The Courier

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  She shakes her head at the affected ‘My dear’. He is quick on his feet and helps her remove her coat. Hangs it on a hook and says that this is almost as if they were married properly.

  She is hot. Her body reacts to the transition, having walked fast for quite a distance in the extreme cold. She starts sweating. Takes off her boots and walks past him and into the sitting room. Sees how tidy everything is. The positive side is the commitment, the consideration. The negative side is that, whoever does the cleaning also looks as they do it. She can feel she doesn’t like that. In a way this little flat contains everything she is now. She doesn’t like other people looking in her cupboards and drawers without being invited to do so. She thinks about the Hirden, the NS militia, who invaded her home in Oslo. Has he been through her bedroom as well? No, fortunately, it seems to be how she left it – in a mess. She finds some clean clothes in the wardrobe. Changes into a different blouse. Closes the door after her on her way back to the sitting room.

  But he is standing in the corridor in front of her, and she has to stop abruptly to avoid a collision.

  We are standing too close, she thinks. She closes her eyes.

  He lays a hand on her cheek. Then the other.

  Without thinking, she strokes her cheek against his hand. The movement becomes a caress. She almost gives a start at the thought and opens her eyes. They are close to each other. His breath is hot. She should take a long step back now, she thinks, but doesn’t move.

  It is only when she feels Gerhard’s lips on hers that she steps back and frees herself. She does so in panic.

  ‘You smell of fresh air,’ he says.

  She turns away. Searching for something to talk about, something that can return the situation to what it was before they held each other. But she finds nothing. Eventually she meets his eyes, which are questioning, enquiring, wondering and at the same time appraising.

  She grasps his hand. They stand like this, face to face. This silence is more intense than the moment when he held her, and she thinks, now I won’t be able to resist.

  But his hands don’t move. He is about to say something. She places a finger on his lips. She pulls herself together and says:

  ‘They’ve decided that you should stay in a hotel – Sirena. It’s just by Norrmalmstorg. The square.’

  He smiles again. ‘Are you throwing me out?’

  She smiles back, grateful for the gentle reaction. ‘The resistance people want you to stay there until further notice. I’ll accompany you there.’ She adds: ‘Afterwards.’

  Oslo, November 1967

  1

  It is afternoon by the time Sverre Fenstad catches the tram home. Once again he sifts through what he has done. Was it right not to tell Ester about the weapon he had found in the cistern? Again he concludes it was, for the time being. Hiding the blade with such care may suggest Gerhard intends to use it – or thinks it might be necessary to do so. Such a conclusion proves that Sverre is right to focus on Gerhard’s as yet unknown agenda. Sverre’s motto is: keep a cool head. Fishermen are the apostles of patience. Waiting is an art. Waiting until you know more. The same rule applies when information has to be disseminated. Inform when the time is ripe.

  Having got off at Nordberg he stands on the platform, watching the tram disappear around the bend before he tackles the hill. As soon as he leaves the platform, he hears a car engine start up. The driver accelerates. Sverre steps back into the snowberry bushes. The car screams to a halt beside him.

  Sverre loses balance, but regains it. The car is a white Volvo Amazon. The driver stretches across the passenger seat and rolls down the window.

  ‘Find anything, did you?’

  Gerhard’s face is distorted into a frozen grimace. ‘Find what you were looking for?’

  Sverre chooses not to answer. He sets off walking.

  Gerhard drives slowly alongside, so close that Sverre is almost shunted off the road.

  Gerhard shouts through the window: ‘You’re a clown, Sverre. Ever heard that before?’

  Sverre is silent. He is frightened by Gerhard’s fury. He seems so out of control. Sverre just focuses on the weapon in the cistern. The goal is now to reach his front door. Get nearer to people and houses. Witnesses. In case he has to call for help. Climbing the hill makes him out of breath; his panting means he doesn’t catch all Gerhard says. He keeps going. When he is close to his gate he sees people.

  A girl in stretch pants and an anorak is walking a cocker spaniel; the dog stops and lifts a rear leg against the gate post.

  Sverre stops.

  The girl nods to him and pulls at the dog, which resists at first, but then follows happily.

  The car has stopped.

  Sverre looks for the girl, who turns into a gateway. He wonders if he should talk to her, get her to turn round, come over. But he doesn’t. He looks across at the car. Gerhard has also been watching the girl. Now she is nowhere to be seen.

  Gerhard opens the car door and steps out. He doesn’t move. They glare at each other over the car roof. Finally Gerhard closes the car door.

  Sverre casts around the neighbouring houses for help. All his eyes see are empty verandas and blank windows reflecting the sky. No one around.

  ‘You think the world is as it was before,’ Gerhard says. ‘You think you won the war on your own, don’t you. You, with a little help from Max and Kjakan.’

  Sverre doesn’t answer.

  ‘The Soviets took Berlin with a loss of fifteen million men. A trifle, eh?’

  Sverre struggles to control his breathing.

  ‘Did you ever wear a uniform, Sverre?’

  Sverre takes a step back towards the gate.

  ‘After victory arrogance is a new and greater opponent. But perhaps you never learned that?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Don’t you think I know who was constantly travelling from Oslo to Stockholm in December forty-two? Don’t you think I know what you were doing there?’

  Again Sverre’s eyes wander to the neighbouring houses. Some lit windows gleam in the afternoon. But still there is no one around.

  ‘And don’t you think I intend to do something about it?’

  ‘Is that a threat, Gerhard?’

  ‘Are you anxious?’

  Sverre doesn’t answer.

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  Sverre assumes that, so long as they are standing still, the situation won’t degenerate into something nasty.

  ‘Did you ever fire live ammunition during the war, Sverre? I know you pushed a lot of paper. I know you sat with a mask over your face in meetings with people who were playing the same war game as you.’

  Sverre Fenstad dangles his hand behind him, finds the catch on the gate and opens it.

  ‘Before you go,’ Gerhard says, resting his arms on the car roof. He folds his hands and leans casually against the car, as though this were a cosy chat between two old friends. ‘Let me tell you a little story from another war. When we were lying in the trenches by Cordoba, sometimes we were posted as sentries in no-man’s land to resist the Moroccans. It was the worst sentry duty you could have. Because if you fell asleep on duty you were done for. It wasn’t unusual for us to wake up in the morning and find a comrade with his throat cut. No one wanted this sentry duty…’

  ‘Where are you going with this, Gerhard?’

  ‘If you were ordered to do this duty there was only one way to stay awake all night: you had to put the rifle butt on the ground and the bayonet under your chin.’

  Sverre’s breathing is normal now. ‘I just asked you a question,’ he says. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  Gerhard straightens up. Opens the car door.

  Sverre breathes out.

  Gerhard points to his chin. ‘A bayonet, Sverre, under here.’

  He gets in, twists the ignition key and presses the accelerator. The tyres scream as they spin away.

  Sverre waits until the car has gone before turning and going indoors. He goes upstai
rs and into the bathroom to take a shower and change into fresher clothes.

  2

  The lighter is a silver-coloured Ronson. It makes hardly any noise when the top is pressed, and the yellow gas flame burns equally soundlessly. Its special feature is that the hood over the jet remains open until you close it and smother the flame. This makes the lighter ideal for lighting a pipe or a cigar. It was a present from Lillian almost eleven years ago. Five years before she died. It fits well into his hand and is always with him at work, in his free time and on holiday. Now he is lighting up and puffing at his cigarette – the second he has lit while he has been waiting. Sverre is sitting at the corner table in La Belle Sole and has smoked half the cigarette by the time Vera finally appears. The sight of her takes him back years. He remembers the scene as if it were yesterday – the moment the perfectly shaped diva entered the room and revelled in the hot, admiring gazes that evening in 1942. This is a sort of reprise. The room has barely any customers, and Vera has packed her feminine charisma into an unknown number of kilos and added an aura of grandchildren and exotic cake. He crushes the cigarette in the ashtray, gets up and holds a chair for her, the way he used to do.

  Vera strokes his cheek and sits down. ‘How amusing that you wanted to meet me here, Sverre.’

  Her hat, however, is in the latest fashion, a striped, tight-fitting creation, resembling a helmet. It brings out her facial features in a becoming manner. She looks around. ‘But I liked the old furniture better. The high seat-backs were intimate and reminded me of the little compartments on a train.’

  ‘I’ve always had a soft spot for this place. It’s remarkable that a restaurant in Oslo can keep going for more than forty years. I think only the Grand and the Theatercafé can rival it.’

  Vera smiles. ‘What about Stratos, Cecil or Dovrehallen?’

  ‘Yes, but I used to know the owner, Hans Larsen, quite well. He died earlier this year, you know. He bought the whole block back in 1923, and established the restaurant then. In those days he had a chicken farm across the road, in a kind of barn outside the university library. The menu wasn’t very big in those days, remember? So he just walked across the road and twisted the neck of a chicken when he needed one.’

  ‘He’d stopped doing that when we were here. I know the bird that was served in most restaurants during the war was crow.’

  Sverre nods. ‘Crow’s supposed to be a delicacy. If they’re cooked well, most animals are good. I’ve heard they eat dogs in China.’

  ‘Thank you. I prefer fish. The owner must’ve done too, don’t you think?’ Vera points to the aquarium taking pride of place in the middle of the room.

  The waiter arrives with menus.

  Vera asks for a glass of red Martini to start with.

  The waiter withdraws.

  ‘You used to be able to point to the fish you wanted served fresh,’ Sverre says. ‘But Larsen developed personal friendships with the fish. He gave names to the ones that lived longest. Called them Hitler and Stalin, Mons and Betsy. Then it was harder to let them go.’

  They sat looking at each other.

  ‘I might’ve managed to locate the woman you’re searching for. The only problem is that she’s dead. Would you like the long or the short version?’

  ‘The short one,’ he says.

  ‘OK. This woman – Åsta something or other – was a courier. Åsta was arrested in October 1942. Which meant that she testified in many cases against certain top-ranking Nazis in forty-five and forty-six. Among others, Reidar Haaland. When Åsta was arrested she was subjected to a brutal interrogation – by Haaland. I think the case against him will be interesting for you. When Haaland ratcheted up the pressure, she chose to confess – but she also gave false information to make up for the damage her confession caused. She admitted to Haaland that she sometimes worked as a courier. Then he wanted to know who her contact was and when they met. She made up a story about her contact being a man with a cover name of Kåre. This Kåre used to catch the Sognsvann line to the centre of town from Valkyrie plass station. The truth was that that she regularly met a female courier working under the cover name of Hilde. Åsta and Hilde always met on the opposite platform. They caught the metro together to Sognsvann. She didn’t know Hilde’s identity – only her cover name. This Hilde didn’t testify. I haven’t been able to find out why. Perhaps she’s dead. The routine was that, whenever they met, they would sit together on the tram with the bag between them. They always chose a time of the day when there weren’t many people around. Hilde always got off at the first stop – Majorstua station. She always left the bag of illegal newspapers behind. Åsta got off at Tåsen station and handed the bag to her contact there.’

  ‘Hilde wasn’t dead,’ Sverre says. ‘She spent a number of years abroad after the war.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it, then. Well, on this particular day Åsta was accompanied to the station by two men: Haaland and a German from the Gestapo. Both wore civvies. She led them down to the wrong platform. The aim was to tell the other courier – Hilde – that their cover had been blown. She would try to talk her way out of it with Haaland afterwards. Hilde appeared on time. However, the two men spotted her. They tried to capture her, but Hilde got away. Afterwards Åsta was again subjected to a brutal interrogation. But she had no idea what Hilde’s real identity was. So in the end she was released.’

  The waiter brings Vera’s Martini. They look up at him.

  ‘Are you ready to order?’

  Vera looks across at Sverre. ‘I’ll have what you’re having, as always.’

  ‘I’ll have the halibut.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And to drink?’

  ‘The house white – if it’s dry.’

  ‘It isn’t, but I have a Riesling for the same price. I’d recommend it with halibut.’

  ‘Then we’ll take it.’

  Sverre waits until the waiter is out of hearing. ‘What about the murder of Åse Lajord?’

  ‘I’ve only just started to look into that. Haven’t found anything yet. Don’t expect too much, either. The paperwork may’ve disappeared in the chaos of peace. There was a lot of German propaganda about this case during the war. But I still remember the civil case. You can ask me about that.’

  ‘The civil case?’

  ‘The guardianship. Åse Lajord’s mother, Margaret Lajord, was awarded custody of the child. She can thank me for that. And the money.’

  ‘The money?’

  ‘The poor girl must’ve scraped together a pretty big deposit for her flat, so that was still with the building owner, and there was still rent in credit, and the furniture was worth a bit too. I helped to sell some stuff. Imagine, at that time I did all that for your sake – and you didn’t give it a thought.’

  ‘Are you saying the flat belonged to Åse?’

  ‘She rented it. I remember the Gestapo lapped that up. Falkum using the lodgings as a kind of cover made him more suspicious in their eyes. Åse Lajord’s mother died of kidney failure in 1944. Before she died, the child was adopted by a younger couple in Valdres. Erik and Grete Heggen. They live here in Oslo, in the Slemdal district. I found his name in the phone directory. Apparently they were childhood friends of the girl who was killed. Oh, and I’ve just remembered one more restaurant – the Ekeberg. It’s been going since 1929, hasn’t it?’

  The waiter has brought the bottle of wine. She straightens up and falls quiet as he opens it.

  3

  Gerhard leans back in the driver’s seat. He has a grandstand view of the window and Sverre Fenstad sitting inside with a woman. They are eating and laughing together. It almost looks like he is getting her drunk. As soon as the first bottle is empty, another appears on the table. Gerhard leans back again and tips his hat over his eyes. The next time he looks up they are onto the dessert. Fenstad has a cognac and the lady a small glass of a greenish liqueur. Not long to wait now, fortunately. Gerhard takes a pack of cards from his pocket and plays patience on the passenger’s se
at while keeping an eye on the two of them. The street lamp gives just enough light. He plays Perpetual Motion and, strangely, discards all the cards at the fifth attempt. At that moment Sverre Fenstad and the plump woman are on their way out. He gives them a head start of fifty metres before opening the door and following them.

  Vera and Sverre stroll side by side along the tram tracks in Solli plass. It is dark and quiet. They stop by the timetables board. She casts an eye over the times and then looks at her watch. ‘I can never remember when they go.’

  ‘You still live in Torshov?’

  She nods. ‘Fredrik signed up for the OBOS housing co-op when we got married. But he still hasn’t been offered the dream flat we’re going to live in. Now we’ve been married for twenty-one years. Altogether I’ve lived for thirty-two years in Hegermanns gate.’

  ‘You haven’t thought of moving to a modern satellite town?’

  ‘No, thank you. High-rises and howling winds? The view I have is still among Oslo’s best, and the flat’s just the right size.’

  They look at each other.

  ‘Now it’s as if we’re the ones who are married,’ she says. ‘Our conversation has no energy or excitement.’

  He is about to say something.

  She places a finger on his lips. ‘Here’s my tram.’ She holds up a hand. They both step back a pace. The tram stops. The door opens. ‘It was good to see you again, Sverre,’ she says.

  He nods. ‘I think so, too.’

  She gets on.

  He stands watching the tram as it pulls away. A single HØKA carriage. It tapers at the back into a square window. Vera stands there. She waves. He raises a hand. Vera and the window become smaller and smaller. Soon she is out of sight.