Ester rotates the empty glass between her fingers. How long will she have to wait? She looks from the desk back to the Munch print, which she thinks is entitled Brothel Scene. It shows a woman with bared nipples at the same table as a man with a lustful smirk on his face. She also recognises Melancholy and Vampire. And a self-portrait and The Kiss.
She yawns and checks her watch. It is well past eleven. She is the only customer in the lounge. A woman standing behind the brown bar and cashing up has changed from her waitress outfit to a skirt and suede jacket. She bangs shut the drawer of the cash till and walks towards Ester. Stops a few metres away.
Ester looks at her.
‘If you require anything else it would be good if you said so now.’
‘I thought the bar closed ages ago,’ Ester says.
‘It’s closed. This is just a polite way of saying I’d like to go home.’
Ester gets up, a little confused. ‘Of course.’ She shrugs on her trench coat and leaves. Nods to the youngster behind the desk. He nods back. The clock over the Odd Fellow building shows it will be midnight in twenty minutes.
A taxi veers into Stortingsgata from Universitetsgata, passes Nasjonalteatret, does a U-turn, comes back and pulls up by the entrance. A black Volga.
Ester taps on the driver’s window and he rolls it down. ‘Are you free?’
He nods.
At that moment the rear door opens and Gerhard steps out.
He is clearly surprised to see her. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’ve been sitting here for hours thinking why aren’t you here?
He looks at his watch. ‘It’s late. Can we do this tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’
Ester gets onto the rear seat. She is about to close the door when he turns and comes back.
‘Could you tell me what this is about?’
‘It’s about 1942,’ she says.
‘Oh, yes?’
This Gerhard is quite different from the sullen, fuming man who drove back from Valdres. She searches for his eyes. They are in the shadow. ‘Your story about the airdrop doesn’t quite tally with the timeline.’
A late bus passes, and he lifts his chin and watches it. ‘What timeline?’
‘I’ve taken the trouble to note down dates and so on. There are a few gaps.’
He unleashes his charmer smile. ‘After so many years in exile there’s definitely one thing I’ve learned: memory is loyal to the person possessing it. My memory works for me and yours works for you. We remember what’s important for ourselves.’ He makes a move to leave.
‘Let’s stick to the facts, shall we,’ she says hurriedly. ‘The airdrop over Valdres plain was on the nineteenth of October. You were at home. You travelled to Fagernes on the twenty-sixth.’
‘Don’t ask me about dates. This is many years ago, after all.’
‘The airdrop was part of Operation Grouse. It’s a milestone in recent Norwegian history. It was the same day I went to Åse’s and your place. It’s also the day several Jewish men were arrested in Oslo.’
He doesn’t seem interested. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘When you arrived in Valdres the airdrop was over. You can’t have taken part in that operation.’
‘You know, the best riddles have no solution. Neither you nor I can do anything about reality. But it sounds like we have something to talk about tomorrow. Goodnight, Ester.’
He leaves.
She watches him, waiting before closing the door.
He turns just before he goes inside. ‘Have you come here late at night to ask me about this?’
‘I came several hours ago. I’ve been waiting.’
He goes in. The doors close behind him.
She closes the car door. ‘To Frogner please,’ she says to the driver, who puts the car in gear.
‘No problem,’ the driver says, looking at her in the rear-view mirror: ‘That fella’s an old soldier, is he?’
‘In a way, yes.’
He coughs. ‘Thought there was something.’
‘Would it be impolite to ask where you picked him up?’
They both look in the mirror. He grins, and jokes: ‘If you promise not to tell anyone.’
She promises.
‘He hailed me in Sørkedalsveien. He was coming from Vestre Cemetery.’
Ester looks out at the windows of the American embassy as they pass by. The taxi goes up Frognerveien. She can imagine him, a shadow in the mist. Still in a cemetery and still late at night. She recalls when she was in a flat in Stockholm, examining some photographic negatives that Gerhard had in his passport. Some of them were photos of cemeteries.
The taxi slows down by Lapsetorvet and carries on up Frognerveien. The last time Gerhard was in the cemetery, he went the very next day to the vault in the basement of Andresens Bank. Ester takes a deep breath and knows what she will have to do early the following morning.
Oslo, November 1967
1
The tea leaves are the top shoots from Darjeeling. Ester lifts the tin to her nose and inhales the aroma, then fills the strainer and pours the boiling water. She has got up early. She wants to know if events will repeat themselves. She has to cancel a piano lesson, but waits until just before she goes out of the door to ring. The mother answering the telephone and receiving the message appears to be happy.
It is ten minutes past eight when Ester gets on the tram for the city centre. At a little before half past she is on the corner of Thiisgården and Klingenberggata and waiting. The bank opens. An employee in a dark suit rolls up the grille on the inside of the glass door and undoes the bolts holding it in place.
Last time Gerhard arrived at about ten. She has allowed plenty of time. She goes for a walk while she waits, keeping her eyes trained on the corner building. She strolls alongside the park. Four or five women have formed a queue in front of a fishing smack moored at the nearby City Hall quay. The worst of the rush hour is over, and there is almost no traffic by the quays. She crosses the road to see what is on offer. Shrimps. Three fat seagulls have settled on a cable on the trawler’s mast. They watch, and she watches. Whiting on ice, small codfish with a reddish gleam to the skin. Haddock. If she had nothing else to do, she would buy haddock and make gefilte fish, she thinks, then walks back.
It is half past nine when she sees Gerhard rounding the corner and walking down the street with a briefcase under his arm.
She goes into Andresens Bank. To the shelf at the back where you can stand and fill in money-transfer forms. She starts scribbling on a form while watching the reflections in the window in front of her.
Gerhard enters. He goes to a counter. There is hardly anybody inside. She hears Gerhard say he would like to open his bank box in the vault. The woman at the counter swivels round on her chair and beckons to an official. This man accompanies Gerhard to the staircase in the middle of the room.
Ester takes a pile of forms, turns and drops them on the floor. And exclaims in a loud voice, ‘Whoops. Sorry.’
A female employee hurries over to pick them up.
Gerhard stops and looks at Ester. She looks back. She doesn’t greet him, nor he her. After a minor eternity he looks away. He follows the official down the staircase to the vault.
Ester watches his figure disappear. She wonders whether to wait for him and goes over to the staircase, aware now of the gaze of the woman who has picked up the forms. She and another employee stare at her, then they exchange glances and stare at her again, unsure, but also on their guard. Ester doesn’t want to arouse so much attention. She quickly leaves the bank. Strides down towards the City Hall quay. Finds a gap in the traffic and hurries across. The queue in front of the fishing boat isn’t as long as it was a short while before. Soon it will be her turn. Fortunately there is still some haddock in the polystyrene box sitting on the cover over the engine.
Afterwards, standing with her full shopping net in her hand, she deliberates. And decides to go back. Now she is in a hurry and
walks faster. Reaches the delicatessen. Seconds later there is a glint of light on the bank door. It opens. They look straight at each other. Gerhard hesitates this time too. He takes off his sunglasses. She heads towards the bank. He turns his back on her, walks away, crosses the street in the direction of the City Hall Park.
‘Gerhard,’ she shouts.
He keeps walking.
She follows him. A line of vehicles comes towards her. She has to wait at the kerb. ‘Gerhard!’
He speeds off down the pavement. Raises an arm. A dark-red Opel taxi brakes and stops. He runs over to the rear door and opens it.
Ester stands still as they exchange glares over the roof of the taxi. Then he gets in. She watches the car going up the hill to Fridtjof Nansens plass.
2
Ester has two sinks in the kitchen – one for meat and one for milk products, according to Talmudic law. Her mother did this and she follows her example. But Ester has travelled a lot in her life and she has had to adapt her principles. In her flat she uses the same cutlery for both dairy foods and meat.
Ester’s mother made gefilte fish with haddock. Her relatives in Poland used carp or pike. She doesn’t know exactly why the Lemkov family chose haddock in Oslo, but carp and pike have never been considered good fish to eat in Norway. That was probably why they were so hard to get hold of. Ester’s mother gutted the fish and kept the skin, which she used to wrap minced fish in afterwards. Ester makes a modern variant. She slices the fish down the spine, cuts off the fins and removes the skin. Chops off the tail. Rinses well under running water. Holds the fish head while scraping off the flesh with a sharp kitchen knife. Puts it into a bowl where she has already poured some water, flour, an egg yolk and some spices. The spine and head go into the saucepan with whatever makes the stock. Afterwards she peels some carrots and some horseradish, and grates the horseradish.
She cooks the stock, adds herbs and boils it down while she fries the fish cakes. They will cool in the stock later. Then they are eaten with a sliced carrot on top and grated horseradish and beetroot as trimmings.
Usually she likes to muse on trivialities as she cooks – like Captain Hanaas, fencing training or the dwindling number of piano pupils. Not today though. Ester can see she has lost the bet she made with herself long ago. When Sverre Fenstad stood at her door she promised herself she would not let this ghost from the past take over. But she fell into the trap at once. Gerhard is controlling the thoughts in her mind to an ever greater degree. Why has he come to Norway at all? Why precisely now? What does he do in cemeteries after dark?
The fish cakes are ready. They have to cool down. Ester washes her hands thoroughly. Afterwards she checks the revolver in her handbag, picks up the car keys and heads for the front door.
3
She drives slowly up and down the tiny streets in the St Hanshaugen district, trying to park as close to the cemetery as possible. Forced to give up, she drives around the cemetery and parks by the main entrance in Akersveien instead.
It is chilly. But the sun shines on the damp grass and wet, black stones. The only people she can see are the workmen raking leaves from the gravel paths. She enters the cemetery and goes to Alvilde Munthe’s grave. On her knees she tries to scrutinise every little detail of the headstone and the general area. But she can’t see any more than she did the previous time. It is only when she makes a move to leave that it strikes her. The commemorative plate bearing the engraved name and dates isn’t straight. It is almost impossible to notice. Almost is enough though. The discovery sends a tingle down her spine. She looks around. Two workmen with rakes and a wheelbarrow are sitting on a bench, smoking. Ester forces herself to walk on. She does a circuit, impatient to get back, but still takes the time to look at the graves of famous Norwegians: Henrik Wergeland, Camilla Collett and Oskar Braaten.
Almost half an hour has passed before she returns to Alvilde Munthe’s grave. The bench is unoccupied. The workmen have gone. She kneels down by the massive engraved metal plate. It is in two parts. The whole plate is reminiscent of a coffin lid. In the middle there is a raised oval section on which the name of the deceased is engraved. This metal ellipse is in reality a large lid. She can see that now. And it is possible to open it. She pushes with both hands. It is heavy. Bronze or cast iron. Bronze, she thinks. Because the metal hasn’t rusted. She pushes with all her strength. The lid moves with a loud, piercing screech. It is the same sound she heard the evening she was first here. Beneath the lid there is a hollow. The urn containing the ashes of the deceased is here. She leans over and peers inside. All she can see is the urn.
She straightens up and has a quick scan of her surroundings. No one in sight. She sticks a hand inside and gropes. Nothing. Just dust, spiders’ webs, a couple of earwigs and the urn. She pulls the oval plate back into position. It finds its level with a dull click. Another sound she recognises. There is no doubt. This is where Gerhard was that evening. He was crouching like she is now. First he removed the lid and then he slid it back.
With this Ester has her confirmation. Gerhard took with him whatever was with the urn.
She stands up. Brushes the dust and leaves from her clothes. It is quiet and peaceful in the cemetery. On the way out she passes just one person. A man is on his knees tidying the bed in front of a gravestone. A navy-blue back and two fumbling hands.
Ester stops by the gate leading to Ullevålsveien. Her mind has been on other matters and she has come to the wrong exit. Her car is parked on the opposite side of the cemetery. She turns and ambles down a gravel path. Comes to another gate. Leaves. Closes the gate behind her and on the pavement bears left. She follows the fence. Stops. Stands still for a few seconds, looking down the line of parked cars in Wessels gate.
There it is. An eggshell-white Volvo Amazon. She crosses the street and walks towards the car. The registration plate is the same. This is the car she was following. This is the car Gerhard has rented.
Ester looks around. The air is still. She can’t see anyone. Well, Gerhard has parked his rental car here. So he is visiting the Cemetery of Our Saviour again. During the day?
She walks back. A bus going down Ullevålsveien passes. She steps back and at that moment catches a movement in the corner of her eye. A man disappearing round the corner of a house. It is Gerhard.
She looks at the corner.
Gerhard must have seen her. Instead of attracting her attention, he has hidden. She pauses for a few seconds and thinks. She walked past a man as she was leaving the cemetery. Someone with his back to her.
She walks back into the cemetery. Stops and makes up her mind. Turns around again, goes out through the gate, over the pavement. She walks faster now. Wanting to know. Reaches the line of parked cars.
Gerhard’s rental car is no longer there.
Ester walks back to her car. Unlocks the door. Sits thinking. About Gerhard going into the bank. Gerhard stopping when she shouts. Gerhard looking at her, taking the decision to ignore her and going down to the vault. Gerhard not wanting to talk. Not to her. And now: Gerhard spying on her. She doesn’t like this new development.
4
She parks by the kerb and strolls slowly up to the entrance in Thomas Heftyes gate. The door of one of the parked cars opens. Out of a Mercedes steps Markus Rebowitz. The sight is familiar, but her focus is more on the fact that it is usually a bad sign when Markus contacts her and not vice versa.
She stops in front of him.
‘Are you coming up?’ she asks, already knowing he will decline.
Without answering he opens the rear door and bows courteously.
She gets in and closes the door. Markus slides in on the opposite side. ‘Just drive around a bit, David,’ he says, and then takes the trouble to close the glass partition between front and back. ‘So that we can chat undisturbed,’ he says to her, leaning back on his seat.
The car moves away. She can see part of David’s face in the mirror. She recognises him. The young man with the vulnerable neck. The one
guarding the entrance to the embassy the last time she was there.
She closes her eyes and feels how much she misses Jonatan. Misses stroking his neck.
The car accelerates. She opens her eyes. They cross on yellow. Heading for Skøyen, in the west of Oslo.
‘I didn’t find out much about Gary Larson at first,’ Markus says at last. ‘That’s why I checked out his friend instead. Brian Pankhurst. One question to start with: can you remember when Pankhurst left Stockholm?’
Ester thinks back. She and Markus had trained with Pankhurst for quite a while. Over the winter at any rate. Five months? Six? Maybe longer. ‘Summer of 1943?’
‘We agree so far, then. And when I started digging, it became clear that Pankhurst showed up in Tehran that year, in forty-three.’
Ester looks out. They are driving along the Frogner coastal road, towards Filipstad. Ester remembers the time they found out that the supply line to the Soviet Union from the south, through Iran, had been opened. It was Churchill who feared the Shah would sell oil to the Germans. Reza Shah Pahlavi was forced to abdicate. The invasion forces sent him into exile and put the power into the hands of his son, Mohammad. It had been an issue they discussed at the legation office. The spectacular move – invading and afterwards provoking a change of throne that would allow Soviet troops to be supplied with weapons and provisions along two routes – through Murmansk in the north and Tehran in the south.
‘The Persian Corridor,’ Markus says. ‘Pankhurst arrived there in forty-three, and I imagine Gary Larson must’ve been there at the same time.’ He meets her eyes and smiles, as though apologetically. ‘Gary Larson must’ve been somewhere at this time, and Iran fits the bill. At least, if we assume that Gary Larson got to know Brian Pankhurst during the Spanish Civil War. A few years pass. Then they meet again – in Stockholm. Then Larson appears, as you say, to die in a fire. In other words, no one knows where he is. Pankhurst, for his part, keeps a low profile, has barely any contact with anyone while he is in Stockholm. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that Pankhurst’s the man keeping Larson alive and incognito during this period. Then Pankhurst is ordered to go to Iran. He works for the British intelligence services in Tehran and there he has a larger staff around him. I’ve tried in vain to find out who. Then, when the war’s over and everyone returns home, the name Larson suddenly appears in the United States.’
The Courier Page 27
