The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

  He and Jon Ohnstad embraced, tears streaming from their eyes. Silje wondered what terrible things Mr Helsing had seen, and what things her father imagined. Mr Helsing stepped back and straightened his jacket. ‘Follow me.’

  He had the key to the hat-maker’s shop. Silje followed her father and Mr Helsing inside, with Magnus as rear guard.

  ‘What did you tell them?’ Jon Ohnstad asked.

  ‘I told them that I needed a few days to search the place. I told them the filthy Jew had stolen some of my stock and I would like to rip apart his home in case he had not sold it.’

  ‘And they agreed?’

  ‘They are looking for “a calm and orderly transition” so they are perhaps a little more accommodating than they were in Poland.’ Mr Helsing took a handkerchief from the jacket of his suit and mopped his brow. ‘They came for him, Jon; three days ago. They broke into his shop, beat him senseless, mutilated him, and took him away.’

  ‘He knew they would.’

  ‘And I just watched, from my window.’

  ‘As we agreed you would, if it ever came to it.’

  Silje asked what had become of Mr Dorfmann and his daughter; none of the three men answered her. Instead they formed a circle in the kitchen and began lifting away the floor tiles. Magnus, Jon Ohnstad and Mr Helsing worked quickly, without speaking; fearful, but without panic. Next came the layer of soil.

  ‘For warmth,’ Jon Ohnstad said. Magnus nodded.

  Under the soil, more boards. Not floorboards, but old, rotten planks taken from ships.

  ‘Your planks, I take it,’ Jon Ohnstad said with a thin smile.

  Mr Helsing smiled back. ‘I still have many friends in wet places.’

  Silje noticed the smell, familiar, like the barn back at the cottage, though much stronger. ‘It smells like something died under there,’ she said, wrinkling her nose.

  Her father glanced at her; it was not a look she recognised, but suspected it was one of disappointment.

  The last plank came free and then a large wooden sheet that Silje recognised as the door to Mr Dorfmann’s storeroom.

  And beneath the door, lay the milliner’s daughter.

  ‘Dear Lord.’ Magnus crossed himself.

  The young girl was folded around a small pile of empty pans and scraps of paper, in a space barely large enough to hold one of her father’s hat boxes. She was in the same dress Silje had seen her wearing only a few weeks before, though it was almost unrecognisable, as was she: thinner, paler, and caked in her own filth.

  Silje covered her mouth and turned away, catching her father’s eye as she did so. He did not appear the least part surprised.

  ‘Help me lift her out,’ he said.

  ‘Her limbs have set. Be careful.’

  Freya offered no resistance as the three men hauled her from her hiding place. She did not move as they set her gently on the floor.

  Magnus asked if she was alive.

  Jon Ohnstad placed his ear to her chest. ‘Yes, she lives, but we must hurry.’

  ‘I will fetch some water,’ Silje said, keen to escape the stench.

  ‘There is no time,’ said Magnus. ‘Go to the front and keep watch. Signal us if the Germans come.’

  ‘Signal you? How am I supposed to—’

  ‘Silje!’ her father said through pressed teeth. ‘For once in your selfish little life, do as you are told!’

  Silje turned and walked away, chased and stung by his words. She stepped outside the shop and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  He had never said such a thing to her before. Never.

  The store front faced a wide, cobbled street that led to Bergen’s largest jetty. She understood why Mr Helsing had set himself up there; thick jerseys and waterproofs were always in demand by the men who worked the town’s fishing vessels. But now she thought on it, why Aaron Dorfmann had chosen to open a ladies’ hat shop near a harbour was something of a mystery.

  ‘Miss Ohnstad!’ A familiar voice cut through her thoughts, and it was with a profound horror she realised she had already failed in her duties as lookout; Lieutenant Klein hurried across the street, beaming uncontrollably. ‘Miss Ohnstad!’

  Silje hurried across the road to meet him, took him by the arm and led him away. ‘Lieutenant,’ she said crisply. ‘I believe we had an agreement.’

  ‘An agreement?’

  ‘Yes, you would tell me everything your commander says, plans or does. Is that not what you promised?’

  She spied an alleyway, between a café and a small tea room.

  ‘Yes, I did, but—’

  ‘And did you not think the mass transportation of Jews is something I should hear about?’ The alley would suffice for just a few minutes, long enough for her to reinforce her hold over him. ‘You should have told me. That is what we agreed.’ She reached down and rapped her fist against his crotch. He shrieked, not unlike a small child. Strangely though, he was still smiling.

  ‘It is not easy, Fräulein. I cannot just abandon my duties and travel to Fólkvangr to find you.’

  ‘In future, you will find a—’

  ‘Lieutenant!’ Another voice. Silje wondered if her luck would continue to worsen as the day wore on.

  Klein took a step away from her and snapped to attention. ‘General!’

  Gruetzmacher stepped from his staff car and strode across the street.

  Silje licked her lips and looked for a direction in which to run.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ the General said quietly. ‘And who is this?’

  ‘This?’ said Klein as though he were unsure. ‘This is Fräulein Ohnstad.’

  Gruetzmacher looked disdainfully at Silje.

  ‘She is from Fólkvangr.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Fólkvangr.’

  ‘I am not deaf, Lieutenant. I wanted you to tell me where Fólkvangr is.’

  ‘My apologies, Gener—’

  ‘It is a small village,’ Silje said quietly, ‘in the mountains about twenty miles north of here.’ She decided she would say no more; Fólkvangr was of no interest to the Germans and it would stay so.

  ‘Fólkvangr. I have not heard of this place.’

  ‘It is a very insignificant little place,’ she said, almost desperately. ‘A few cottages, barns and taverns. And goats,’ she rambled. ‘Lots and lots of goats.’

  The Lieutenant looked as fearful as she felt.

  The General was clearly a man who believed he should know everything; Fólkvangr had escaped his eye and this was of some concern. He stared at her, trying to pierce her skull through sheer force of will. She would have withered beneath his eyes, but there was something else: the scent of alcohol – a weakness in him that gave her a small measure of strength.

  ‘And what business do you have with my lieutenant?’

  Klein started to speak, but Gruetzmacher waved him to silence.

  ‘And did I not see you here a few weeks ago?’

  ‘I do not think so, sir.’

  ‘Yes, at my welcoming address. I thought I recognised you.’ His eyes fell to the bundle of papers that Silje held crushed against her chest. ‘And what are you carrying?’

  ‘This, sir? Nothing.’

  ‘Really?’ He took the newsletters from her.

  ‘Now, where are you taking my lieutenant?’ he asked again and turned to the first page.

  Her father’s truck drew to a halt on the other side of the road. There was a commotion in the cab. Magnus was restraining him from getting out and running to her aid.

  Please, Silje thought, stop him. ‘I was taking him to the alleyway,’ she said to the General. ‘I merely wished to pleasure him.’ The phrase had dropped into her head, the same words that Erik had muttered to her.

  I sought to pleasure you, Silje…

  Gruetzmacher looked up, an eyebrow raised.

  ‘You are correct, sir. I was at your address. It is where I met the Lieutenant.’ She took Klein’s hand; he appeared to be in shock. ‘I am sorry I
was untruthful. I did not think the Lieutenant would wish it known that we are in love.’

  Klein looked at her, his eyes the size of hens’ eggs.

  ‘I see,’ The General glanced at Klein, and at Silje, and then over her shoulder at the alleyway. ‘Right.’ He read to the end of the page while an armoured car and messenger motorcycle veered around them.

  ‘Perhaps we should step out of the street, General,’ Klein said.

  The General ignored him. ‘Forgive my suspicion, Fräulein,’ he said without looking up from the newsletter. ‘It was your clothes.’

  ‘My clothes?’

  ‘Yes, that dress. It is little more than a sack if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘No, of course…’

  ‘It is probably unwise to walk the streets dressed like a Jewess.’

  ‘Yes, I am sorry; I should have thought.’

  ‘Just a friendly warning.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And as for you, Lieutenant…’

  Klein, exhausted, slowly arranged his limbs into something akin to standing to attention. ‘Sir.’

  ‘I was young myself once; but there is a time for duty and there is a time for… other pursuits.’ He treated Silje to a slow unpractised wink. ‘And you are still on duty. Return to my car.’

  Klein gratefully hurried away.

  ‘And smile at the locals, Klein! It will be a short war; try to enjoy it!’ Gruetzmacher turned to Silje and held up the newsletter. ‘May I keep this.’

  It wasn’t a request; Silje nodded and looked over his shoulder. The struggle in the truck had attracted the attention of three soldiers who were speaking to Magnus and her father.

  And in the back of the truck, something was stirring under the tarpaulin.

  ‘May I go now, sir. I do not wish to keep my father waiting.’

  ‘Yes of course, but another word of advice, Fräulein.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We will not be here for very long, so make the most it. Klein should buy you some new clothes, perhaps nicer shoes.’ He smiled in what he believed to be a fatherly way. ‘And be mindful as to how you conduct yourself in public.’

  ‘I will think on that, sir. Thank you.’

  She hurried back to the truck, and almost wilted with relief when she heard Gruetzmacher bark at the soldiers, telling them to stop haranguing the locals.

  The soldiers stepped away, giving her room to climb into the cab alongside Magnus.

  ‘Well done, Daughter.’ Jon Ohnstad put the truck into gear.

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ said Silje, ‘for someone as selfish as me. Now can we please leave this place? I think I’m going to be sick.’

  * * *

  And Silje was sick, twice, on the journey home. The first time they had barely left Bergen, the second was high in the hills on a blind curve that took them out of sight of the town below.

  ‘Would you like me to hold your hair?’

  ‘You are not funny, Magnus.’

  ‘Son, do not tease your sister. She has done a very brave thing today.’

  ‘How is she?’ Magnus called out.

  ‘I think she is dead,’ Silje called back.

  Both men jumped out of the cab and ran to the back of the truck, where Silje held up the tarpaulin and peered at the trembling form underneath.

  ‘See?’ she said. ‘The Jew isn’t moving.’

  ‘She clearly is,’ said her brother.

  ‘Her name is Freya,’ Jon Ohnstad said, his nostrils twitching at the stench, ‘as you well know.’

  ‘She is cold,’ said Magnus. ‘We should put her in the front; the heat from the engine will—’

  ‘She is not sitting in the front with us,’ said Silje. ‘She is covered in her own mess!’

  ‘Do not be unkind,’ Jon Ohnstad told her.

  ‘But the stench, Father! She smells worse than old Mr Ruud!’

  ‘And now you exaggerate.’

  ‘If you do not wish to sit with her,’ said Magnus, ‘then why don’t you sit in the back of the truck?’

  ‘I am not going in the back of the truck.’

  The Jewess spoke, her voice cracked and dry. ‘I am fine where I am.’

  Jon Ohnstad was startled. ‘You are not, my dear. You are cold.’

  ‘I have been sealed under a floor for four days. A few hours in the back of your truck will matter little.’ She inclined her head slightly, guiding an ear to where Magnus stood, clearly in awe of her, Silje thought, though he can barely see her for the filth she is covered in.

  Freya said, ’I do not know your voice.’

  ‘I… I am Magnus. Silje’s brother.’

  ‘I am Freya. I wish I could say I was pleased to meet you.’ She appeared to lapse into unconsciousness.

  ‘Magnus, help me carry her to the cab. Silje, you will ride in the back.’

  ‘Father!’

  ‘There is not room for three us!’

  ‘Then why not Magnus?’

  ‘Because you have already volunteered.’

  ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t sit with her, which I take to mean you would rather sit in the back.’ Again he’d made up his mind; the argument was lost, but Silje made her feelings clear by refusing to help move Freya into the cab. Her father started the engine. Silje climbed into the back and gingerly pushed away the tarpaulin with her foot.

  Chapter 9

  ‘I think,’ said Jon Ohnstad wretchedly, ‘this is the longest time you have gone without speaking to me.’

  Silje scrubbed angrily at the pots and renewed a silent vow to never utter a word to him ever again.

  ‘Though there was the time I took Pollyanna to the market and returned without her. You cried for a day and a night and said that you would not speak to me again under pain of torture.’

  And Magnus, she thought, Magnus who left them with the Jewess almost as soon as they arrived back in Fólkvangr. Magnus, whose latest calling, whatever that may be, meant he had to steal away, with people she neither knew or trusted, in the dead of night, instead of remaining at the cottage to help with the latest stray to whom their soft-headed father had opened the Ohnstad home. Yes, Magnus; she would never speak to him again either.

  ‘Though if I remember rightly,’ Jon Ohnstad said, ‘I did not have to torture you.’

  ‘Do not even think about it,’ said Silje.

  ‘You broke quite readily under pain of tickling.’

  She raised a pan and held it in front of her. ‘Do not come near me, old man. Do not think that I am not angry enough to use this.’

  Jon Ohnstad raised his hands and backed away. He sat down next to his orchid pot. ‘A truce then,’ he said.

  Silje dropped the pan into the sink and carried on scrubbing. ‘I was not angry about Pollyanna. She was just a goat, and not a very nice goat at that. I was angry because you sold her without telling me. I am angry because you and Magnus hatched this ridiculous scheme and did not think to tell me about it. I live here too – which is more than I can say for Magnus.’

  ‘He thought you would say no.’

  ‘He is right! I would have! What are we to do with her? Do you plan on keeping her in Magnus’s room until the war ends, or we are shot as sympathisers?’

  ‘It will not come to that.’

  ‘And you know this? How?’

  He put on his microscope – a cumbersome, home-made contraption cobbled together from pieces of brass, iron and lenses he had procured over many years. ‘Because we will keep her hidden away in Fólkvangr. The Germans have no reason to come here.’

  ‘And after three days, she has not moved from that bed and has eaten little more than a mouthful. She has not washed herself since we found her in the pit under the shop floor!’

  ‘She mourns the loss of her father. I would like to think you would be just as upset.’

  ‘And the smell!’

  ‘If I approach her she screams. Above all else, we cannot have her screaming.’
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br />   ‘Did Mr Dorfmann make you do this?’

  ‘How could he make me do anything?’ Her father moved a lever and a thick lense slid over his left eye. He peered into the column of the largest, most beautiful orchid. ‘I agreed to save his daughter because it was the right thing to do. I would have saved him too, but he was known to them; they would have come looking and they would have found her. How could I refuse any man making such a sacrifice for his child?’

  He opened the small box resting on the table. Inside was a single bee which flew on to his hand. He placed it on the lip of the orchid and watched intently as it went about its work. ‘Your mother was very sick near the end of her life.’

  ‘Father, please…’

  ‘That… thing that grew from her; it made her…’ He looked to the ceiling and squeezed his eyes shut. ‘It made her want to hide away. She did not want you to see what she’d become. She wanted me to send you away until after the end. Do you remember this, Silje?’

  ‘I remember that you did not ask me.’

  ‘The Fehns looked after you for the last month of your mother’s life. Mrs Fehn, your mother and me: we thought that was best for you.’ Her father used a small wishbone lacquered with honey to take the bee from one orchid and place it on another. ‘So you see, Daughter, there are a great many things I have not told or discussed with you. Sometimes they do not concern you, other times I seek to protect you.’

  ‘And Magnus? Does he not require protection?’

  Jon Ohnstad sighed and removed his microscope. ‘He is my son. He will always be my son. But you, Silje – you are my child.’

  Silje watched him replace his eyepieces and resume his strange vigil over bee and orchid. ‘Fine,’ she said, and stormed out through the back door.

  The third-acre behind the Ohnstad cottage was home to three trees and a carpet of grass kept even by the family’s four goats. They looked at her curiously, not used to seeing her behind the house so late in the evening. She tripped on a log on her way to the woodshed, where she found two metal bathtubs. The newest hadn’t lost its sheen; the older one was dull with age and was now used to clean the goats and dip the sheep. She took the older tub and dragged it back into the cottage.