The Courier

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  Gerhard glances at her. And finally breaks the silence.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I was thinking about Åse. There’s one thing I’ve always wondered. Why didn’t you get married?’

  Gerhard doesn’t answer. He continues driving and switches on the headlights.

  ‘You lived together and had a child. It’s unusual for an unmarried couple to decide to have children.’

  ‘So you think we decided, do you?’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘We didn’t decide. She was the one who wanted children.’

  Ester lets this information sink in. His words: she was the one. Implying that one of them didn’t want children.

  ‘I had a job on a newspaper. Then they began to applaud Quisling in the leaders. I quit, got a job in Oslo, and we found an apartment. Everything was fine and we moved to Oslo. But an informer knew I’d been in Spain. He wanted my job and got me kicked out. I had to join the dole queue every morning. There was work some days, a bit of loading and unloading at the harbour and so on, but mostly nothing at all. And there were Nazis who had it in for us anti-Krauts. I didn’t think it was such a smart idea to have kids.’

  ‘Not such a smart idea?’

  ‘It was wartime.’ He looked across at her. ‘I was wounded in Spain. Had a break for a couple of years and a normal life, kind of. Then the war came here. Being a civilian in those days – play-acting for the Germans, for normal people, not having a job – was pure theatre.’ He says nothing for quite a while, then goes on. ‘The child was her way of sorting out the mess. She thought a kid would bring us closer together. But that was before Turid was born. Afterwards Åse couldn’t get me out of the house fast enough.’

  Ester turns in her seat. Studies him, wondering what he really means.

  Gerhard looks in the side mirror, signals, pulls over and stops.

  For an instant this manoeuvre alarms her. But Gerhard sits passively staring into mid-air, ruminative, not saying a word. It is getting dark. They have stopped in some sort of lay-by. She spots a wooden table with benches, an outside toilet and an overfilled litter bin.

  A juggernaut roars past. It functions as a green light. ‘You didn’t know her like I did,’ he says.

  Ester thinks back to one day in Oslo during the war. She had forced herself on them. She hadn’t liked doing it, but also felt the atmosphere had gone beyond anything that her presence could affect. She leaned over their little baby while listening to Åse and Gerhard whispering outside the door. She had supposed they were quarrelling. She had believed they were talking about her, how she had barged in on them. But she had probably been wrong. They must have quarrelled often.

  Gerhard keeps both hands on the wheel. Then he takes a deep breath as if he has made up his mind.

  ‘The last person to see Åse alive was Erik Heggen.’

  Neither of them speaks for a while.

  ‘Åse opened the door to Erik Heggen the evening she was murdered. Erik and Åse had been to the same school, and he was always tagging along after her, even after she and I got together. Do you remember that I left you and Åse on your own when you came to ours? They’d arrested your father. I took the train to Fagernes. When I arrived I got a lift on a horse and cart up to the Valdres plateau. The others were already there when I arrived. Among them Erik Heggen. He’s – he was – a strange man. I don’t know what he’s like today. When he saw me in the mountains he knew Åse was alone. It didn’t strike me then, but I’ve had a lot of long evenings to ruminate over what happened during those days. The job in the mountains was to pick up all the containers after a British airdrop. They were scattered over huge areas and there were provisions in them. Lots of cans and a number of items it was impossible to get in the standard way during the war. Erik stole from the containers and went to Oslo to see Åse.’

  When Gerhard stops talking, there is silence in the car. She wants to hear the rest.

  ‘I’m only saying what I know and what Erik should’ve said a long time ago. At least to my daughter. He was with Åse – the day before or on the same day she was murdered.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  ‘Erik used to visit her. Åse’s mother ran a little farm and had food. Erik would sometimes drop by with salami and eggs and so on from her for Åse and me. I thought he did it for her mother. Of course, that wasn’t how it was. He did it to be with Åse. That day Erik stole from the airdrop. I knew he’d done it, but I had my hands full. Suddenly he was gone, and I didn’t give him another thought. Things were like that all the time. Most of us in the mountains were people with other jobs, who did their bit in their free time. What I didn’t know, but should’ve realised, is that he went to see Åse. When she was found dead, the police saw two glasses and found English products. That was why Sipo took over. They knew Åse had some connection with the resistance movement. So the whole apartment was taken apart brick by brick, and they found a gun. Then they started checking up on me. They uncovered all my past, put two and two together and made fifteen. They thought I was a big-time saboteur. They thought that, because I’d been in the Norwegian communist party and done this and that before enrolling in Spain, the gun in the apartment was mine. But the bottles were Erik’s.’

  ‘And this is the same Erik Heggen who adopted your daughter?’

  He nods. ‘So perhaps you can see why I have to tread carefully?’

  It was her turn to nod.

  ‘I’ve spent a number of years trying to work out what actually happened. When we met in Stockholm, I was in shock. I was depressed. Didn’t know where I was. Åse was dead and my daughter was somewhere else.’

  ‘Have you confronted Heggen with this?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘When were you thinking of doing it?’

  ‘There’s a time for everything, Ester.’

  ‘But you’ve been here long enough, haven’t you? You’ve been here for several days now without confronting the man you think is behind everything.’

  ‘He’s now the father of my daughter!’

  The knuckles on the wheel whiten. But Ester doesn’t want to stop there. ‘It’s difficult, I know. Everyone would acknowledge that. But for you there’s more. There has to be. Please tell me what it is.’

  When he turns to look at her it is through a blank veil, but she intends to see through it. For a moment she considers saying she followed him to the cemetery. Then she comes to her senses. That would divert her from finding out what lies beneath the surface.

  ‘What are you actually doing here in Norway, Gerhard?’

  Again he doesn’t answer.

  ‘You think you’re in control,’ she says. ‘You think you can manipulate and tell parts of the truth. But it’ll all come to light sooner or later.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ he says through clenched teeth. ‘Boloney, Ester. Do me a favour and talk sense if we absolutely have to talk.’

  ‘OK, Gerhard. I saw you with Brian Pankhurst in Stockholm – but you still think how you escaped is a secret, don’t you?’

  His body actually recoils. The reaction does something to her. Perhaps it is that simple, she thinks. Perhaps Gerhard’s manoeuvres are because he is afraid of losing his daughter again, losing her before he has her back. She understands the dilemma Gerhard is facing, of course. But she isn’t going to stop now.

  ‘You realised the briefing meeting that Friday in Stockholm was a set-up. But you didn’t have to go. You could’ve done as you said – gone back to Norway and joined Osvald or Pelle, or the other saboteurs. Instead you walked straight into what you knew was a trap. You dropped by my flat, but that wasn’t to take me along. You just showed your face so that afterwards I could witness that you’d been there. When the fire was out and the police found the bones in the ash, you went into hiding so that you could be declared dead. Why?’

  He is breathing heavily. Takes his right hand off the wheel and twists the ignition key. The car starts.

  They both lo
ok straight ahead. Neither of them says a word.

  With her eyes half closed, she sees his hand put the stick in gear. He drives. She looks out onto the road illuminated by the headlamps. They sit like this, silent, for a long time. When she decides the silence has lasted for long enough, she faces him and clears her throat. He switches on the radio, as an act of defiance. She looks to the front again. Otto Nielsen welcomes listeners to his radio programme.

  Ester grips the volume knob and turns up the sound. Otto Nielsen sings:

  He’s dead but he won’t lie down. He’s dead but he won’t lie down.

  Oslo, November 1967

  1

  With all the lit and unlit windows the house-fronts look like some kind of board game. Ester stands looking first at the windows then at the red tail-lights of the car driving away. It is quiet. Again she looks at the blocks of flats in Thomas Heftyes gate. In some of the windows there is a blue glow from the TV inside. Families having supper, she thinks. They sit down in front of the TV to be entertained. And even though she is happy to be finally out of the car and free of Gerhard’s sullen, angry presence, it is with a certain reluctance that she walks towards the entrance of her block to round off the evening in her own company. Then she notices that she isn’t alone. On the opposite side of the street, at the bus stop, sits a figure on the bench. This person stands up and limps into the light from the street lamp. It is Sverre Fenstad. He crosses the street.

  ‘Consorting with the enemy…’ It is a statement rather than a question. His face is in darkness.

  She has been slightly irritated by Sverre the whole time and now at last she understands why. He keeps his mouth safely shut, carefully filtering the information he imparts. The sudden interest he shows when he rings or shows up here is nothing more than snooping. He wants to know things, but he won’t give any information in return. She can feel her irritation growing, as she realises he feels no shame in using her for his dirty little intrigues.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ she says. ‘Have a chat. I’ve just been driven two hundred kilometres in total silence.’ She takes the lead up the stairs.

  She unlocks the door, switches on the light and shows him into the kitchen. Asks him if he wants a cup of tea. She pours water into a whistle kettle on the stove. Fills it up and puts it on the hotplate.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  She looks at him, long enough for him to know that he has just made a false move. ‘I’ve been to Åse’s grave. Where he’s been you’ll have to take up with him. I asked you if you wanted a cup of tea. Yes or no?’

  ‘Have you got a dram?’

  ‘Brandy or gin?’

  ‘I prefer brandy.’

  Ester takes a tumbler. Fetches a bottle of Martell from the cupboard under the sink and opens the seal.

  ‘You didn’t have to open one,’ he says from the chair by the window.

  ‘It’s been here for years. I don’t like brandy.’ She fills the glass half full.

  ‘Ester,’ he says with a smile. ‘You’re generous. Thank you.’

  She takes a tin of loose tea and pours some into a strainer. Glances at him from the worktop. With his sly expression above the goatee, he resembles a caricature of a pedlar – sitting there with his glass, scowling and planning. She guesses that he will say something innocuous at first. About Jonatan, for example. She is right.

  ‘How’s your son getting on? I think you said he was in the army, didn’t you?’

  ‘Fine. He’s already had a taste of combat.’

  He looks down as though regretting the question and hatches a new plan. Now he wants to get straight to the point, she thinks.

  ‘Gerhard probably won’t like it that you and I have such close contact,’ he says.

  She looks at him again. As though she cared what Gerhard thought about anything! ‘Why are you so keen to suspect him? There was nothing unusual in his hotel room, was there?’

  Sverre Fenstad swallows a mouthful of brandy.

  Now, she thinks. ‘Sverre.’

  He looks up.

  ‘Did you find anything in his room?’

  The kettle whistles. She goes to the stove. Pours the boiling water into the tea strainer. A herbal aroma spreads through the kitchen. She adds a little milk to her tea and stirs.

  She sits down. The heavy silence persists.

  He puts down his glass.

  They eye each other. ‘No,’ he says at length. ‘I didn’t find anything, Ester. We’ve talked about this before.’

  And I still don’t believe you, Ester thinks.

  ‘He’s come to take his revenge,’ Sverre says. ‘The challenge is to find out how.’

  ‘What would he have to avenge?’

  ‘Haven’t we all got something to avenge? Life is long.’

  Ester swallows her irritation again. ‘Don’t you think he would’ve wanted to come to Norway before if revenge had been on his agenda?’

  ‘Several of the International Brigade soldiers I’ve met lost something vital en route. For many of them war became a job, a way of feeling alive.’

  ‘Most of the ones I’ve met are still idealists,’ Ester says. ‘But what are you trying to say?’

  ‘What if Gerhard lost his belief?’

  ‘Anyone can lose their belief,’ she says, looking him in the eye.

  He returns her gaze without flinching.

  ‘Gerhard was part of the resistance movement,’ she continues. ‘So were you; so was I. What gives you, of all people, the right to say that he or I were driven by the wrong motives?’

  Sverre stares back with equal resolve. ‘Just forget what I said, Ester.’

  ‘Sverre, tell me what’s bothering you.’

  ‘Bothering me?’

  ‘You want Gerhard to be the enemy. Has he threatened you?’

  Now his eyes do wander. ‘Threatened me? No.’

  ‘You put the police onto him,’ she says.

  Sverre looks up again.

  ‘In the worst way. He said he was picked up by two uniformed policemen at the hotel in front of the other guests.’

  Sverre gesticulates dismissively.

  ‘They checked his passport and travel papers. Don’t tell me you weren’t behind it.’

  ‘I had my reasons.’

  ‘So let me ask you again: has Gerhard threatened you?’

  ‘No,’ he says, with an undertone of annoyance in his voice. ‘Why are you hassling me?’

  ‘Because I want to understand what your motives were when you set the police on the man.’

  ‘It was surveillance. And you can relax. Gary Larson’s always had a return ticket to the States. In not so many days we’ll be rid of Gerhard.’

  Ester reflects. Gerhard had said he went to Valdres to say his goodbyes. So perhaps what Sverre says is true. But what does Gerhard’s departure mean? She doesn’t know. But she can feel her curiosity growing as far as the main question is concerned. What is Gerhard actually doing? Why has he booked a fixed date for his return if he has come here to fulfil a neglected paternal role and clear up an unsolved murder?

  ‘I think Gerhard’s become a bitter man,’ Sverre says. ‘I understand that. I’d be bitter in his shoes. He does a fantastic job here in Norway. Then Satan intervenes. Someone kills the mother of his child. From then on he’s kicked around like a football, by the Germans on one side and the resistance people on the other. He’s booted around until one of them, his own allies, decide to get rid of him. You might remember Kolstad?’

  She remembers him, but sees no reason to interrupt Sverre now.

  ‘Gerhard survived by killing the man who was sent to kill him. Kolstad. But that’s water under the bridge.’

  Ester gets up. ‘That’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for you to say,’ she says.

  He looks up, tight-lipped.

  ‘I think I’ve had to wait rather a long time.’

  Not even now does he speak.

  She leaves the kitchen and goes into the bathroom.

&
nbsp; Here, she closes the door after her. Sits on the edge of the bathtub. On the one hand, it is sensible of Sverre finally to admit to the liquidation plan. On the other, it is hard not to take the admission personally. This figure of authority comments casually that Gerhard had to be liquidated by his own side. As if he were talking about pressing a flower for a herbarium. On top of which, he takes the liberty of doubting others’ motivation and integrity. It had been Torgersen who had given her the order, who had said she should take Gerhard to the briefing, travel with him. To be sure he turned up.

  And there lies the personal side of the matter: what plans did Sverre Fenstad and Torgersen have for her the evening it was due to happen?

  Is Gerhard right? Was she saved that night because she was a Jewish girl everyone felt sorry for? But if so, how had they planned to liquidate Gerhard but save her, the eyewitness? Ester takes nothing for granted in this case. She stands up, goes to the toilet bowl and flushes. Faces the basin. Takes the mascara from the cabinet at the side of the mirror. Checks her appearance once more before going back to the kitchen.

  Sverre Fenstad is rolling a cigarette.

  Ester sits down. ‘As the bones they found in the ash belonged to Kolstad you must’ve known all along that Gerhard was alive. Kolstad was your bodyguard. He disappeared. You must’ve realised that Gerhard survived the fire.’

  Sverre takes the roll-up out of his mouth. ‘There were remains in the fire. We found that out. But both Gerhard and Kolstad were missing. Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine that Gerhard had survived and would be able to hide from both the police and the Norwegians in Stockholm. He must’ve definitely had help. I have no idea how he did it. He didn’t know anyone – after all, he needed our assistance to get out of the Kjesäter camp. Where would he get new helpers from? Those of us still in Norway concluded that Gerhard and Kolstad killed each other or died in the fire.’

  ‘He must’ve found other people to help him while he was hiding in Stockholm.’

  ‘Well – that’s how it must’ve been. But how likely was that in those days? He was moved around so that the Swedish police wouldn’t be able to catch him. Then you say he met someone who was capable of tricking both the police and the whole of the Norwegian legation and afterwards getting the man out of Sweden? I cannot fathom how he managed it. Anyway, at the time we considered it to be highly improbable.’