The Lieutenant’s breathing slowed, and when he spoke, his words were calm, even, and measured: ‘You could begin with the whereabouts of your brother.’
Silje felt herself swallow. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He was with you when you came to Bergen, but he was not here when the General and I came to see you, two weeks ago.’
‘He was at the tavern.’
‘I imagined as much,’ Klein said plainly. ‘He is a priest, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And yet he drinks in taverns.’
‘He is still in training.’ It was a wretched answer, one she felt sure would put her brother before the firing squad.
‘Studying languages at the Mission School in Stavanger, yes?’
Silje nodded as though in a trance. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Do not be surprised, Fräulein. We know a great many things. We know your brother has not been seen at the school since German forces landed.’
‘Come upstairs,’ she said desperately, placing her hand against his groin. ‘There is so much more I can teach you.’
He pushed her away, so savagely she fell to the floor.
‘Perhaps another time,’ he said, massaging his cheek. ‘I must return; the General is expecting me.’ He strapped his helmet to his head and walked to the door. ‘Do not treat me like a fool, Silje Ohnstad. And it would be in your brother’s best interest for him to return to this village and stay here for the duration of the war. I shall not warn you again.’
* * *
The cottage door creaked slowly open, and Jon Ohnstad poked his head into the kitchen. ‘Silje?’
She looked up and said ‘Father’, but could not muster the strength to rise from the floor. Her father turned and called to Freya, telling her it was safe, and then went to his daughter’s aid.
‘Dear Lord, Silje, are you all right?’ He cradled her in his arms. ‘What happened?’
Freya appeared at the door and sniffed at the air. ‘Klein,’ she said.
Silje looked to the kitchen clock. Three hours had gone: three hours and she could not remember a single thought that had passed through her head in all that time. ‘You have the nose of a dog.’
‘Now is not the time to be unkind.’ Jon Ohnstad held her more tightly.
She drew herself away from him. ‘I was not being unkind.’
‘Are you all right? Did he hurt you? Did he hit you?’
‘And what would you do if he has hurt me, Father? What could anyone do?’ She embraced herself and shivered.
‘I will make soup.’ Like Silje’s own mother, Freya had come to believe that hot soup was the first and best remedy for an ailing soul.
‘Stop fussing, both of you.’ With her father’s aid, Silje got up from the floor. ‘I am fine. Really. Now, where is Magnus?’
She thought it odd that her father did not reply. Instead he looked to Freya, who clattered pans and cursed at the stove, clearly trying to forget the question.
‘I know you heard me, Freya,’ Silje said. ‘You hear everything.’
Freya stopped rattling the pans and stood motionless with her back to them both.
‘So, you have told her what my brother is up to, but you have decided not to tell me.’
Jon Ohnstad licked his lips.
‘You trust her more than you trust me.’
‘Silje…’
‘I am your daughter. She is not. She is a blind Jew we found under a floor.’
‘That is enough, Silje.’
‘It is all right, Mr Ohnstad,’ said Freya.
‘Yes, you are right, Father; it is enough.’ Silje began making her way upstairs. ‘Get a message to him. Tell him he must return to Fólkvangr as soon as he can. The Germans know he is with the Resistance.’
‘Then he cannot come back here!’ Freya cried.
‘He will be safe. The Lieutenant has promised me, after a fashion.’
‘How can you trust a German?’
‘Get the message to him,’ said Silje. ‘I do not care which of you does it.’
Chapter 15
‘Hellish machine!’
Over the course of several days, Silje had come to the conclusion that the devil, in his efforts to confound and ultimately destroy mankind, had invented the typewriter. It wasn’t just the tediously grating noise, or its constant need for oiling and maintenance; no, what annoyed Silje most about the typewriter was its insistence on stamping the incorrect letter on the page, though she had most assuredly hit the correct key. What was the purpose of this ridiculous arrangement? What was wrong with God’s own alphabet?
She leaned back in her chair and finished her milk and honey. The taste was less sweet than she was used to. Her father often said that unhappy bees make for a bitter harvest. Silje wondered if the bees were upset about the war.
Or perhaps they simply disapprove of my service to the Germans.
Her room had become very much smaller of late, filled as it was with sheets of handwritten notes that had come flooding into the cottage a few days after the first issue of The Orchid was released. She had no idea how it reached so many in such a short space of time. An outrider – and she had been relieved that it wasn’t Lieutenant Klein – had picked up her hastily prepared bundles on Monday, and the newsletter had been distributed across the north-east by Friday. In that time, her numerous typing errors had been corrected; pictures glued to paper, accompanied by hastily scribbled annotations, had been turned into attractive galleried layouts that filled her with a kind of begrudging pride. Pride because she still saw The Orchid as something that belonged entirely to her; begrudging because she suspected that more of Fólkvangr had read a single issue of The Orchid than had read the entire run of The Friends of Fólkvangr. It felt like a betrayal.
The door opened and Freya entered, her long toes feeling a path through the reams of paper littered across the floor. She moved past the columns that Silje had stacked, waist-high, without displacing a single sheet.
Silje often wondered if the girl was as blind as she made out to be. She would have chided her for entering her room without knocking, but that would have meant speaking to her.
‘Your father says you are working too hard. You must rest.’
‘My father should come here and tell me this himself.’
‘He would like to, but you have not spoken to him for days.’
Silje sniffed and carried on typing, though she had nothing left to type.
Freya said, ‘You have not spoken to me for days.’
‘I am very busy, Freya. Is there something I can do for you.’
‘You could tell me what I have done to offend you.’
Silje ceased her typing and said, ‘You could stop trying to steal my father.’
‘I am not trying to steal your—’
‘It is not fair that you take mine because you have lost your own.’
‘Silje, please…’
‘You are a guest here, Freya; a welcome guest, but a guest nonetheless. You are not my sister and you are not his daughter.’
She heard Freya exhale. ‘If I have caused you to dislike me any more than you already do, I am sorry.’
‘I do not dislike you. I just think you should remember your place.’
‘I know my place. Between you and the Germans, how could I forget?’ Her voice was little more than a whisper, but her words pierced Silje as though they had been screamed into her ears. She returned to the typewriter, her fingers rattling over the unfamiliar keys. She looked down and saw she had been attempting to type a poem, something she remembered from her childhood though the title escaped her. She heard Freya leave the room, and began to miss her as soon as the door had closed, so much so that when the door opened a moment later, she was ready with an apology of her own.
‘You must come!’ Freya cried. ‘You must come now!’
‘Freya, whatever is the matter?’
But the silly girl had already gone; Silje could hear her running down the stair
s. She rose to her feet and yawned, stretching out her limbs. Her back ached and she realised her father was right: she needed to rest.
Silje reached the kitchen and began with a tired, half-hearted admonishment: ‘Freya, what have I said about running up and down the stairs. You will come to mischief one of these—’
‘Hello, Sister.’
She looked up. She saw her father, his jaw slackened in disbelief. She saw Freya, almost delirious with joy. And finally she saw Magnus, and straight away she could see he was a different man: his eyes, hooded and darkened, his skin weathered, and much of his face hidden by a thick beard. But what struck her with sorrow was that he looked so much older. Her twin had grown into manhood and left her behind.
‘Magnus!’ She ran across the kitchen and threw her arms around him. ‘Magnus! You are home!’
And he smelled terrible.
‘Where have you been, for God’s sake? And what happened to your face!’
Jon Ohnstad wiped tears from his eyes and shook his son firmly by the hand. ‘My boy.’
Then he embraced them both. ‘My children.’
Freya clapped her hands and announced, very excitedly, that she would warm some soup.
‘Not soup, Freya, please,’ said Magnus. ‘I have lived on soup for the past month.’
‘Then I shall make us a rabbit stew!’
Astonished, Magnus looked at Silje and mouthed the words, Can she?
‘I am perfectly capable, Magnus; thank you for asking.’
Magnus’s eyes widened still further.
Silje shrugged. ‘Perhaps she heard your jowls move, Brother.’
He rapped her playfully on her shoulder.
‘Ow! Father, tell him!’
Jon Ohnstad sighed. ‘Magnus, you have just come home. Do not torment your sister.’
‘It is so good that you have returned to us.’ Freya struggled to move the huge pot closer to the oven.
‘Freya, leave that. I shall help you in a moment.’
‘But you must be hungry.’
‘I can wait. Come and join us.’ Magnus held out his hand.
‘She can’t see you, silly!’
‘Silje, he has just come home. Do not torment your brother.’
‘Join us, little sister,’ Magnus said.
Freya jumped on the spot. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, join us.’
‘After that.’
Silje felt her whole body stiffen.
‘I said “little sister”, because that is what you are: my little sister, her little sister, his youngest daughter.’
Freya wrung her hands, unsure what she should do. ‘You are all so very kind.’
‘Child, this is the infamous Ohnstad Family Embrace,’ Jon Ohnstad said. ‘It could last for a moment, or it could last for days. Whichever, it is not to be missed.’
She smiled as though the sun had found its home in the Ohnstad cottage. She took a single step towards them and dissolved into a flood of tears.
‘Fine.’ Jon Ohnstad sighed. ‘We shall come to you.’
* * *
They ate the stew and drank Jon Ohnstad’s homemade mead – fabled throughout the mountains – until the small hours of the morning. And while they ate and drank, Magnus regaled exploits of daring carried out by the Norwegian Resistance against an invading force that was better-trained, better-equipped and far superior in numbers.
‘But we have the most important thing in our favour,’ he said, waving his mug while Silje attempted to fill it.
‘What is that?’ said Freya. She was trying to make eyes at him, but her excitement made it difficult for her to find his voice.
‘We are Norwegians.’
‘My God, yes!’ Jon Ohnstad slammed his hand on the kitchen table, belched and quietly excused himself.
‘Did you kill any Germans?’ Freya demanded. Silje touched the blind girl’s cheek, moving her head slightly so she could point her eyes at Magnus. ‘Did you kill any Germans?’ she asked again.
‘Not many, if I am honest.’
Freya was on the verge of swooning. ‘But you killed some, didn’t you?’
‘A few. Not as many as some, but more than others.’
‘I think you are being modest, Magnus Ohnstad. I think you killed hundreds.’
‘Definitely not hundreds.’
‘I think you are very brave!’
Silje rolled her eyes in a wide arc, and at the arc’s end she found her father’s stern eyes looking back.
‘Not as brave as some,’ Magnus said sadly.
Silje said, ‘Well, I think our “little sister” is quite exhausted.’
‘I am not a child. I can tell you when I’m tired.’
‘And from the tongue in her head I’d say she’s had far too much to drink.'
Jon Ohnstad hiccoughed and mumbled his agreement.
Then came an altercation over where Freya should sleep. She insisted that Magnus, being a hero of the Resistance, should have his room; she would sleep downstairs.
‘Why can she not share your bed?’ Jon Ohnstad said to his daughter – his true daughter – while feeling his pockets for his pipe.
‘Do not think you are smoking in the house,’ warned Silje.
‘There is Mother’s old room,’ said Magnus.
‘She is not sleeping in Mother’s bed.’
‘Silje, it is time that we were allowed to use her room again.’
‘I do not see why.’
’Are there not enough shrines to Mother around the village?’
‘No,’ Silje said without a whisper of irony. ‘No, there are not.’
‘I will be fine downstairs,’ Freya said quietly.
‘I think we should let her sleep in the other room,’ said Jon Ohnstad. ‘Magnus is right. It is time.’
‘No.’
‘Then she can sleep with you.’
‘Really, I don’t mind sleeping here,’ said Freya, and then added hopefully, ‘or I could sleep on the floor in Magnus’s room.’
‘You do not want to do that,’ Silje said. ‘He has the most frightening night wind.’
‘I do not! Father, tell Silje to stop—’
Jon Ohnstad rose abruptly from his seat. He raised an eyebrow at Silje while lighting his pipe. ‘The magic spun in our home is a source of fascination to me,’ he said.
Silje and Magnus exchanged worried glances.
‘What do you mean?’ said Freya.
His father beckoned for them to come closer, his eyes shifting conspiratorially between them. ‘There is magic,’ he whispered, circling his pipe in the direction of the door. ‘An ancient and terrible magic that encircles our threshold.’
Freya listened intently. ‘What does it do?’ she said, her voice held low, should the magic hear her and take offence.
‘Why are you whispering?’ said Silje.
Even Magnus appeared to be drawn into the tale of Scandinavian witchery.
‘Whenever my children enter this house,’ said Jon Ohnstad, ‘the magic comes to life!’
Freya shrieked and jumped in her seat. ‘Sorry.’
‘Do not apologise, child. Indeed it is a thing to be feared. For whenever my children cross that step, the magic changes them, twists them, and without fire or smoke or the stench of brimstone, it turns them both into…’ He swallowed, trembled, looked fearfully about the kitchen, and then, lowering his voice still further, he whispered ‘… six-year-olds’ before straightening his back, smiling and scratching contentedly at his stomach.
Silje leaned back in her seat. ‘I do not think that is very funny,’ she said while her brother whooped with delight.
‘I do not understand,’ said Freya.
‘Here is what we shall do,’ Jon Ohnstad said. ‘Magnus shall have his old room back. Freya will share Silje’s bed until I clear the other room.’
‘Father!’
‘It is for the best, Silje. Thanks to your arrangement with the Area Commander, we have German riders treating our
house like a miniature garrison. Only last week they asked if they could leave fuel inside the goat shed. Fuel! No, Freya must remain upstairs to avoid detection. She will sleep in your room for the time being. Now that is settled, I bid my children, all my children’ – he ruffled Freya’s hair, causing her to swell with pride and Silje to smoulder with rage – ‘a restful night.’
* * *
Silje decided she would hold onto her anger until the morning, before forgiving Freya’s intrusion into her father’s heart. Then as she brushed her hair, Freya opened the door to her room and entered carrying a bowl of hot water and a towel.
‘It has been some time since we tended to each other,’ she said. ‘I think it is because you have been angry with me. You are my friend, and I do not like it when you are angry with me.’
Silje eyed the bowl in much the same way she would eye a cooling Ring Cake. She would forgive the transgression, just this once. She sat down and rapped on the bedpost so that Freya would know where to find her.
Freya placed the bowl on the floor and knelt in front of her. ‘Which first?’
‘The left,’ Silje replied. ‘Always begin with the left.’
She watched her intently as the Jewess caressed and bathed her aching feet. Freya gently massaged her heels and ankles, and pulled lightly on each of her toes. After a while, Silje realised her eyes were watering; she’d forgotten to blink. Then Freya began drying her feet with a touch so light it made her stomach tighten at every stroke.
‘Could you…?’
Freya stopped. ‘Could I what?’
Silje coughed and leaned back on her elbows; suddenly she felt very tired. ‘Your hair,’ she said. ‘I like it when you use your hair.’ Even as she spoke, she wondered if she had crossed into some unseen borderland, though she’d never been one to concern herself with such boundaries before. ‘I am sorry. I ask too much of you.’
Freya didn’t reply, but a few moments later, Silje felt her soft braid against the soles of her feet. She closed her eyes, lost to the waves rippling out in soft circles from her abdomen. She tried to gather her thoughts, tried to reason with the sensation that had taken such a hold of her. The mead, she thought as the world fell away. It is just the mead.
The Quisling Orchid Page 14
