He put down his magnifying glass and looked at me through eyes that were almost opaque. He opened his mouth to tell me but then thought better of it. He picked up his magnifying glass and carried on scouring the newsletter. I returned to the evening paper, sipping slowly at my mug of coffee which had grown cold some time ago. I looked at the clock; it was a quarter to six. I sipped and looked again: quarter to six, still.
‘Is it time to call your mother?’ he asked.
I said it was.
‘And you are thinking whether you should even bother.’
‘I’ve tried, for months. I’ve written to her, I’ve—’
‘Has it occurred to you that something might have happened to her?’
‘Yes, it has, thank you; that’s why I check all the papers. She was married to Erik Brenna, remember? If something has happened to her then I would have heard about it.’
He mumbled something under his breath.
‘I didn’t catch that.’
‘I said perhaps no one has discovered her yet.’
‘Now you’re trying to scare me.’
‘No, I’m trying to get you to call your mother.’
I looked again at the clock: ten minutes before six. A phone call wouldn’t do; she wouldn’t answer for whatever reason. She might have had a seizure or choked on something. She might be lying in our apartment, being devoured by maggots.
And I was in Oslo, behaving like a five-year-old.
The phone rang and I almost screamed. Mr Klein took the handset from its cradle. ‘Yes?’
The caller couldn’t have said more than two words; whatever was said was enough to drain the colour from his skin. He leapt to his feet and began chewing nervously at the inside of his cheek. He covered the mouthpiece. ‘One moment, Fräulein.’
I went to my room, thinking that he hadn’t called me ‘Fräulein’ in weeks.
I could hear him speaking, in German, and at one point he was shouting. I started to pack my things. I was still something of a light traveller, though I’d been quite settled. I unscrewed the top of the old artillery shell that served as the doorstop to my bedroom, and removed all the cash I had in there, the remains of the blackmail money and the meagre earnings from the cleaning work I’d been given at the Resistance Museum.
When I came back into the lounge, he was in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He tapped on the armrests with his fingernails, his skin looked wet and pale, as though he’d just stepped from an ice pool. He said, ‘I miss home sometimes.’
I said that I’d never had a home.
‘Then in some ways you are very fortunate.’ He wiped his forehead with his palm. ‘You are leaving?’
‘Just for a while. I’m going back to Trondheim.’
‘Oh.’
‘It was your idea, and I’m coming back.’
He nodded and smiled as though he knew I wasn’t. ‘We should have a meal together, before you go.’
‘There’s no need; I’ll only be gone for a few days.’
‘Then why have you packed all your things?’
I offered ‘force of habit’ as an explanation.
Mr Klein leaned forward and grinned, showing just five teeth which I didn’t think had more than six months’ use left in them. ‘I think you should cook for me,’ he said.
‘Oh, so I’m cooking again, am I?’
He waved the newsletter. ‘There’s a recipe in here we should try.’
I picked my way through the debris he liked to call his filing system and took the pages from him. I tried to make out the drawings and text on the open page. ‘It looks like a sausage.’
He nodded eagerly.
‘You don’t make sausages. You go to a market and you buy them.’
‘The Rostbratwurst is no mere sausage, Fräulein,’ he declared. ‘It is the food of the gods. I will teach you how to make it.’
‘I’m sure the supermarket will have—’
‘The supermarket will not do.’ He was trying not to shout. ‘You will return to Trondheim and when you see your mother you will forget all about our quest. That is what will happen.’
‘Fine.’ I put on my coat. ‘I’ll get your sausage.’
‘Child, you are heaven-sent.’
‘You’re making them though.’
‘Of course.’
‘And cooking them.’
‘That is fair enough.’ He gave me directions to the butcher shop; it wasn’t far: three streets down and then a right onto Møllergata. Ten minutes there, ten minutes back, a couple of hours for cooking – I could still make the nine-fifteen coach.
‘And no more sauerkraut,’ I said.
‘That too is fair enough.’
I opened the door and stepped out onto the landing, stopping to fasten my coat.
Mr Klein called out to me from the apartment. ‘Goodbye, Fräulein.’
I felt something shift inside me, and closed the door.
I normally avoid elevators. Don’t use lifts, Monica had said. There is nothing worse than being trapped inside a small space surrounded by club-wielding Fólkvangr fanatics. If she ever said it again, I’d have a reply ready for her. I’d say, Yes there is: sauerkraut.
Three flights of stairs, a hurried walk across the lobby, and I was out on the street. I moved quickly, anxious, as always, to be clear of the alley where the apartment entrance was located. I reached the main road and looked left and right. It was deserted, which was unusual for the time of evening. It was very cold though, even for Oslo, so I thought perhaps the commuters had merely hurried home to be away from the weather. I pulled my coat tight around my chest, and felt a blow to the base of my skull that made my teeth rattle. The air burst from my lungs and I fell to my knees. The Monica in me immediately took over. Stay conscious! Get your razor blade! Scream and slash for all you’re worth!
I reached for my belt and a second blow sent me crashing to the snow. I heard something crack and saw blood spreading in the snow underneath me. I screamed for help – or at least I tried to – but the world was already shrinking away. Two pairs of arms hooked under my own and hoisted me from the street.
‘I’m just his daughter,’ I said. I could barely make out my own words. ‘I haven’t done anything!’
I half-stumbled, was half-dragged, to a waiting taxi; when I saw it I started to struggle. If all else fails, Monica had said, then beg for your life.
‘I haven’t seen him. I’ve never even met him. Please just leave me alone. I won’t go to the police.’
‘The police wouldn’t help you.’
I couldn’t tell which of them spoke.
The driver’s skin was like leather; his head was clean-shaven. He was wearing dark glasses, even though it was dusk. His arm was draped casually over the headrest as though he were simply picking up a fare.
If you are taken then it will probably be a taxi, Monica had said. They are inconspicuous, and two men can sit in the back to keep you still. No one would think twice about a taxi with three passengers.
I gripped the door frame and locked my arms, shouting ‘No!’ as loudly as I could. One of my assailants brought his fist down on my right hand. My arms buckled and I was thrown into the back seat. He jumped in on my left, the other man on my right. A third got into the front passenger seat and said, ‘Drive.’
‘Please, don’t do this.’
Keep begging, Monica had said, though if I’m honest kid, if you’ve let things get to this point, you’re already done.
‘Who are you?’
‘Concerned citizens,’ said the driver. The other three grinned and nodded.
‘I told you; I’ve never met him. I don’t know where he is. I don’t even know if he’s alive.’
‘Do you recognise this?’ The thug to my left, a swarthy, bearded man in his early thirties, showed me his hand. There was a tattoo between his thumb and index finger, a swastika with a dagger through it. I was in the gentle company of the Friends of Fólkvangr, a self-styled group of Nazi hunters that wors
hip one Jesper Bergström.
Other mothers tell stories of trolls to keep their offspring in line.
Go to sleep, Brigit, or the trolls will come for you.
Monica didn’t believe in trolls, and could see no reason why I should either. But she did believe in Jesper Bergström, so he became the fodder for my childhood nightmares.
Keep quiet, Brigit, or I will tell Cleaver on you. Monica believed that our lives might one day depend on her being able to silence me in a moment. No threat was too great, and so I lived my childhood in fear of Cleaver.
And tonight, I was going to meet him.
If you are going to die, kid, and there is nothing you can do to stop it, remember your dignity and carry it with you to your grave.
But I won’t have a grave, Monica, I thought. I’ll be cut into strips and thrown in a lake.
Chapter 18
‘You will not get away with it,’ Erik said.
Silje pulled her skirt down over her knees and began hunting for her undergarments. ‘You know nothing.’
‘The Germans will see through it, and our own people will think you are telling them to surrender.’
‘No they won’t.’ She snatched up the reams of paper and used them to slap his hand away when he tried to take hers. ‘I am rallying them to fight. They will see that.’ She pushed the newsletter into her bag and set about looking for her sandals. When she found one she threw it at him.
‘You are upset.’ Erik leaned to one side to avoid it. ‘And not about the newsletter, I think.’
‘Of course I am upset!’ More often than not, it was she who would expel him before he could ruin her in his excitement. For Erik to sigh and withdraw from her as though their coupling had suddenly become a chore… It was not a development Silje expected or cared for. ‘You are never in the mood these days, Erik Brenna.’
‘Silje, there is a war on.’
‘What has that got to do with the infrequency with which we now make love?’
‘A war in which I should be fighting.’
‘We have talked about this.’
‘You have talked about this. I simply agreed, as I always do.’ He got to his feet, fastened his breeches, then stretched and yawned as though he had just awoken. Silje was mortified.
‘Well, clearly you no longer desire me!’
‘You are wrong,’ he replied. ‘I desire more of you. You are just not prepared to give it.’
‘I give myself to you, Erik,’ she said, buttoning her dress, ‘often.’ Her breasts did not feel hot or bruised; he had barely touched them.
‘You think that is all I want?’ Erik said. ‘To fuck you every second Tuesday in a loft, or under a tree if the weather is fair?’
‘Erik!’
He shook his head and jumped from the loft, landing in a stack of hay bales and sliding down to the ground.
‘Erik, wait!’ She jumped down after him.
It was plain to see he was angry, though Silje was unaware of any sin she’d committed of late. Since the Germans had taken over the printing and distribution of her newsletter, she had no need to pander to the perverse whims of Junges Fehn.
And the nascent spring had brought German soldiers to Fólkvangr where they admired the scenery and attempted, most often in vain, to engage with the locals. Silje had discovered that soldiers in search of a friendly word would often divulge more than they should to anyone willing to listen to them; therefore, she had no need to service Lieutenant Klein in return for information.
‘Erik, tell me what I have done.’
The barn door swung open before Erik could reply.
‘Lisbeth,’ he said, exasperated, ‘don’t you ever knock?’
‘It is Freya!’ Lisbeth gasped. ‘She cries for help! The villagers are—’
But Silje had already run past them and out into the night.
* * *
Most of Fólkvangr’s residents had seen the first Great War; they were old and so moved very slowly. Still, Silje was grateful that the procession had brought torches, even though it was getting in her way. The street lamps were dark, and she remembered Freya had left the cottage a few hours before to help Mr Kleppe light them.
A small crowd had gathered in a circle near the monument to her mother.
Dear God, Silje thought, if you must take someone then take someone else.
She pushed her way to the centre of the circle, where the blind Jewess was on her knees, holding Mr Kleppe’s head against her hip. His skull had been crushed inward near his right temple, and his blood had spilt out onto Freya’s hands.
‘Freya!’
Freya raised her head, her dead eyes searching for Silje’s voice. ‘Silje? Oh, Silje, I cannot wake him.’
‘Has someone sent for Doctor Lomen?’ Silje shouted. She knelt down and listened for sounds from the old man’s chest.
‘He is coming,’ said Bengt, ‘but I fear it is too late, child.’
Silje could hear nothing; the old man’s skin had already turned grey, his eyes stared out into the void. Weeping, Freya reached out, searching for Silje’s hand. ‘You can wake him, can’t you?’ she said, nodding hopefully. Silje looked up; the gathering gazed helplessly back
‘Silje, please wake him. The darkness has fallen; I can feel it. And we had only just begun; there are still so many lamps to light, so please wake him for me.’
Silje took her hand and held it against his chest. ‘He was an old man, Freya. There is nothing I can do for him.’
‘You have not tried!’ Freya shook him and called out his name, shouting for him to wake up. The villagers did not stop her, not at first, hoping perhaps that the child’s grief would be enough to restore him. Silje watched her, her own tears freezing against her cheeks. Did I ask for this, she wondered. Did her god hear my prayer and take Jonas in her stead?
It was the first time she’d thought of him as Jonas.
Two of the villagers decided Mr Kleppe should be afforded his dignity; they wrestled Freya away from him and she screamed and cried until her voice failed her and she collapsed into Bengt’s arms.
‘Take her home, Silje,’ Mrs Heyerdahl said. ‘There is nothing more you can do here.’
* * *
Freya and Silje arrived at the cottage just as Jon Ohnstad was leaving.
‘Father, I have terrible news.’
‘I have heard.’ Jon Ohnstad turned his eyes to the moon before squeezing them shut. ‘Poor Jonas.’
‘I did not know his name was Jonas,’ Freya sobbed. ‘He did not sound like someone who was called Jonas.’
‘You should take her inside,’ said Jon Ohnstad.
Freya trembled violently, though four of the villagers had given her their coats.
‘And you should be inside too.’
Silje asked her father where he was going.
‘To see if there is anything I can do,’ he said.
‘Father, there is nothing you can—’
‘He struck his head when he fell,’ Freya whispered, ‘on the Monument. There is blood, I think.’
‘Then I will tend to it. Now go inside, both of you.’ He strode to the front gate with his toolbox held tightly under his arm. ‘And if you see your brother this night, tell him we will have words.’
‘He has left again?’
‘He has left, again.’
Silje took Freya into the cottage, setting her down in her father’s chair near the kitchen fire. She stoked the flames and moved the soup pot to warm, and then she set about clearing the kitchen which her father had been using for siring orchids. ‘You must be hungry,’ Silje said. ‘I am hungry. You never seem to get hungry, though you spend all day on your feet.’
‘You work just as hard,’ said Freya, a sob between every word.
‘It is not the same. You are a baker, then you are a seamstress, then a moment later you are a lighter of street lamps and then…’ She swallowed her tears and slammed the skillet down against the stove. ‘You are not to go out at night!’ she cried. �
��Ever again. Do you understand me?’
‘Then who will light the street lamps?’
‘Someone else! I do not care who, but not you.’
‘Do not shout at me, Silje.’
‘I am not shouting! Why will you not do as you’re told for once!’
‘Because I will be nineteen soon, and you are not my mother! Mr Kleppe showed me what to do. He even let me light them on my own one night when he was too drunk to—’
‘He did no such thing!’
‘It is true! Lisbeth will tell you. She went with me that night!’
‘Ah! Then you were not alone!’
‘But I lit the lamps on my own! Why are you being like this?’
‘I am trying to look after you, Freya. Why will you not allow me to—?’
‘I do not need anyone to look after me. You are not even my real family!’
Silje gripped the handles of the soup pot so tightly her knuckles glowed red. She felt the skin around her mouth draw tight and could not tell if it was rage or the heat of the stove that set her flesh blistering.
‘You unthankful little…’ She would kill her this night; she was sure of it. She would kill her for her ungrateful words, for the havoc she’d brought to her family and Fólkvangr, and for not being blessed with the sight that would have saved Jonas Kleppe’s life. She would end this little Jew for taking her heart and binding it in thorns. Silje breathed deeply and closed her eyes. ‘I do not wish to fight with you, Freya. I simply want to do what is best for—’
The cottage door slammed, and Silje spun round so quickly she sent the soup spilling across the kitchen. ‘Damn her.’ She threw down the soup pot and followed her into the darkness.
* * *
The cedar wood that grew a few feet from the Ohnstad cottage was no place to wander at night. It covered only a few hundred feet in all directions, but even for a mountain wood the copse was extraordinarily dense. A few steps inside it and the traveller quickly lost the light of the moon, even if the traveller was as familiar with the hills as Silje Ohnstad.
She would have called out, but she was fearful of shouting out Freya’s name when she could not be sure who would hear.
The Quisling Orchid Page 18
