The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

  Silje coughed and looked back to her father and Mr Dorfmann, both deep in conversation. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I am not deaf,’ the girl replied. ‘I heard my father greet you when you came in. You are “young Silje”, are you not, though you do not sound so young.’

  ‘Compared to you, I am not, no. Though it is hard to tell how old you are; you speak like an adult but you have the body of a child.’

  ‘I apologise that I lack…’ The girl stopped to search for a word; Silje braced herself. ‘The robustness of a farm girl.’

  ‘I am not… robust.’

  ‘I am sorry; you sound robust.’

  ‘And how do you know I am from a farm?’

  The girl turned her head away. ‘I know of your father.’

  Lying, thought Silje, as plain as day. ‘Did I see you smell the air when I approached?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes you did.’

  ‘I did not!’

  ‘You did! I heard you! I saw you!’

  The girl shrank, trying to disappear from view. ‘You live on a farm in the mountains,’ she said quietly. ‘The air from your home travels with you.’

  Silje stood in silence, thinking of the myriad ways she disliked this child.

  ‘It is the goats, most probably,’ the blind girl continued, though there was little need. ‘I understand that Fólkvangr has a lot of goats.’

  ‘I have no idea why people think that,’ Silje said hotly. ‘We have a perfectly acceptable number of goats.’

  The girl ran her fingers lightly around the hat’s brim. It was the most beautiful hat Silje had ever seen, though now she did not feel inclined to say so.

  The girl smiled somewhere into space. ‘Do not worry; I am sure that no one else will notice.’

  ‘Why thank you.’ Silje could see the girl’s arms were quite hirsute and took comfort in that. ‘So,’ she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve, ‘have you been blind long?’

  ‘Since I was a child,’ the girl replied as though the question were asked of her at least once a day.

  ‘Then you have no idea what you look like.’

  ‘I know exactly what I look like.’

  ‘And yet you have done nothing to remedy it.’

  The girl placed the hat to one side and took a deep breath. ‘I expect you are smiling now.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Silje. ‘I expect I am.’

  The girl picked up the beginnings of another hat. ‘Perhaps you should go. I have much to do, and the smell is making it hard for me to concentrate.’

  Silje would have loved dearly to reach over and slam the girl’s head against the workbench. Instead, she snorted loudly and returned to the front of the shop.

  ‘Where are you going?’ her father asked.

  ‘For a walk,’ she snapped. ‘I will be back soon.’

  She left without saying goodbye to Mr Dorfmann, and took the longer path back to the podium. The crowd was large, colourless and surrounded by German troops. She smiled at one of the troopers, who moved aside to allow her to stand near the edge of the dais. The crowd fell silent as a loud scratching noise split the air, followed by the first strains of the German national anthem, and then a muted round of applause as a line of German officers took to the stage. They arranged themselves neatly according to rank and then stepped back. The man who was left at the podium was small, though handsome in a distinguished way. Although the men all wore similar uniforms, his seemed smarter, as though he’d been born wearing it and it had simply grown with him. He put on his spectacles, adjusted his tunic and placed his speech on the podium.

  ‘Greetings, all of you.’ His voice reached out across the crowd, even without a microphone. ‘I am General Karl Gruetzmacher of the Third Reich, and you are now liberated.’ He did not wait for applause, which Silje took as a sign of jaded realism. ‘I am responsible for maintaining order and discipline in Bergen and the towns as far north as Hordvik and as far south as Osøyro.’ He stopped and waited for his aide to turn the page. ‘Whether I am successful in maintaining the rule of law will have surprisingly little to do with you.’

  Silje noted that the aide was very young, barely out of his teens, yet his insignia indicated he was an officer of some sort.

  ‘This will not be a war like the last,’ the General continued. ‘It will be over soon, and how you behave now, as subjects of the Fatherland, will dictate how you are treated when victory is ours. It is our intention to make this a very short war; do not incur our displeasure by embroiling yourselves in it.’ Again he paused, this time to look out over the crowd, searching eyes and faces for signs of dissent.

  He continued with a long and complex list of rules concerning curfew and the movement of the Jews, and indeed what defined a Jew, while Silje tried to catch the eye of his aide. Quite by mistake, she caught the eye of the General who smiled back without pausing in his speech. He spun neatly into the evils of the Jewish way of life and how it was draining the blood from the European continent. He likened the Jews to vampires, which he noted were perhaps not as mythical as people believed. After all, vampires were of Romany origin – a people that shared the traits of nomadism and night-wandering that were common amongst the Semites, and so perhaps the notion of these creatures stealing into the homes of decent people to drain the blood of their children was not so far-fetched after all.

  ‘But we are not a cruel people,’ he went on, not seeming to care whether he was believed or not. ‘We understand that Judaism is an unfortunate accident of birth, and not a life any sane man would choose to make for himself. Yes we will do our sacred duty before God, by separating the Jew from the decent people of Norway. But that does not mean the Jew will be sold into slavery or hidden from the light of day.’ He clicked his fingers. The aide stepped forward and handed him a pen which the General used to make a note on his speech.

  The crowd waited patiently. Gruetzmacher cleared his throat and read out a list of orders for registration and transportation. He emphasised that this was a compulsory command with immediate effect and no process of appeal. He finished his speech with a paragraph detailing Scandinavia’s new and glorious dawn under the leadership of Vidkun Quisling. Silje hardly noticed for she had, at last, caught the aide’s eye, causing him to blush.

  With his speech over, the General took a moment to study the reaction of his audience. Silje too turned to look; all she could see was the same sea of passive, defeated faces, stretching back as far as the clothes market. But Gruetzmacher saw something else; he sighed, shook his head and stepped down from the stage. He walked past Silje, accompanied by six stormtroopers in black uniforms. He stopped to speak to Mr Hoen, Bergen’s mayor. Silje moved as close as she dared to hear their conversation.

  ‘I see the beginnings of revolt in your townspeople,’ Gruetzmacher was saying. ‘See that it does not get out of hand.’

  Without waiting for Mr Hoen’s reply, the General climbed into his staff car and tapped his driver on the shoulder to move on.

  Gruetzmacher’s aide was still at the podium, gathering papers and ordering the soldiers to dismantle the stage. Silje watched him; his uniform was not a particularly good fit. In fact, his demeanour suggested that he didn’t wear the mantle of ‘warrior’ particularly well. Still, he was diligent and his men seemed to respect him in spite of his shortcomings. Perhaps it is because he is a firm but fair hand to them, she thought. She believed the General shared the same trait.

  The stage was taken apart in silence and with alarming efficiency; the German Standard was taken down last of all and placed reverently in the back of a truck. The soldiers climbed aboard while the aide answered the questions of the Jews who had been brave enough to step forward.

  How long will we be gone?

  ‘You will not return.’

  But my home is here!

  ‘Your new home will be in Poland.’

  What of our belongings?

  ‘They will be sent on after you leave.’

  But you ha
ve not asked us to mark our possessions. How will you—?

  ‘This will all be explained to you when you register.’

  The truck driver sounded the horn.

  ‘I must leave, but if you have any further questions then please contact the Reich Office.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘We will be using Bergen’s town hall for the duration of our stay.’

  And how long will you be staying?

  ‘Until this is over.’

  The horn sounded again, and Silje saw her opportunity slipping away. She pushed her way through and took the aide by the hand.

  ‘Follow me,’ she said. ‘You are in danger.’

  The Jews looked about them, as if to say, From whom?

  The aide looked at her, and Silje smiled in the way that she knew made her eyes shine; his hand seemed to melt into hers. She began to lead him away from the crowd.

  ‘Where are we going, Fräulein?’

  ‘Somewhere private,’ Silje replied.

  ‘I am afraid I cannot.’

  The driver leaned out of the cab and said, ‘Lieutenant, you do not have to reassure these scum! We must get back to—’ He saw Silje, and a slow, leering grin split the lower part of his face. ‘I apologise, Lieutenant. I did not realise you were speaking to a local.’

  ‘I am not a local,’ said Silje.

  ‘Then I apologise to you, Fräulein.’

  Silje could tell he did not mean it.

  ‘I have to go,’ the aide said, clearly on the verge of panic.

  ‘No, you do not,’ the driver said.

  ‘Yes, I do!’

  ‘I will wait for ten minutes, Lieutenant; not a moment more.’

  A cheer of encouragement raised itself from the back of the truck.

  Silje blushed.

  And so did the Lieutenant.

  ‘You heard what he said.’ Silje took him by the hand. ‘We have only ten minutes.’ She led him back through the group of townspeople and towards a narrow passageway lined with wooden shop fronts and stone apartment buildings. A maze of winding alleyways took them to a dead end far from German and Norwegian eyes. Silje pushed the officer against the wall and placed her hand over his mouth. His eyes grew wide; he began fumbling for his pistol so she drove her fist into his elbow joint – something she’d seen Grette do to end fights at The Mottled Goat. The aide’s scream burst silently against her hand, and his gun arm fell limp. Silje worked quickly, unfastening his breeches and reaching inside. His eyes rolled upward as she took hold of him, digging her nails into his flesh and quickly raising his erection with long firm strokes.

  ‘What is your name?’ She took her hand away from his mouth.

  ‘Klein,’ he croaked. ‘Lieutenant Kl—’

  ‘Your first name.’

  ‘Gerbald.’

  ‘Do you like this, Gerbald?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much do you like this?’ She squeezed harder.

  ‘I… I like it very much, Fräulein.’

  ‘Good. I am glad that you like it. How old are you?’

  ‘I am twenty.’

  ‘You are young for an officer.’

  His knees started to weaken; Silje pushed him back against the wall and held him there by his throat.

  ‘I think you and I will be great friends, Gerbald.’

  ‘I… hope so.’

  ‘I hope so too. And I trust you, Gerbald. Do you trust me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She felt him stiffen further so she slowed her pace. ‘I led you here, and you followed. So I think you trust me.’

  ‘Yes… I suppose…’

  ‘That is good, Gerbald. That is very good. I want to help you. I want to help you and the General. And we can help each other if we trust each other, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He lacks experience, Silje thought, and stamina; I must hurry. ‘You will tell me things, and I will tell you things, Gerbald.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘We will keep each other informed of things that concern us. You will use this knowledge to keep the peace; I will use this knowledge to keep my family and my village safe. The General will hold you in high regard when you bring him this information. Now, do you understand?’

  He nodded, and with a cry that sounded as though he were being tortured, he was done.

  ‘Good. That is very good, Gerbald.’

  He sank to his haunches, sliding from Silje’s grip, choking.

  ‘Breathe, slowly.’

  He fell to his hands and knees and tried to draw air from the ground.

  ‘That was your first?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘You did very well, Gerbald. Now do you have a handkerchief or a scarf; something you won’t need back.’

  * * *

  When Silje arrived back at Aaron Dorfmann’s millinery, the proprietor and her father were waiting anxiously outside, Dorfmann gently restraining Jon Ohnstad with a hand upon his shoulder.

  Her father shouted at her, something he rarely did. ‘Where have you been, you stupid little girl?’ Shaking himself free of the milliner’s grip, he threw his arms around her and held so close she could not breathe. She closed her eyes. No matter what may come, she reminded herself, my father will always love me. And the thought made her dizzy with joy.

  ‘He was going to kill every German he saw until he found you,’ Dorfmann said, lighting his pipe. ‘There is a cleverness about you, Silje Ohnstad; I told him that whatever trouble you found yourself in, you would get yourself out.’

  Finally, Jon Ohnstad found the strength of will to let her go.

  ‘I will take my daughter home now,’ he said. ‘I think that we have had enough of Bergen for today.’

  Silje nodded happily and flexed her fingers; her hand ached from servicing the lieutenant. She wondered if she could persuade Erik to milk the goats for her that evening.

  They said their goodbyes and set off for the truck. Silje looked back at the little shop and waved once more to Mr Dorfmann. She decided she liked the hat-maker, even if the devil himself was welcome to his daughter.

  Chapter 7

  The bus driver proudly announced he’d gotten us into Oslo eight minutes early.

  I’d endured the company of an elderly couple for most of the trip. They showed me pictures of their children and grandchildren and finished each other’s sentences while they told me of the lives they’d led during the war. He’d been a Resistance fighter – a decorated one at that. She’d been a school mistress who’d refused to teach Quisling’s brand of Nazism to the children in her care. As a reward for her defiance she, and ten of her colleagues, had been placed on a train bound for Belsen.

  ‘And this brave, brave man,’ she said, squeezing his trembling hand, the light of love still shining in her watery eyes, ‘came to my rescue.’

  ‘Couldn’t let them take her,’ he said. ‘Best teacher in the district.’

  They laughed though they’d heard him say it a thousand times before. When I told them I was going to visit the Resistance Museum they were puzzled.

  ‘It isn’t open yet, is it?’

  I said I was going to ask to see their archives. ‘I lost a member of my family; I hope they might have something that’ll tell me what happened to him.’

  He said, ‘You seem young to have lost family during the war.’

  I told him I’d lost everything during the war.

  We said our goodbyes at the terminus, and I hurried to find a telephone. I’d told Monica that she should be at the public phone box outside our apartment; I’d call at six.

  I tried the number for a good half-hour; she didn’t pick up.

  I wondered if something had happened to her; perhaps she’d been recognised, attacked. Perhaps she was lying in a hospital somewhere, or in a ditch after being cornered by the sons of a Survivor. I thought about going back, getting on the same bus returning to Trondheim; or I could get a taxi – I had enough money. This had be
en a mistake, a terrible mistake. I spun out the number again and waited, hope against hope. I still had time; the bus wouldn’t leave for another ten minutes.

  And then she answered.

  ‘Brigit?’

  I took a deep breath, forced myself to speak calmly. ‘Where were you?’ I said, both angry and relieved.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said flatly, and I knew; she’d been there all the time listening to the phone ringing.

  ‘Why didn’t you pick up?’

  ‘I was angry and I didn’t know why. And then I realised that you—’

  ‘I miss you.’ I shouted so loudly that a circle of drivers nearby turned to look at me. ‘I’m coming back. I’ll get the next bus back to Trondheim.’

  She said nothing for a time, long enough for me to think she’d just gone and left the receiver hanging.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. You’re going to finish this because you’re right. Because I should have done this myself. This has gone on for far too long.’

  ‘But what if you’re right. What if they hate us so much that—’

  ‘Then we’ll turn and face them, Brigit. We’ll stand our ground. And if you find your father, he’ll face them too. He owes us that.’

  ‘Then come to Oslo. We can do this together.’

  I heard her inhale sharply, all the way from Trondheim. It was the same breath she always took before shattering my dreams.

  Get your things, Brigit; we’re leaving.

  No we can’t live here… Because I say so!

  Get your things together, Brigit; we have to leave… now!

  I have talked with your father and he said he doesn’t want to see us; it would be too ‘difficult’. I am so sorry, Brigit.

  Leave that, Brigit! We have to go!

  ‘I can’t do this with you, Brigit,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I bit into my lip and waited for her to explain. As always, nothing came; what is, is – as she was so fond of saying.

  ‘I will be here at the same time every night,’ she said. ‘Just call me and we can talk for as long—’

  ‘That’s not enough. I want you here, now – with me.’

  She sighed again. ’Brigit, I can’t.’