‘Are you saying I am selfish? I am not the one who left.’
‘I went to find a life for myself. Is that so wrong?’
Their father sighed and walked on. He took a lamp from his bag as they approached the Monument. Silje was not surprised when he stopped at the circle of stones and peered at the orchids. Her father would notice such things; others would not.
‘Who would dare?’
‘It was Marit,’ Silje said. ‘She was here when I came down from the hills.’
Her father plucked the headless flower from the circle and closed his eyes. ‘She did this?’
‘They are only flowers, Father,’ said Magnus.
‘How can you say that? They are a memory of our mother! How can you be so unfeeling, Magnus? Is this the compassion they teach at the seminary?’
‘I carry our mother in my heart, Silje, not in a stone circle.’
‘And that is all you do to repay the love she bestowed on you, on all of us? Father has created a new flower for her and her alone. He has nurtured it and shaped it so it is a lasting monument to her. And I have—’
‘And what have you done, Silje? What have you done that makes Mother smile down upon you and not me?’
‘I do whatever I can for the village she loved.’
‘Quiet, both of you.’ Jon Ohnstad carefully placed the stem into his bag and wiped his hands on his knees. ‘I remember that you both helped me build this memorial, fifteen years ago. I remember how you both swore you would not eat until it was finished. I remember you, Magnus, cutting and polishing each stone until it was a perfect fit. And you, Silje; you chose each flower. “That one,” you would say, “because inside it is the colour of her lips”, or “That one, because its petals are pale like her skin.”’ He licked his lips and relit his pipe. ‘It seems you have both forgotten.’ He carried on walking to the stone archway where Fólkvangr ended and the mountains began. ‘I will replace the flower, Silje, but Magnus is right. We will not always be here to take care of the circle, and when we are gone the flowers will die and the stones will crumble. But your mother will endure in our hearts and in the hearts of your children, and the hearts of their children.’ He opened his arms, and Magnus embraced him warmly. Silje, however, sidestepped his embrace and began the hill trek by herself.
‘The stone circle will stay, and I will look after the flowers even if you tire of doing so, Father.’
‘Silje, I simply meant that—’
‘And as for you, Brother; you are a priest and so you will not be having any children.’ She took off her shoes and turned to the east, looking for familiar trees shadowed in the twilight.
She stopped at a narrow outcropping that reached out over the pine forests, and there she waited for her father, who in turn waited for her brother.
‘It is as black as tar out here,’ Magnus said. ‘How do you do it?’
‘It isn’t yet dark, Magnus, and if you’d spent time more time outside when we were children then you’d know how to find your way home at dusk.’
Jon Ohnstad looked beyond the forest and down to the base of the mountain holding Bergen in its cradle.
‘I see fires,’ he said.
Silje moved closer to the edge and followed his gaze. It was true; small pinpricks of light stood out in the harbour and in the main town. She could hear the sound of gunshots, carried on the mountain winds. She thought she could hear screaming…
‘Tomorrow, I will travel to the town,’ Jon Ohnstad announced. ‘I have friends there; I would see that they are unharmed.’
‘You will do no such thing,’ said Silje.
‘The hat-maker lives near the harbour. He has been a friend of this family for many years.’
‘Father, he is Jewish. He is lost.’
Again, the look, she thought, and wondered why, this night, so many had gazed upon her as though the true Silje Ohnstad had been spirited away by trolls.
‘I will help him if I can,’ Jon Ohnstad said without taking a stern eye away from his daughter. ‘He would do no less for me. He would do no less for the both of you.’
‘At least wait a few days, until things have settled.’
‘Silje—’
‘She is right, Father.’ Magnus looked solemnly at the fires burning in the town below. ‘The Germans will be suspicious of anyone approaching the town now. You cannot help Mr Dorfmann if you are detained.’
Jon Ohnstad looked to his son, who stared back without blinking, and then to Silje who nodded her agreement. ‘Then I will go two days from now,’ he said. ‘And I will travel alone.’
‘No,’ said Silje. ‘We will all travel, together.’
Chapter 5
I was thinking that I’d seen enough coach stations during my life to put together a small guide book: The Fugitive’s Guide to Bus Terminals. I had a few of which I thought of fondly in a strange sort of way. Trondheim was cold but well lit; I could read there, and I remember an ice-cream vendor who’d given me a free mint fudge even though I’m sure he’d recognised Monica. Narvik was nice, but not nearly as clean as Holmestrand which lacked the homeliness of Drammen. I was trying to decide between Drammen and Narvik when Monica spoke to me for the first time in eight hours. Since we’d arrived at the terminus she’d sat next to me in a wounded silence, watching the black and white metal boxes shuttle in and depart. The first two fingers of her left hand crossed and uncrossed, searching the air for a cigarette.
I offered her one of mine. She took it without a word and waited for me to light it. She inhaled deeply and sighed.
Two more coaches departed and a group of young nuns walked past, giggling. Monica watched them, trying to decide if they were laughing at us.
‘Okay, you’re right, maybe. It was a long time ago, and my memory isn’t as good as it used to be.’
Her memory was perfect. Always had been.
‘So it’s possible, yes. In a moment of desperation, I might have gone down on him a little bit.’
‘Mother, for God’s sake…’
‘And if I did, and I’m not saying I did for sure, then I did it for you.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Everything I have done, everything I will do, is to keep you safe, Brigit. And if you’re leaving because you’re ashamed of me then—’
‘It’s not why I’m going, and you know it.’
The night before had been the worst of our lives. She’d accused me of betrayal; I’d accused her of lying about that night in the farmer’s cottage; she’d accused me of lying about what had happened at The Echo. She’d hung steadfast to her untruth and so I’d clung like a mad dog to mine.
She’d said I’d always been an ungrateful child, and I’d asked her – no – screamed at her if there was anything she wouldn’t do to preserve this life of ours. If I hadn’t come back, how far would you have gone? Would I have found you in our bed, fucking him?
And of course she’d hit me, again. I think she’d realised then that we’d been together like this for far too long.
She drew on her cigarette and stared at the advertising boarding ahead of us. It was telling us now was the time to think about a bank account. I wondered what it would be like, to be tethered to something else for the rest of my life.
‘All I’m saying is that if I did—’
‘Fine! It’s fine! It’s all fine! I believe you!’
I slid to the other end of the bench, folded my arms and crossed my legs away from her.
We sat looking in opposite directions until an old man, carrying a newspaper and a brown paper bag, sat between us. He smiled at us both then hunkered down into his over-sized coat to read the sports pages.
‘And I would suck a mountain of cock,’ Monica said, ‘if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.’
I tried to shoot her an enraged, nauseous look, but the old man was in my way. He swallowed and licked his lips.
‘Well,’ he said, smiling wretchedly, ‘if that’s not love then I don’t know what is.’
&nb
sp; I told him to mind his own business, but it was too late; the ice had been broken.
‘I—I thought I recognised you both,’ he said. ‘You’re his daughter, aren’t you? The Traitor of Fólkvangr.’
I got to my feet and kicked my suitcase onto its wheels.
Monica followed me across the concourse. I could hear her laughing and saying she was sorry.
‘This is a joke to you then, is it?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Living like this is a comedy now?’
‘Brigit, you have no—’
‘Well here’s a new plan: we can sell ourselves as a radio show. People can tune in, every Tuesday, and listen to the oh-so-hilarious adventures of Monica and Brigit as they walk, bus and train across the country, trying to escape from family history and Monica’s enormous ego.’
I caught sight of the old man’s reflection in the ticket-office glass. He’d folded up his paper and was talking to a handful of passers-by. He was excited; he was pointing at us. Some of his audience glanced at us, some stared, some whispered back to him. He seemed to swell in his seat, feeding on the attention. But no one came to spit at us, or swear at us. No one ran to find a policeman to arrest us for my father’s crimes.
Monica drew level, and I told her we were better off apart.
‘That isn’t true. We’re stronger and safer together.’
‘They know us as two women. If we separate then we’re different people. They’ll leave us alone.’
‘Look, just stop and think for a minute.’
The bus to Oslo pulled away from its bay and crawled slowly towards its pickup. The queue began to show signs of life, so I went to join them.
‘You need me, Brigit,’ she said, running to stay at my side. ‘When have you ever been on your own? Do you even know what you’re looking for in Oslo? Your father? Why do you think he’s there?’
‘I don’t know where he is, but Oslo is a good place to start. They’ve gathered everything written about Fólkvangr at the Resistance Museum.’
She took hold of my arms, tightly, burying her nails into my skin. I pulled away. ‘What the hell, Mother!’
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m your mother, and I’m just trying to make you understand that everything I’ve done, everything we’ve been through—’
‘I do understand, but it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving and I’m scared, and I would like you to hold me for a little while before I go. Do you think you could do that one small thing?’
Her jaw set and she turned away from me.
‘Okay, well… I’m going anyway.’
Monica walked away without so much as a look. I bit into my lower lip to stop myself calling after her, clawed my toes inside my shoes to stop myself chasing her down.
‘Are you coming or not?’
I looked up to see the bus driver giving me his most bored and impatient look.
The queue had stowed itself aboard and half of it was looking down at me in much the same way as the driver.
‘We haven’t got all day.’
I dragged the suitcase onto the bus and handed him my ticket. He ignored it, glanced at me and then looked again. He was about to say something but thought better of it.
I made my way to the back of the bus, looking for a shadow to hide in. The driver pulled away before I’d found a seat. I scanned the terminus for her, looking in the waiting rooms and the ticket hall. I couldn’t see her. I guessed she’d already left the station. I had a vague memory of all this being my idea, but still couldn’t escape the feeling I’d been abandoned, that it was she who’d left me at a terminus, and then made her way home without once looking back.
Chapter 6
Silje arrived home one afternoon to find a truck laden with the dourest of young men waiting outside the Ohnstad cottage. Four of them she recognised: Benjamin Tofte, Sander Ronning and the Nore twins. The other three were unknown to her; they were smooth-skinned and their hands looked soft; town-dwellers, Silje decided, perhaps from Bergen or Laksevåg.
‘Hello, Benjamin.’
‘Silje.’ Benjamin Tofte turned bright red as soon as she said his name. His right foot began to shake.
‘Who are your friends?’
‘Never you mind, young lady,’ said the oldest of them, still not yet in his thirties.
The rest of them stared at the floor of the truck.
‘And where are you all going?’
None replied, and Silje wondered if Fólkvangr was becoming a village of mutes. She scowled at Benjamin and went inside the cottage, where she found both Magnus and her father fuming at each other across the kitchen table. Magnus’s haversack was packed and resting against his leg.
‘Oh no, Magnus,’ Silje said. ‘You promised.’
‘I promised nothing.’
‘We were going to travel to Bergen together!’
‘Tell him.’ Her father’s face was so red, Silje was afraid his heart would give way. ‘Tell him he is being ridiculous.’
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Magnus, what are you going to do?’
Both men were silent.
‘No! Do not do this! Tell me what is going on.’
Magnus told her he was going away for a few days.
‘No!’
‘I promise I will come back soon. You will not even know I’ve gone.’
‘I always know when you’re gone!’
He hauled his belongings onto his back.
‘Come, Silje,’ Jon Ohnstad said. ‘We will still travel to Bergen together.’
‘Tell him, Father!’
‘He has made up his mind.’
Magnus kissed her on the cheek as he left, and Silje thought that his skin seemed so cold – as though his soul had frozen through. He closed the door after him and a few moments later they heard the truck move away.
‘They are the Resistance, aren’t they?’
Jon Ohnstad nodded. ‘I imagine they will be.’
‘And you did not stop him?’
‘I tried, Silje. though perhaps not as hard as I should have. Perhaps because if I were a younger man then I would be with them.’
‘You cannot mean that.’
But the discussion was done. He walked out of the house and climbed into his truck, with a tearful Silje at his heels.
* * *
They travelled the road to Bergen in silence, save for Silje’s petulant huffing. Jon Ohnstad drove slowly, his attention on the road.
‘They have not set up checkpoints yet,’ he said.
A number of buildings had been destroyed near the outskirts of the town, but everything seemed more or less as she remembered. She was relieved in a strange sort of way; she could not see why the Germans would be cruel without good reason.
Still, it worried her that the streets were almost deserted in the late afternoon. ‘Where are all the people?’ She looked at all the shops and houses as they rolled through the town, peering through any window without its curtains drawn or its netting down. German soldiers began to appear as they approached the harbour, their numbers increasing fivefold with every fifty yards they travelled.
‘We should leave,’ Silje said quietly.
‘Not yet.’
There were more locals near the harbour, though still not as many as there should have been. They gazed at the truck, despair etched deep into their weathered faces.
‘Father, please.’
Jon Ohnstad stopped the truck when a German soldier raised his hand.
The soldier walked to the cab and spoke in very precise Norwegian: ‘You may not take your truck any further than this point.’
Jon Ohnstad said he understood.
‘You are here for the speech?’
He looked puzzled, but Silje said yes, they were.
‘Good. Good. You may leave your truck over there.’
Jon Ohnstad did as he was told. They climbed down and followed a slow-moving procession of townspeople to the harbour front, where a large podium had been erected, from moun
tain wood birch if Silje wasn’t mistaken. She wondered how the Germans had managed to coerce the local craftsmen so quickly, and then realised she didn’t want to think about it at all.
Behind the podium stood a golden eagle perched atop a swastika.
‘Come,’ Jon Ohnstad said, taking her hand. They slipped from the crowd and retraced their steps, making a turn to follow the shops that ran alongside Bergen’s main jetty.
‘Inside, hurry.’
They entered the establishment of Aaron Dorfmann, Bergen’s most prestigious maker of ladies’ hats.
Aaron, a round and elderly Jew with brown eyes and not a trace of hair on his head, greeted them and shut the door as soon as they’d stepped inside. The Jew and Jon Ohnstad embraced, and Silje was quite taken aback; the only other man she’d ever seen him take to his breast was Magnus. She decided her father was becoming quite strange, and that perhaps it was due to the strains of war.
‘It is good to see you, my friend,’ Mr Dorfmann said. ‘And you also, young Silje.’ He pinched her cheek. ‘I am afraid that your father has not done you justice; you are far prettier than I imagined.’ He saw she was looking at the yellow star pinned to his jacket. ‘This?’ he said. ‘This is so I know who and what I am. The Germans are concerned I may forget.’
‘Dear God, Aaron,’ Jon Ohnstad shook his head, ‘you make light of this?’
The shop was small and furnished in a dark wood that swallowed the light coming in through its tiny windows. The blinds were drawn and only two of the six lamps were lit. It was only on a second glance that Silje saw a thin, pale girl labouring in one corner. She folded and pinned a lining to the inside of a small white hat, while staring into space. Her dark hair was tied into two thick braids that fell to her waist.
Silje crept over on her toes and watched her work.
The girl sniffed loudly, her nimble fingers blurring inside and around the hat, adding stitching and silks and feathers. Such was her skill and assuredness that Silje wondered if she truly was blind, as her father had once told her.
‘It is rude to just stand there,’ the girl said, startling her.
The Quisling Orchid Page 4
