‘Go to bed. I’ll wait for her.’
For another long moment she stares at his back, then she closes the door and goes upstairs.
She cleans her teeth and puts on her nightdress. Paces the room, wondering what to do. Should she go back downstairs to talk some sense into him? She listens carefully for tell-tale clinks of bottles or glasses.
Instead she hears a faint hum from outside. She goes to the window. The hum comes from a car engine idling. A white car. She recognises the idiosyncratic shape: a Volvo Amazon. Two yellow cones of light cut through the darkness. Thank God, Grete thinks, now she is coming home, at long last. Grete switches off the bathroom light so that she can see outside better. She sees Turid’s long legs. Turid is standing by the car, holding the door open and talking to the driver. Has she got a new boyfriend?
Then Turid straightens up. Closes the car door and waves after the car as it continues down Slemdalsveien. Turid walks quickly to their front entrance.
Grete opens the bathroom door and goes into the corridor. Hears the front door open downstairs. Hears the rustle of Turid’s coat as she hangs it up.
Erik’s voice: ‘Did you come by car?’
Turid’s voice: ‘Got a lift.’
‘Who with?’
Turid’s bubbling laugh. ‘Don’t be so nosy.’
Turid comes up the stairs.
Erik shouts after her. ‘You’re still living at home. You have to obey our rules for as long as you live here.’
Turid takes no notice. She just hurries up the stairs as though propelled by the words, Grete thinks. As though he is pushing her up and away from him. Because Turid naturally feels the same as Grete. The immense pressure.
As Turid reaches the top, they exchange glances. The daughter says nothing. But they have looked at each other like this many times before. There is nothing you can say. Words became redundant long ago. Turid disappears into her room and closes the door.
Grete listens. Erik is still in the sitting room. Now there is the clear clink of a glass. Grete knows Erik won’t be coming to bed. She takes a deep breath and goes into the bedroom.
Oslo, November 1967
1
It is pouring down. Raindrops ricochet off the water streaming along the pavement in Uranienborgveien. Sverre Fenstad watches the rain through the rectangular basement windows high up the wall. Occasionally he sees running legs pass by and he tries to guess which ones are heading down here, where he is sitting. But no one comes into Krølle. Sverre is still the only customer in the restaurant.
A waiter in a white jacket is cleaning cutlery by the till. There is a clunk every time he drops a knife or a fork into the drawer. Sverre looks at him. The man has a double chin and a sulky mouth. He is balding. The little hair he has left is combed back and finishes in a curl at the back. Sverre holds a finger in the air. Eventually he attracts the man’s attention. Soon the waiter comes with half a litre of beer and places the glass on the table. He removes the empty one and returns to his post by the cutlery.
Sverre looks through the high windows in the wall again. For the first time he sees a woman’s legs marching towards the entrance. Heels click-clack on the steps. The door opens. She stands with her back to him and shakes the rain from her umbrella before turning and coming in. Grete Heggen leans the umbrella against the door frame. She is wearing a mackintosh with a belt around the waist. She walks over to the table. Unbuttons her raincoat and drapes it over the back of the chair. Even today her hair seems fresh; she pats her hairdo lightly to make sure it is still intact.
‘What weather!’
Sverre beckons to the waiter.
‘No, no. I’m fine, thank you,’ she says quickly, waving away the man as he makes his way to their table. ‘I don’t want anything. I’m going to a meeting at the Women’s Public Health Association. I had to use it as an excuse.’
‘Doesn’t Erik know you’re meeting me?’
‘No,’ she says, sitting down. ‘He would go berserk if he knew. Erik’s impossible. He loses his temper over nothing. And now it’s all-out war at home. Gerhard’s contacted Turid.’
Sverre takes a swig of beer. ‘So that’s led to a row?’
She doesn’t answer at once.
They sit looking at each other. He waits. Grete was the one who asked for this meeting.
‘Now he’s bringing up what the Germans said.’
Sverre raises both eyebrows.
‘He says Gerhard killed her…’ Grete says.
‘Does he tell Turid that?’
‘Are you crazy? No. He tells me. I didn’t understand at first why he wanted to stop Gerhard meeting Turid. The answer is that he’s convinced Gerhard killed her mother.’
Sverre adopts a serious tone. ‘Do you share that view?’
Grete takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. This is one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you. Erik struggles with anything about the war. You know what he had to go through.’
‘February 1945,’ Sverre says. ‘It will never be forgotten. He was strong, Erik was. He stood up against all the brutality they could muster.’
‘He held on, but torture has an effect over the years.’
Sverre’s eyes soften. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’
She breathes out. ‘Everything’s connected. Of course, that all happened long after Åse was killed, but what I’m trying to say is that Erik has enough on his plate. This Åse business is just making things worse.’
Sverre nods. He understands. When Erik Heggen was arrested in the winter of 1945 he was subjected to a brutal interrogation. But he didn’t crack. There are many who owe their lives to Erik Heggen. Sverre has said this to Grete and her husband many times, and is about to say it again when Grete carries on:
‘Everyone was sceptical when the Gestapo accused Gerhard of killing Åse. But in many ways the Germans could never work out the whole picture because both Gerhard and Åse were in the resistance. People kept mum about what they knew.’
Sverre wonders why she has changed the subject and tries, to no avail, to catch her eye. ‘Grete.’
She looks at him at last.
‘What do you think now?’ he asks.
‘In North Aurdal we received a message to help some British soldiers who were being flown in over the mountains. But the information turned out to be incorrect. The men were dropped over the Hardanger plateau that night, not over the Valdres plain. And they were Norwegians, not British.’
He puts down his glass. Deliberates before formulating his question. ‘How can you be so sure of this when you didn’t meet them?’
‘The men who parachuted in were from the British-trained Linge Kompani, and they sabotaged the Norsk Hydro plant in Rjukan the following year. That was a big deal, wasn’t it. Or it became a big deal eventually. No men were dropped where we’d laid strips of light in the snow, only supplies.’
She goes quiet again. Looks down.
He tries to wheedle more out of her: ‘Supplies?’
‘Erik took some. Pinched them. That wasn’t so unusual. Many of them did it to earn a bit on the black market. But you know this, Sverre. It wasn’t that unusual.’ She pauses to think, then carries on:
‘Erik used to go there, to Oslo. Took things with him. Åse came from a farm. After the airdrop, when Gerhard arrived, Erik went down to the village. They weren’t fond of each other.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Erik went to Oslo, to see Åse. I don’t know what he took with him, but I’d guess pork, maybe some cream and cheese – from her mother, right, and flat bread, and probably also some of what he stole from the containers.’
‘Like whisky and sherry?’
‘I presume so.’
‘The items that were found in Åse’s flat were a mystery to both the Gestapo and us. If at least I’d found out they came from Erik, a lot could’ve been very different, Grete.’
‘Now you can see how quickly you can draw the wrong conclusions. You might’ve suspected Erik of killing her.’
Sverre s
hakes his head. ‘If he’d told us then, perhaps we might’ve got to the truth and a lot would’ve been different, not least the situation we’re experiencing now. I have to say, I find it very dubious that Erik has kept this quiet over all these years.’
‘He doesn’t do dubious things. Erik’s a hero.’
‘For enduring the imprisonment in February forty-five, yes, he is. But now we’re talking about a case where he should’ve been open.’
She shakes her head. ‘Erik’s been open. I was there when he went to Oslo to see Åse. He’s known I’ve known the whole time.’
Grete is clearly annoyed. But Sverre feels he has to dig deeper. ‘If you knew, why did you keep quiet?’
‘Did you ever go behind your wife’s back when she was alive?’
‘So you and Erik did talk about it and agreed not to say anything?’
‘Not at all. He swears Åse was alive when he left her. Happy?’ Grete is breathing hard. ‘But he just can’t talk about it. Erik thinks he can solve his problems with the bottle. He’ll never be able to talk to Turid about this. She needed a reliable father when she was left alone in the world, not a man who might possibly have prevented the murder of her mother if he’d stayed longer than he actually did. Erik has no bad motives. He’s always suspected Gerhard of killing Åse. But he hasn’t been able to tell anyone, least of all Turid. Now, with Gerhard meddling, this has become an impossible situation. All sorts of destructive sediment will swirl to the surface. I need your help, Sverre. Your words carry weight. What you say will mean something.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I have a daughter who’s caught between two fathers, and now there’s a chance she’ll lose both, just because that bastard wants to dig up the past. Talk to Gerhard, tell him to go home and let go of the past. Åse’s dead. She won’t come back and no one can relive a life.’
‘Tell him to let go of the past? Gerhard was separated from his daughter when her mother was killed. He was driven out of the country, an attempt was made to liquidate him and afterwards he was forced into a life he had no desire to live.’
She eyes him, nodding. ‘Someone tried to liquidate him?’
Sverre sighs. ‘Yes, and he hasn’t been able to contact his friends or family. He couldn’t visit his father when he fell ill. He has no idea when or how his father died.’
‘But why should he take that out on others? On me? On Erik? No one knows what happened when Åse was killed. For all we know, Erik might be right. Perhaps it really was Gerhard who murdered her.’
‘No, Grete. Erik’s wrong there. If Gerhard had killed her he would never have meddled, as you put it. Gerhard wants only two things: to get to know his daughter and find out who killed her mother.’
Grete doesn’t answer.
‘Whatever happened when Erik went to see Åse, he has to open up and say. He has to talk. Anything else destroys us all.’
Grete doesn’t appear to be listening. Her gaze is miles away. ‘So,’ she says, as if the conclusion is obvious. ‘I can see it now. Gerhard can still use Turid. That is the plan. He’ll ingratiate himself with her, set her against Erik.’
‘Ingratiate himself? This is his daughter you’re talking about.’
Grete turns to Sverre. Her eyes are hard and small knots of muscles churn in her jaws as she speaks. ‘Turid’s my daughter. I took care of her from before she was a year old. I adopted her. I’ve brought her up. I’ve given her everything she lost when her mother died. So Gerhard’s a bitter man? Fine. The point is that he doesn’t appear to understand he’s going to cause pain however this develops. He should’ve stayed in America. What do you know about the life he’s lived? For all we know, he might have a wife and kids out there. He has no right to wreak havoc on my daughter, my family – our lives – just because of something that happened a long time ago.’
Sverre Fenstad grimaces. ‘If Gerhard succeeds in pitting his daughter against Erik, I’d have to say he deserves it. Standing up to the torture in 1945 is a completely different matter. What you just said means that Erik was the last person to see Åse alive. He allowed Gerhard to be driven out of the country and took his daughter. So he’s made his bed and he has to lie in it. Your husband has a few things to explain, Grete.’
Grete has gone pale. She stands up. Her hands are trembling as she puts on her raincoat. ‘I thought you might’ve been able to help. I thought you were decent.’
Sverre watches her in silence. Sees her angry body retreat across the restaurant.
But then she spins on her heel and walks back. Leans forwards, her arms supporting her on the table. ‘You sit there and think you know everything, don’t you.’
He recoils. ‘My dear Grete…’
‘You shut up! Have you ever wondered how bad Gerhard was? Åse had a mother who was in and out of hospital. Why wasn’t Åse at home helping her? Why, with a baby in her arms, did she go like a nodding dog and live in a flat in Oslo with a man who couldn’t hold down a job? She wasn’t given the option to do anything else. He was the big shot who deigned to leave the city for the mountains and ordered the rest of us around while she had to be a good girl and stay at home, waiting. He kept her on a short leash and could use his fists if words didn’t have the required effect. You’ve never thought that far, have you. No, you just sit on your high horse thinking you know everything, but you’re naïve!’
Her shoes pummel the tiles. The door slams. She is outside.
Sverre looks at the waiter, who meets his eye.
They both look away at the same moment.
Sverre takes a deep breath, grabs his pouch of tobacco and rolls himself a cigarette. Pats his pockets. Looks up at the waiter and asks for a box of matches. The man in the white jacket carries over a tray. On the tray is a box of Nitedal charity matchsticks. Sverre takes it and lights up. The hand with the match is trembling. He pulls the smoke into his lungs and watches the hand stop trembling. Then he blows out the flame. He sits smoking, lost in thought. Uppermost in his mind are Erik Heggen and Gerhard Falkum. There is a conflict he knew nothing about. But it is satisfying finally to know. The strategy is working. Wait. Observe. The conflict that just came to light is one he should follow. Exploit it to his own advantage.
The door opens with a bang. A woman walks in. She is soaked. Her blonde hair is stuck to her scalp and her lacy bra is visible through her blouse. They exchange glances. She turns and goes to the toilet. Swaying well-shaped hips.
Sverre rolls himself a store of cigarettes while fantasising about the woman who just came in. The toilet door remains closed. He puts the roll-ups in his breast pocket, takes his hat and goes to the cash desk to pay.
2
Sverre hunches his shoulders against the filthy weather and climbs the stairs out of Krølle. The wind has dropped a little, but it is still raining. He turns up his coat collar and pulls the brim of his hat down over his forehead. Bears right in Uranienborgveien and walks towards the church and park. At the crossroads by Josefinegata there is a tall, red telephone box. He goes in. The door slams behind him. There are some burn marks on the Televerket noticeboard. But the telephone does have a dialling tone. He rummages through his pockets, finds a coin and puts it in the slot. Dials the number. It rings for a long time. Then there is a clink in the coin box.
‘Hi, Sverre here. I have some news.’
He listens.
‘It’s regarding the airdrop you’re so interested in. Also I’ve had confirmed what Gerhard told you. Erik Heggen was indeed the last person to see her alive.’
He listens again.
‘I can’t say. It was information given in confidence. What I can say, however, is that this story will end in disaster for a number of people – because of things that have been done and not least because of things that haven’t.’
He wedges the receiver under his chin. Takes a roll-up from the store in his breast pocket and pokes one into his mouth as Ester says:
‘If you think it might help, I can try and
talk to Gerhard.’
Sverre likes what he hears. He pats his trouser pocket again. Remembers he has lost his Ronson lighter and he left the matches on the table in the restaurant. ‘You do that,’ he says, taking the roll-up from his mouth and studying it.
‘What was it you wanted to say about the airdrop?’ she says.
3
Ester looks down into her open bag and moves her make-up bag and purse so that the revolver isn’t visible. She closes the bag, tucks it under her arm and leaves the ladies’ toilet. Thinking that nothing is as tenacious as an old ghost. Because everything is my fault. Because she did something different instead of going straight to her father and warning him. Had she done what she was asked to, he and the rest of the family would have been able to stay in hiding and they would all have escaped to Sweden. They would have escaped the gas chamber. It took Ester a long time to counteract this argument with sufficient force. But now, many years later, when she is confronted with what happened in those days, the old ghosts reappear.
She places the bag on the table, hangs her trench coat over the back of the chair and sits down. Her empty glass is still there.
When God casts a dice no one knows where or how it will land. If they were dragging him out when you arrived, Ester, they must have been there quite a while already. And if you’d managed to get to your father’s shop before they arrived, there’s a good chance you would’ve been stopped at the door on your way out. You followed your conscience and acted. That counts for something. It counts for everything.
She remembers the words, but not the face of the man who spoke them. For a fraction of a second she is panicked. But then she sees him in her mind’s eye again and falls into a reverie.
She is torn out of it by an unfamiliar sound breaking the silence. The throb reminds her of the ferry that plies from Oslo to Denmark. It seems to be coming from inside the building, and she catches herself checking to see if the floor is vibrating. But the engine noise stops and the lift doors open. A woman – a prostitute, to judge by her clothing – teeters out on perilously high heels and in a short skirt. Her hair is plaited into pigtails and in her mouth she is sucking a lollipop. She waves to the man behind the checkin desk. They know each other. He asks if she wants a taxi. She shakes her pigtails and carries on out. He waves a limp hand and focuses again on the book he is reading.
The Courier Page 26
