all so long ago,’ she says, angling a glance at him. ‘And I have to confess I’m keen to find out the real reason for you contacting me now.’
He winks at her. ‘Real? Hm. The worst part is how to start,’ he admits.
‘Get straight to the point,’ she says.
His smile is broader. ‘Let’s go back to 1942,’ he says.
She nods.
‘October. A young mother’s killed in Ila, and the Gestapo reacted.’
‘I’ll never forget that case. I’d just been dumped. Do you know he had a daughter with her? Fehlis and Lillemor had a child. My God, I’ve wondered many times what sort of life they had, those officers who bore the responsibility. Heinrich Fehlis lived only thirty-nine years. Imagine living by those absurd ideals. And then he went and killed himself. In the depth of his soul he must always have known how wrong it was, everything they were doing.’
Sverre Fenstad links arms with her, and Vera blinks with emotion as they walk.
‘You genuinely loved him, didn’t you?’ Sverre says at length.
‘I genuinely loved you, too.’
The low sun angles in from the south-west. The treetops across Nesoddlandet and Bygdøy still glow orange; they resemble giant light bulbs when the light hits them. A Nesodden ferry is on its way to the quay.
‘I had to grass on them when peace came,’ she says. ‘In Hvalsmoen. I had to wear a veil, but I had to go round and point them out, the ones hiding among the rank and file. Gestapo officers and their lovers. Finn Knutinge Kaas and I did that. He was keen, I can tell you – he even picked out a former girlfriend. All to save his own skin.’
They stand looking at the still water in the harbour. Litter and rubbish float alongside the wall. ‘What war does to people,’ he sighs.
‘He was sentenced to death, Kaas was.’
‘And reprieved. Like most of them. Today he’s probably a businessman in Germany. Bremen.’ Sverre falls silent for a moment. ‘Actually he should’ve died as early as 1943 … I think. He was down to be liquidated. Our boys set themselves up in a flat across the street from him. But that night Kaas had a visitor, a woman. The plan was that he’d be shot as he drew the blinds in the morning. And then it was her. Who drew the blinds, I mean.’
They walk on, lost in thought. The ringing of a bell means that the shunter locomotive is on the way. They hurriedly cross the rails and head for a free bench by one of Per Hurum’s bronze sculptures of women.
‘Perhaps she was lying by the nearest window,’ Vera says. ‘Or perhaps he was more tired than she was. Fate hangs on such small details, and I spend too much time thinking about them.’
They sit down and without speaking watch the goods wagons clanking past.
The last wagon disappears behind Oslo West station. ‘The role of chance is interesting,’ Sverre says. ‘Lillian, my wife, was deeply religious and thought the war was caused by “Evil”, literally. She was preoccupied with nature’s signs. For example, the extremely cold winters during the war, she thought, were a sign that “Evil” had gained the upper hand over or outmanoeuvred “Good”.’
She squeezes his arm again and they are silent. In the end it is Vera who speaks first. ‘What I remember about the dead mother is that the case was shelved. The man they thought had killed her died himself apparently, in a bombing raid or something like that. He escaped to Sweden after killing her.’
‘In the resistance movement we didn’t share the Nazi view of the case.’
She turns to him, waiting to hear more.
He smiles weakly. ‘Might it be possible to find any of the investigation paperwork now?’
She eyes him. ‘We can only try.’
‘That would make me very happy. Sipo had something going at Valkyrie plass station at the same time. A courier must’ve been arrested a little earlier. This woman was supposed to take delivery of a bag of illegal newspapers at the station. She appeared at the station with the policemen in civvies. But she went to the wrong platform, presumably to give the other courier, who had the newspapers, a chance. Do you remember a case like that?’
Vera shakes her head. ‘But it might be easier to investigate. I presume the woman will have testified against some of the torturers in the trials after the war.’
2
The fencing piste resounds as her feet accelerate in an attack, but Captain Hanaas parries and ripostes, so she has to retreat. Ester is well aware she is having a bad day. She parries badly and when she does hit, she doesn’t hit hard enough to score any points. She is behind the whole time. Barely able to keep her balance when she is in a lunge position. Having lost two training bouts against Hanaas, as she goes into the next, again she isn’t concentrating. He immediately has two scoring strikes. The next point is hers, but then he is back like lightning and scores. After a few seconds she loses her balance and oversteps the line. She has to retreat a metre before they can restart. She can’t see his expression behind the mask, but she knows he is grinning. Today of all days she could have done with a female opponent, someone who was lighter and smaller than her. But no other women in the Oslo Fencing Club use an épée; and Ester prefers the épée to a foil. They are en garde again. She advances rapidly and he backs away. This is more like it. The lost metre is regained. She parries and lunges, but also this strike is too weak to count. She parries again, but he is quick and she feels it when he hits home. So he wins the point. That was that. The first to five and he won.
‘Scheiße.’ She swears in German because it is neutral. Her God doesn’t listen to German, whether it is cursing or common sense. She tears off her mask and shakes her hair loose. She could drink a litre of Coke at least. No, a beer. A Danish pilsner from the cellar. That would be something.
Captain Hanaas has also removed his mask. Sweaty, but happy to have beaten her. ‘Another one?’
Ester says no. ‘It’s not my day.’ She could add she hasn’t had enough sleep and therefore lacks concentration, but she refrains.
She goes to the changing room to shower. Takes off her fencing uniform and fetches a towel from her bag. Stands listening. She can hear water running. Two women are there, at least. They are talking and laughing. As a rule she waits until she can have the shower room to herself. But today she can’t be bothered. She will have to lump it. She goes in and hangs her towel on the hook. The two young women are both fit and buxom. Straight away both stare at her scar. Both react in the same way as everyone else. They go quiet. They look away. They look down at the floor and send each other a furtive glance.
Ester turns her back on them and washes. She is soon finished. Before the other two. Dries down with her back to them. After she closes the door, they resume their conversation. Probably they talk about her, about the scar. Ester quickly sets about getting dressed and imagines the conversation they could have had: No, it’s not a failed caesarean. And, yes, you’re right, I don’t want to talk about it. Yes, it does bother me. I can’t wear a bikini. I nev
er sunbathe. I don’t undress in front of a man with the lights on. In Norway you can’t have cosmetic surgery. Yes, I have thought about it – travelling to America and having it done. But it costs a fortune. I’m sure you’ve read that.
Ester gazes at the wall. It almost cost Ester her life. One second’s inattention on 2nd December 1947. Three days after the UN passed the partition plan for Palestine. Jonatan was ten months old. She had something to do, but forgets what. Death leaves no space for trivialities. Ester remembers the awning flapping, which caused her to lift her eyes, which allowed her to see the sun glint on the knife blade, which gave her time to react.
She is slowly putting on her coat now, but hurries when she hears the two young women turn off the water in the shower room. She wants to be gone by the time they come out.
A last check in the mirror and she rushes out of the changing room. Continues towards the front doors of Njårdhallen and her car parked at the back. Captain Hanaas is waiting outside. His face is as red and content as when he placed the final thrust. He has bought a hot dog from the kiosk.
‘Same time next week?’ he asks, biting off a piece of sausage. She nods and waves, and heads for her car. All she knows for certain about Hanaas is his rank. She assumes he works for the intelligence service. Her assumption is based on his greeting her by name at the first training session. He made no secret about knowing it. But he has never overstepped the mark. Has never mentioned names or events. Has only made the parameters clear: I know who you are.
They have made it a routine to train together. He is in the club more often than she is. But he usually stops his other training to fence with her. When she says he doesn’t have to, he grins and says she will have to use a foil if she wants to train with the women. Mostly their bouts end in a draw. Sometimes she wins, and then he leaves under a black cloud.
Ester gets into the car. Her body is pleasantly stiff and sore. She likes the feeling and luxuriates in it for a while. Rummages through the heap of cassettes on the passenger seat. Finds what she is after and puts it into the player. Turns the ignition key. The car starts. Dinah Washington immediately launches into ‘Alone’. Ester reverses, humming along. There is something desperate yet satisfying about Dinah’s appeals for what might never happen. It is a lone wolf’s cry for the moon, Ester thinks. The song is a statement of my own situation, she thinks, and waves to Hanaas, who is going in the opposite direction; he lives in Bærum, in the Defence quarters in Eiksmarka. She drives out of the Njårdhallen car park, down towards Smestad. Carries on towards Majorstua, turns right by Volvat and drives alongside the Vigeland Sculpture Park home. But she hesitates by Frogner plass. Makes a quick decision and steers hard right to Skøyen. It is worth a try, she muses. Passes the Vigeland Museum thinking, yes, it is actually a damned good plan. Perhaps it’s the bouts against Captain Hanaas that have given her the idea. She can’t use him, but she can use what he stands for. So all she has to do is find the right man in the right network.
3
Ester turns off the main road by the neogothic palace on the hill, continues down the narrow drive and pulls up in front of the red garage doors marked 82c. She gets out of the car. Stands for a few seconds admiring the embassy building, then ascends the staircase and reports to the duty official. She asks for Rabbi Rebowitz.
‘Is he expecting you?’
She shakes her head.
‘Name?’
‘Lemkov, Ester Lemkov.’
The official is young. His shaved neck looks vulnerable as he leans forwards with the telephone to his ear, and she feels like stroking him. He must be the same age as her son, Jonatan, and she wonders if they have trained together as recruits. He says she can wait inside, then comes out of the duty room and leads the way to the house.
The fire is lit in the huge reception room. Ester stands by the tall windows and looks out. The Bygdøy landscape is aflame with autumn hues, and Oscarshall Palace towers like a fairy-tale castle amid the orgy of colour.
A door opens and Ester turns. A woman peers at her through the narrow opening. Ester doesn’t recognise her and makes no attempt to greet her. The door closes. Ester turns back to the window.
She doesn’t hear him come in. Senses only that she is no longer alone. When she looks round, he is there, in the middle of the room, wearing a dark suit and a skull cap on his head. The round, rimless glasses give him a somewhat squinting expression.
‘It’s been a long time, Ester.’
She nods.
‘What brings you here?’
‘I’d like to ask you a favour, Markus.’
He nods, almost imperceptibly.
‘I need some help to investigate something – in America.’
Markus Rebowitz raises both eyebrows.
‘A Norwegian is calling himself Gary Larson – an anglicised version of Geir Larsen. He came to Oslo from the USA a few days ago. Apparently he runs a petrol station in Minneapolis. I need to know more about him.’
Rebowitz lowers his gaze and thinks.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I remember a Geir Larsen from Stockholm. He died.’
‘He didn’t.’
Markus Rebowitz sucks his teeth. Wry smile. ‘You’re no longer in service, Ester, and you haven’t been for a long time.’
‘So?’
‘May I ask why you’re asking me to do this?’
‘It’s private.’
‘The problem is, we don’t do this kind of work for private individuals.’
‘I know.’
‘Yet you’re still here.’
She nods. ‘I’m not asking for a big investigation. I just want his story checked, possibly fleshed out. I need to know the details of it. Yes, it’s important for me from a personal perspective, and I doubt this will cause either you or the embassy any inconvenience.’
Markus Rebowitz searches her eyes.
‘Consider it a personal favour,’ Ester continues. ‘I want to know what he’s living off. Is he married, has he got any children, has anything dramatic happened in his life recently that might’ve suddenly made him want to travel to Norway? A country he left, using a different identity, many years ago, during the Second World War.’
Markus tilts his head. ‘End of forty-two, wasn’t it?’
She nods.
‘And you want some flesh on this? It could take time.’
‘I’m willing to wait.’
‘We need more people like you, Ester. You’re missed.’
‘But I’ve stopped, Markus. I live a quiet life now. I’d like to carry on like that.’
‘When your name was mentioned just now, people’s faces lit up, Ester. You’re sorely missed.’
‘But I’m fine as I am, Markus.’
‘Do you give piano lessons?’
‘Yes.’
‘That must be a big change.’
‘For the better, yes. It’s different.’
‘Your boy’s also getting good references,’ he says with a smile.
She looks down. ‘I hope he avoids having to fight again.’ She looks up again and feels she has to explain her negative response. ‘There were some tough days this summer.’
He is quiet, and she feels some irritation at having exposed herself in this way. ‘It was tough not knowing whether Jonatan was alive or not,’ she says finally.
‘Of course,’ he says.
It is a polite response, but unsympathetic. This embarrasses her – both his lack of interest and the fact that she has been standing here, cheapening her emotions.
‘We’re an exposed country and an exposed people. Attacks like this will happen again,’ he says.
Now it is her turn to answer politely and unsympathetically. ‘Of course.’ She prepares to leave, faces the door.
‘I’ll see what I can find out about Larson.’
‘I appreciate that, Markus.’
‘In return, I expect to see you more often at the synagogue.’
Ester looks down. ‘I’ll
do my best, Markus. I promise I’ll do my best.’
Stockholm, December 1942
1
The Swedes say they have never had such a cold December. Ester has wrapped herself in a woollen cloak and wound her scarf around her neck several times. She trudges across Kungsbron Bridge on stiff legs. The cold nips at her face. The freezing air makes her nostrils stick as she breathes in. She has her felt hat pulled down well over her ears. Klara Sjø canal is steaming and there are still open channels, and from chimneys white wisps of smoke rise against the deep-blue sky. She turns left into Vasagatan. She has to step into the road to pass two coalmen shovelling coke down through an opening to a cellar. She wonders which is worse: extreme cold or extreme heat. Her father used to say the cold is fine because you can just wrap up and protect yourself. The heat however … Then her mind goes back to the same thoughts. As they do every day. Where are they? Have they got enough warm clothing? Surely it can’t be as cold in Germany as it is here. That is impossible. But then she stops and stares into the distance. She is deluding herself. What would the point be of transporting them out of Norway? She doesn’t want to think these thoughts. Instead she represses them, concentrates on walking, telling herself she has to focus on something else, something nice. But what? She looks at the monumental buildings towering up everywhere in this city. Thinking that, despite everything, the world has developed this far. There are generations of people behind towns. They have lived here for hundreds of years. They have built houses and paved streets. They have had children and built schools for the future. War is temporary, a destructive force that will decline because there is nothing positive about destruction. It is as simple as that. As simple as ABC. Call me naïve, she tells herself, continuing down Vasastan. For someone sinking, finding solid ground has meaning. She clings to this thought, and through walking generates some heat. The Roman Empire survived for as long as the culture held decadence in check. Napoleon was a megalomaniac soldier who was doomed to fail sooner or later. Hitler is a copyist who doesn’t even dare stand in the forward column of troops. Everything is in the Allies’ favour. Everything except time.
The Courier Page 12
