‘Sshhh!’
‘I will not!’
‘There’s someone coming.’
‘If you think this will distract me, Erik, you are sorely—’
The barn was suddenly flooded with moonlight, and a small, stout figure stood in the doorway, a shadow painted onto the low moon.
‘Silje?’ the shadow said, running inside, its bare feet rustling on the layers of strewn hay.
‘Lisbeth!’ Erik scrambled further back into the haystack to hide his nakedness. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Erik.’ Lisbeth panted a curt greeting and turned her frantic attentions to Silje.
‘If you have come all this way to insult me, Lisbeth, then you should know that I am no mood for your—’
‘The Germans.’ Lisbeth doubled over, clutching her knees. ‘The Germans, they are at your house.’
* * *
Erik’s cottage and his barn stood in a circular clearing about a quarter-mile west of the village. It lay beyond a ramshackle collection of bricks and mud that the villagers referred to, grandly, as the ‘wall’, and a nameless lake of sharp stones and volcanic rock where the trees refused to grow. It was in the lake of stones that Silje lost her sandal. She didn’t stop to collect it; she continued to run, caring little for the trail of blood she left in her wake.
Erik and Lisbeth stayed close behind, flanking her.
Silje vaulted the wall with her heart in her mouth; she ran along Fólkvangr’s only thoroughfare, past the bakery and the grocery, past the thin and crooked houses and cottages, past the monument to her mother where the villagers had lined both sides of the road, an honour guard of sombre faces and bright lanterns. Old Mr Kleppe took off his hat as she flew past him; he clutched it to his chest and shouted, ‘God be with you, Silje!’
Silje thought, He will not be with any of us this night.
They left the village behind and ran into the hills, down into the gully and past the stone tablet that Magnus had carved as a child, a small obelisk that marked the southern boundary of the Ohnstad lands.
They slid to a stop and dipped low behind the felled trees at the edge of the copse.
‘Christ,’ Erik breathed. ‘So many of them.’
There were twelve men stationed outside the cottage. An armoured troop carrier and two motorcycles with sidecar-mounted machine guns had been left near the hen houses. The soldiers seemed at ease, though they shivered in the mountain wind.
’What are we going to do?’ Lisbeth asked nervously.
Silje recognised a third vehicle that had been left near the tractor barn: the General’s staff car. It was being carefully inspected by Baldur, the family’s oldest goat.
‘You will do nothing,’ Silje said firmly. ‘I will go to the house and see what is going on.’
‘You are not serious,’ Erik blurted.
Lisbeth told him to keep his voice down.
‘They will be expecting me; I live here.’
‘Going in there will achieve nothing!’
‘I do not know that until I try.’
She stood up. ‘Stay here. I will come for you if I can.’
‘No!’
‘Erik, they will hear you!’
Silje threw away her other sandal and walked towards the cottage. The soldiers moved for their guns as she approached. They did not warn her to stay back or identify herself; they simply aimed pistols at her face.
Silje closed her eyes and told herself not to cry.
‘I know her. She is the old man’s daughter.’
She opened her eyes to see a broad, unshaven face doing its utmost to smile in a friendly, non-threatening manner. ‘I am sorry,’ Silje whispered. ‘Have we met?’
The soldier looked hurt; he removed his helmet, licked his hand and tried to smooth down the thin curls about his head.
‘A month ago,’ he said. ‘I was driving the truck.’
Silje looked puzzled, still.
The soldier glanced nervously at his companions. ‘When you took the Lieutenant away for… privacy.’
Somewhere behind her, a soldier coughed.
‘Ah,’ said Silje. ‘I have you now.’
The soldier looked oddly relieved. ‘Please, go inside; the General is expecting you.’
Silje’s legs almost gave way. ‘Me?’
‘Yes. Now, please.’
She walked on, pushed open the door, and as calmly as she could, entered the cottage.
Inside, Lieutenant Klein stood and snapped to attention.
At the kitchen table, sitting opposite her father, was the immaculate General Gruetzmacher. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, a mug of tea resting on his knee. A brown briefcase stood propped against the table leg nearest him. He turned to her and said, ‘Fräulein. Come in, shut the door. You are causing something of a draught.’
Silje’s father shot her a fearful look. Despite the cold breeze that had followed her into the cottage, he appeared to be sweating an abundance, and his skin was flushed a bright red. He clutched his cap in his hands and his right foot danced a jig of its own accord. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked quietly. ‘I thought you were spending the afternoon with—’
‘I live here,’ Silje said quickly. She closed the door and walked to the table, passing Lieutenant Klein as though he didn’t exist. She sat next to her father and placed her hand on his leg to stop it moving. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure, General.’
The General was clearly in a good mood; she could smell drink on him. And Freya was nowhere to be seen. Good signs, both.
The General picked a goat’s hair from the knee of his breeches and placed his mug on the table. ‘As I was telling your father, I have come to see you, my dear.’
Silje’s heart sank. ‘I am honoured.’
‘You never told me that your father was a keen horticulturalist.’ He reached out to one of the orchids, taking a petal between his fingers.
Jon Ohnstad’s eyes moved rapidly between Silje and the General.
‘I did not know you would be interested,’ Silje replied.
‘No, of course not. Why would you.’
She risked a glance at the Lieutenant, who was perspiring almost as much as her father. The General did not seem to notice the petrified demeanour of both men. She thought that perhaps he’d grown accustomed to seeing fear in the people he met.
‘He breeds orchids,’ the General went on, speaking to Silje as though Jon Ohnstad had left the room. ‘A rare skill. I myself have bred a number of flowering plants, including an entirely new strain of rose.’ He waited, for a round of applause it seemed. ’Perhaps you have heard of the Munich Ruby?’
Silje and her father solemnly shook their heads, and the General’s face set as a mask of anger and disappointment.
‘So you are a botanist, then.’ Jon Ohnstad said quickly.
‘Why, yes! I almost made a career of it. How in the world did you know?’
‘You are clearly an intelligent man, General, but you also possess the hands of someone who works the soil.’
Gruetzmacher visibly swelled with pride, and Silje spared her father the faintest smile. She was aware she possessed a minor talent for manipulation, but had always assumed it had come from her mother.
‘You are a clever and perceptive man, Herr Ohnstad.’ Gruetzmacher sipped his tea. ‘I always found the orchid a most obstinate plant to breed: the positioning of the ovaries; the fussiness with which they choose their partners. Tell me, how have you produced such beautiful blooms?’ He plucked a petal from the closest orchid. Silje sat on her hands to stop herself lunging forward and slapping him.
‘Bees,’ said Jon Ohnstad, his right eye twitching.
‘Bees?’ The General examined the petal.
‘Father has trained bees.’ Silje looked at the silent Klein who stared fearfully ahead. Something is not right, she thought. Why are they here?
‘You train bees,’ Gruetzmacher said doubtfully.
‘They are intelligent, as are yo
u, General,’ Jon Ohnstad replied. ‘With the right encouragement and an enclosed environment they will happily—’
‘What brings you to our home on such a bitterly cold night, General?’ Silje asked.
The General smiled again and reached into his briefcase. Silje caught her breath, expecting him to lay pictures of Freya on the kitchen table. Instead, he placed a neatly folded bundle of papers in front of her.
‘Your newsletter,’ he said.
Silje tried not to swallow, but couldn’t stop herself. Her heart pounded just below her throat.
‘It is a childish pastime, General,’ Jon Ohnstad said desperately. ‘A hobby she refuses to grow out of.’
‘Father!’
‘I assure you, General, she means no harm.’
Gruetzmacher raised his hand, a half-salute that silenced them both. ‘It is… entertaining. I enjoyed reading it. Perhaps it is a little parochial for the larger towns, but with some work we could – what was that?’
He stared at the kitchen ceiling which bowed slightly with a sudden mass pressed upon it from the floor above.
Silje and her father looked at each other.
‘Is there someone upstairs?’
Lieutenant Klein unshouldered his machine gun, but the General patted the air with his free hand, telling him to calm himself.
‘I had been moving furniture before you arrived,’ Jon Ohnstad said. ‘I may have left some of it poorly stacked.’
There was another loud thump from the floor above.
The General eyed them both. Jon Ohnstad and Silje looked passively back. The silence grew cloyingly thick.
‘You were saying, General,’ Silje said, ‘something about larger towns?’
Again, the General glanced at the ceiling. ‘Yes, indeed, Fräulein. This little venture of yours,’ he tapped a finger on Silje’s newsletter, ‘may be the vehicle we need to bring an understanding between our two races.’
As far as Silje believed, Norwegians and Germans were both part of the human race; it appeared the Nazis thought otherwise.
‘Your writing is simple, somewhat whimsical.’
Whimsical, Silje did not mind; she was not so sure about simple.
‘What are you proposing, General?’ her father asked.
Gruetzmacher chose to finish his tea before answering: ‘I do not expect, or believe, that you are sympathetic to what we are trying to do here, but you do understand that it is in the best interest of the Norwegian people not to resist us. As I said before, this will be a short war; there is no reason why it must also be unpleasant. I see in her words that your daughter thinks the same.
‘I have yet to seek the authority of my superiors, but I propose to greatly expand the production and distribution of your newsletter. It will include news and events for the districts under my supervision: Hordvik to the north; Kronstad to the south; Espeland to the east, and of course Bergen on the western coast.’
‘I do not like to leave the village,’ said Silje.
‘You will not have to,’ said Gruetzmacher. ‘We have installed information centres in all the major towns and villages. They will send the contributions here for editing and collation.’ He saved them time and discomfort by answering Silje’s next question before she could speak. ‘I will approve each issue before distribution, and on occasion I will ask that you include articles submitted by the Reichskommissariat and Nasjonal Samling.’
‘Quisling’s party.’ Jon Ohnstad could not keep the venom from his voice, but if the General noticed he chose to ignore it.
‘Aside from this small thing, your daughter will have complete editorial control.’
‘And who will pay for all of this?’ Silje asked.
‘A joint effort, between the Reichskommissariat and Nasjonal Samling.’ The General entreated Silje’s father to a broad, cold smile.
‘I am assuming that I have little choice in this,’ Silje said.
‘You assume correctly.’
Something crashed to the floor upstairs, and this time the General was on his feet with his pistol drawn. ‘Perhaps we should secure your furniture this minute, Herr Ohnstad.’
‘There is really no need!’
Gruetzmacher headed for the stairs, with Klein close behind. Silje stood and whispered to Klein as he walked past her. ‘You have failed me,’ she said, ‘again.’
Klein swallowed and pushed her out of the way. Silje and her father exchanged glances and a silent prayer, and followed the officers to the stairs.
‘As I said, General,’ Jon Ohnstad cried desperately, ‘there is no need to concern yourself.’
Silje tried to force her way past Klein, but he was having none of it. ‘Help yourself and your father,’ he said. ‘Stay here.’
Silje ignored him and directed her plea to the General who was pointing his gun at the door to Magnus’s room. ‘General, please…’
Gruetzmacher kicked open the door and strode inside.
Jon Ohnstad turned to Silje and whispered, ‘Child, we are undone.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ The General roared from inside the room. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? Quickly now! Explain yourselves!’
Silje and her father looked at each other.
Yourselves?
They both charged the stairs, past Lieutenant Klein, and into the bedroom.
Silje’s jaw dropped.
Jon Ohnstad sighed with relief.
‘Well?’ The General stood with his arms folded, his gun still in his hand, but pointing, thankfully, towards the floor. He turned to Silje. ‘Do you know these people?’
She nodded, and tried not to laugh. ‘They are friends of mine.’
Lisbeth and Erik said nothing, but sank fearfully beneath the bed covers. Silje rolled her eyes from right to left, searching the room. There was no sign Freya had ever been there. The wardrobe, she thought. Or perhaps under the bed; please god, not under the bed. That is the first place he will look!
‘This is my fault,’ Jon Ohnstad said, without missing a beat. ‘Their parents disapprove, you see, and they have nowhere else to go.’
Klein headed for the wardrobe and peered closely into the gap between the doors.
‘You allow them to use your house like some brothel,’ the General bellowed. ‘Outrageous, Herr Ohnstad! Outrageous!’
Silje’s eyes fell upon a long black hair, next to the General’s left foot. She tried to signal her father, but Jon Ohnstad had problems of his own.
‘You have encouraged their disobedience!’
‘You are right, General. I am sorry.’
‘Would you approve of your daughter lying with men behind your back?’
And it was at this moment that Jon Ohnstad chose to throw his daughter an oddly stern look. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I would not.’
‘Then you would agree that it is not right to allow such wanton behaviour under your own roof!’
‘Forgive me, General. I thought it poetic; I can see now that I was very wrong.’
The General turned his rage to the occupants of the bed. ‘You two will get dressed and get out.’
Lisbeth and Erik nodded and threw back the bedcovers.
‘Not now, you fools! When we have left!’
They restored the covers and cowered beneath them.
‘And you will see no more of each other, do you understand?’
They nodded, a little too quickly for Silje’s liking. She wondered if Erik would give up on her so easily.
‘Speak!’ the General snapped.
‘Yes, General!’ Erik cried.
Gruetzmacher set a final look of savage disapproval upon Jon Ohnstad, before turning to Silje. ‘We will take our leave now. I will send instructions on how you are to proceed with your newsletter. I will return next week for your first copy. Klein! Come away from there! Are you not going to bid good evening to your young lady?’
Half-covered by the bedsheets, Erik’s face froze.
‘We are no longer together, General,’
Klein said, firmly.
Gruetzmacher looked at them both and shook his head. ‘I weep for the future.’
Klein hurried after the General without sparing Silje a glance. Her father followed them out of the room, apologising profusely. The General said nothing until they reached the kitchen where he continued to berate him.
They waited, Silje, Lisbeth and Erik, until they heard the door to the cottage open and slam shut. They remained frozen, listening to jackboots on shale, orders barked and, finally, vehicles departing. They waited until the sounds of the engines had faded into the mountains.
‘Dear Christ,’ said Erik. ‘I thought we were dead.’
‘Where is she?’ Silje demanded.
‘I am here,’ Freya said weakly, from under the bed.
‘That is the most stupid place to hide!’
‘I am sorry.’
Erik was elated. ‘I thought he was going to kill us!’
‘How did you get in?’ Silje asked.
‘We crept through the woodland to the side of the cottage,’ Erik said proudly. ‘Then we climbed in through the window, put sheets on the bed, stripped and—’
‘You made enough noise to wake the dead!’
‘We were trying to help,’ Lisbeth said flatly.
Jon Ohnstad appeared at the door, holding his favourite clay pipe, the one he smoked when he thought there was cause to celebrate. He smiled cheerfully but Silje could see his pipe hand was shaking.
‘Well done, all of you.’
Freya hauled herself out from under the bed. ‘It was my fault. I tried to hide in the wardrobe, but I could not find it. I panicked; I walked into the wall, and then the dresser. I am so sorry.’
‘We heard her from the garden,’ Erik said. ‘We thought the Germans would too.’
Silje sniffed. ‘Then my father is right. Good work, both of you.’
‘Why thank you,’ said Lisbeth, but Silje could tell she did not mean it.
Jon Ohnstad picked up their clothes from the floor and handed them to Erik so they could both dress beneath the covers. Silje watched them, suspiciously.
The Quisling Orchid Page 10
