And books – lots and lots of books.
Mr Klein’s apartment was something of an archive in its own right.
‘Shouldn’t all of this be in the Resistance Museum?’
‘Perhaps.’ He handed me a mug of coffee that he’d had waiting. ‘I’m still cataloguing most of it.’
I sipped at the lukewarm mug while he served breakfast: waffles, butter and syrup, scrambled eggs with cream cheese, salmon and dill. We ate in silence at the only table that wasn’t laden with junk. I polished off the last of the grapefruit juice and he asked me if I wanted anything else.
I replied by saying, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
‘Yes you do.’ he said, his German accent growing momentarily thicker. I wondered if this was a trait he displayed when he found himself in the rare position of having the upper hand, or maybe he no longer felt the need to conceal it. ‘You seek to uproot your family tree so you may plant anew. You believe you can do this by bringing your father to justice.’ He chased a portion of salmon around his plate, then gave up. ‘You seek this nation’s forgiveness, as do I.’
‘Is that why you never returned to Germany?’
He smiled. ‘You read that?’
‘The security guard told me.’
This made him chuckle; it wasn’t meant to. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. ‘I was there,’ he said, ‘at Fólkvangr, on the day of the massacre. I didn’t want to return to my homeland carrying such guilt.
‘I could have escaped. I could have followed many of my fellow officers to South America. I chose not to. So when Germany surrendered, so did I. I was tried; I pleaded guilty. I was sentenced to death which, make no mistake, I deserved. I was held in solitary confinement for two years, awaiting execution, but in that time, Norway grew something of a social conscience. I suppose after the death and suffering they’d seen under the Nazis… They had no stomach for it, so my sentence was commuted to twenty years.’
He stopped talking and looked down at his plate, staring at it, as though he could see his future in the scraps.
I coughed, and when that didn’t bring him back, I asked, ‘What was it like? Prison, I mean.’
Again, he chuckled, and I nearly asked him what he found so amusing.
‘Between the beatings and the rapes, not an experience I would recommend. I was moved constantly, but wherever I went, the guards and the other prisoners would eventually find out who I was and invent new and interesting ways to remind me what I’d done.’ He lifted his shirt slightly and pointed to the edge of a colostomy bag, surrounded by puckered scarring. ‘I took the punishment for those who escaped, the same as you.’
I swallowed my nausea and pressed on. ‘You didn’t return home after you were released.’ And I really wanted to know why; I needed to know what had kept him living in a country that would despise him long after he was dead.
‘A girl. Why else?’ He rose unsteadily to his feet and hobbled to a large cabinet near the window. ‘I have a picture.’ He came back and placed a small booklet in front of me. It was old, dissolving prematurely – much like its keeper. He stood at my shoulder and carefully turned the pages, the smell of decay on his breath. ‘There she is.’
I squinted hard, trying to piece together an image from the faded photograph. It looked like a beauty pageant. The date written underneath read 1938. The girls were dressed in traditional bunads, along with gloves and scarves to shield against the mountain cold. He pointed her out to me. She was blonde, unsurprisingly, with a very round and very pretty face. And she was tall with unusually broad shoulders. Her arms, folded against her large breasts to fend against the cold, were slim and muscular. In fact, all the women in the pageant had broad shoulders and unnervingly taut biceps.
‘The women of the hills,’ he said. ‘Beautiful and strong. Warrior stock – like your own Valkyrie. The secret was in the vast quantity of goat’s milk they consumed, or so the story went.’ He massaged his throat and smiled. ‘She won that year; the last year the contest was held. War came the year after, you see.’
‘What was her—?’
‘Silje. Silje Ohnstad. She was the daughter of a local farmer and she was the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on.’
‘Were you two – involved?’
He shook his head. ‘God, no. Well… yes, but not really. For a short time, perhaps. I think.’
I had no idea whether they were involved or not.
‘It took her only a few short minutes to destroy me, and though she cast me aside, I stayed. I stayed because I wanted to show her I had paid dearly for what I’d done.’
I closed the booklet and saw the cover for the first time. It carried the German standard and the flag of Norway, along with a title, The Orchid. Someone had pencilled in the Traitor’s name above it so it read The Quisling Orchid.
‘Silje was the magazine’s editor,’ Klein explained. ‘A so-called collaboration between the invaders and the Norwegian people. It was quite common to find the booklet defaced and left on her doorstep.’
I would have liked to have read more, but I’m sure it would have fallen apart in my hands.
‘She was engaged to your father, you know. At least, that’s what he believed. In truth, Silje Ohnstad belonged to no man.’ He caressed his throat and drifted away again. ‘Your father married someone else, before he was unmasked as Fólkvangr’s traitor, but it was Silje Ohnstad – she was the true love of his life.’
My mother had talked a lot about my father; she’d never mentioned this girl.
‘Is she still alive?’
Klein shrugged. ‘I wish I knew. At the end, many of the bodies could not be identified. I sometimes think I see her…’ He shook his head, looking as sad as I’d ever seen him. ‘No, she is gone, and that is the end to it.’
But it was too late; he’d already planted the seed. If she was still alive then perhaps my father remained in contact with her; perhaps they’d stayed in hiding to protect him. It was a wishful thought, but his trail was two decades cold; I needed somewhere to start, and I doubted the good lieutenant could tell me much more.
He sniffed and told me his shift at the museum would begin soon. ‘You can stay and look through anything you want. Just be careful with the really old stuff.’ He placed a spare key on top of the booklet. ‘I hope something here helps you.’
‘I hope so too.’
He picked up his raincoat and headed for the door.
I asked him: ‘Did she love my father?’
‘In her own way. Your father said she was very much like a rose: a thing of great beauty, though you had to watch for the thorns.’
‘She doesn’t sound like much of a catch to me.’
‘Oh, she was,’ he said. ‘If you could endure the pain of holding on to her.’
Chapter 13
It was no surprise to Silje that the villagers took to Freya as though she were born of the mountain. The Jewess would carry out her morning chores and then set off for the village where she would help out at the baker’s shop, and spend the late morning with Mr Bergström, the grocer. He often complained how scarce produce had become since the Germans had invaded. Silje’s father and the other farmers supplied what little they could, but it seemed that self-sufficiency was becoming the order of war.
In the afternoons Freya cleaned the village hall, and to hear Mrs Roys speak of her, one would think that she was the best domestic in all of Norway.
‘Believe it or not, Silje Ohnstad,’ Mrs Roys said during one of Silje’s regular jaunts into the village, made to ensure Freya had not come to any harm. ‘She is a godsend. You could eat from the floor once young Freya has had at it. Not a mote of dust or a single cobweb left anywhere, and all done so quickly!’
A similar tale, begrudgingly told, awaited her at the home of Mrs Tufte, the seamstress. ‘The girl is a devil with needle and thread. Speed, accuracy and no blood left on the material… She will go far in this profession.’
On this particular day, less than a week since Fólkvangr had been made aware of the hidden Jew, Silje caught sight of Freya as she made her way back to the home of Mrs Tufte. She wore a white dress, laced with honey-coloured orchids that she had sewn herself. Her feet were bare and her long toes resembled fingers, feeling for the changes in the cobblestones that guided her. Her left hand traced along the walls of the cottages, seeking textures and doors, signs and symbols etched in the wood.
You must trust her, Silje told herself, she can take care of herself; you must stop following her. She wondered if she could. Freya was young and very alone, and so it was only right someone should take care of her, and as painful as it was to admit, there were times – the empty hours spent missing Magnus or crying for her mother – when she simply wanted to see her.
Occasionally Freya would stop and smell the air, and it was one such moment when she turned and said, ‘Silje? Is that you?’
Silje’s heart leapt into her mouth. ‘I am sorry; I did not mean to spy. I came to tend my mother’s flowers, and I needed to speak to Erik because I have not seen him in days and then I saw you and I wasn’t staring, not that you would know, or care. I am sorry, that was unkind. It is just that sometimes I watch you and I find myself… How do you do it?’
Freya turned bright red.
‘The whole world is a living, breathing thing inside you, and with your ears, your nose and your fingers you walk through it without hesitation or fear or—’ Silje found herself seized by a sudden, most terrible thought. ‘How did you know I was here, and if you say it is the smell I shall simply die on this very spot.’
Freya smiled and said, ‘It is the smell.’
‘It’s the goats, isn’t it? I wash myself straight after I have fed them, and still—’
‘Orchids,’ said Freya. ‘Your family smells of orchids. I think it is why people like you so much.’
And it was Silje’s turn to blush.
‘Will you walk with me? I am going back to the seamstress’s cottage.’
‘No,’ Silje said, more firmly than she had intended. ‘I have much to do. I will see you back at home for supper. Be careful.’
‘I am always careful.’
‘Yes,’ said Silje, ‘I see that now.’
Chapter 14
Fólkvangr was built within an open-sided funnel of ice and rock. The cold air from the mountain peaks was drawn down to the village, lending it an almost perpetual winter, while the shape of the mountains acted as a natural echo chamber, ensuring that approaching vehicles could be heard from many miles away.
And it was the sound of an approaching vehicle that evening which stirred Silje from her tapestry, and her father from his orchid breeding. Jon Ohnstad placed his wishbone tweezers on the table and raised his eyeglasses. ‘A dispatch rider.’
Silje looked to the kitchen clock; it was a few minutes before ten. ‘Mr Kleppe will be on his way with Freya.’
Her father jumped to his feet and reached for his coat and hat. ‘I will meet them and take them back to The Mottled Goat.’
Silje was already tidying the kitchen, stowing away any signs that a second woman was living in the cottage. There were two dresses being dried above the stove that were clearly too small for her; she threw them into the pantry as her father left through the kitchen door.
‘Hurry!’ she shouted after him, and hid the bonnet that Freya had been making for Mrs Tufte.
The sound of the motorcycle drew closer.
There were three bowls in the sink, left over from supper. She added a fourth, thinking that an even number was less likely to arouse suspicion.
There were footsteps on the path, a knock at the door. Silje made one last sweep of the kitchen and took a deep breath before opening it.
Lieutenant Klein saluted. ‘Fräulein Ohnstad.’ He was carrying a typewriter under his arm. ‘I have brought supplies for the newsletter, courtesy of General Gruetzmacher.’ He entered the cottage without waiting for an invitation. He set down the typewriter and turned to face her. He opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of whatever it was he wanted to say. He strode awkwardly from the cottage and returned a moment later carrying boxes of scissors, craft knives and pots of glue. ‘Take what you need and share the rest with the villagers if you like,’ he said, and left the cottage again.
Silje began making hot chocolate and honey; the Lieutenant looked cold.
He came back inside carrying reams of paper and pencils. ‘If you have trouble with the typewriter—’
‘I shall be able to fix it,’ she said.
‘Of course, of course.’ Klein wiped his hands on his breeches. He glanced around the kitchen as though looking for someone.
‘I let you down, and I am sorry,’ he said. ‘If you give me another chance I swear I will not do so again.’ He removed his helmet and stood straight. ‘You are all I think about, Silje Ohnstad.’
Silje closed the cottage door and returned to the kitchen table to stand in front of him. She looked into his eyes and saw little more than his wretched longing, embers reflecting his desire for her and a hatred for himself.
‘You are not going to tell me you love me, are you, Gerbald?’
He looked to the ceiling and squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I do not know,’ he said, and then he said, ‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ It occurred to Silje that she could obliterate him with a single word, cast her tongue to flay the flesh from his bones. The thought of it thrilled her. ‘And how could I love one such as you?’
The Lieutenant implored her, ‘Do not be unkind, Silje. I could not bear it.’
She knelt in front of him and began unfastening his breeches. ‘I am never unkind, Gerbald, not to those who are loyal to me.’
‘I swear on my life, Silje; I am loyal to you.’
‘Then tell me, how fares the good General?’
Klein gripped the edge of the table and began to tremble. ‘He is well, though he is… concerned.’
She drew a fingernail along his length, felt his blood pulse in the palm of her hand. ‘And what concerns him?’
‘Many things,’ he gasped. ‘Supply shortages, morale, the efforts of the Resistance, the effect the cold weather has on machinery and—’
‘The Resistance?’
‘Yes.’ Klein’s breathing shortened to sharp rapid bursts. ‘They have attacked our ships docked at Bergen, Oslo and Trondheim. We have lost one vessel, though we killed at least half a dozen resistance fighters and— Ow!’
‘Sorry, please go on.’
‘The area commanders do not see a threat, but General Gruetzmacher can only see resistance to our cause growing. He is a good man, Silje, and a fine leader. His ability to see into the mind of our enemy encroaches on the supernatural.’
‘Then perhaps it is his drinking that has brought him to this place.’
Klein fell silent.
‘Answer me.’
‘He has always struggled with his demons, his… desires, but Germany knows his worth. This post was not a punishment; he sought it. He wanted to come to Norway, and we gladly followed him.’
‘And what plans does he have for the Resistance?’
‘Why do you wish to know?’
‘So that I can better use the newsletter to aid him. I have no wish to see my countrymen killed fighting you, Gerbald.’ He needed more encouragement, so she drew his phallus deep into her mouth. His reaction surprised her; he began to struggle, tried to pull himself free. Silje pressed her weight against him, forcing him back against the table. She clawed her fingernails down his stomach and sank her teeth into his flesh.
He closed his eyes and whispered under his breath: ‘He has sent for reinforcements and interrogators. He seeks to crush the Resistance before it can put down roots. He seeks to turn the common Norwegian away from them. Silje, you are torturing me!’
She nursed from him and bit into him until she felt him stiffen and burst against the roof of her mouth. Klein sank slowly to the floor.
&nbs
p; Her jaw throbbed from her exertions and her legs felt weak, so much so that she had to use the table to support her journey to the sink. She could taste blood on her tongue. She swilled her mouth with cold water before returning to where the Lieutenant sat, crying softly to himself. She looked at him and felt strangely intoxicated. She raised his chin with a single finger, then struck him with her open palm. She raised her hand to strike him again, but stopped when he did not attempt to defend himself.
‘That was not polite, Gerbald,’ she said softly.
‘I am sorry. I could not stop myself.’
There is a soft anger about him, Silje thought, though he is more angry at himself than me.
‘God forgive you for what you have done to me.’ He used a chair to haul himself to his feet and tried to smarten his tunic, forgetting that his breeches were still undone.
‘I have educated you, Gerbald, that is all. There is no harm in it.’
‘There is harm, Fräulein,’ he said, ‘when I betray myself for your affections.’ He fastened his breeches, and after a performance of fidgets and coughs managed to regain a semblance of dignity. ‘You promised me information,’ he said sternly, ‘in return for my cooperation. Well, I have cooperated, God help me, so now you must—’
‘I have nothing for you,’ Silje replied. ‘We are a small village, unimportant in the scheme of all things, even before the invasion.’ She knew men well enough; Gerbald would seek to expunge his guilt by taking something from her, some token of her betrayal to assuage his own. She knew men well enough to understand that guilt was a leash to hold them by, though not too tightly.
‘You must have something!’
‘I am sorry, Gerbald; I have nothing. If I had then I would tell you.’
He wiped his nose on his sleeve; he was on the verge of weeping. She tried hard not to smile. His breathing came in short, rough bursts, his skin reddened as his rage boiled to the surface. And when he opened his eyes and looked at her, Silje saw someone else in him; she saw the General’s protege.
The Quisling Orchid Page 13
