She climbed into bed and pushed her hand between her thighs. And that is no one’s fault but your own.
Chapter 22
Silje was still exhausted when she awoke the following morning. She inhaled sharply as she withdrew her hand from between her legs. Lust and rage was a painful blend, she decided, when the focus of those feelings were one and the same. She got out of bed and made another decision; the impasse between herself and Freya had gone on long enough. She would bring her home. She would make her come home. She brought water from the kitchen to wash and soothe herself before getting dressed and returning to make breakfast. She chewed slowly and without tasting anything. Moments after she’d finished, she could not remember what she’d eaten. She made a half-hearted task of cleaning the kitchen and went outside to feed the animals.
The morning had warmed the earth. Baldur and his harem were already basking in the spring grass. They seemed uninterested in the feed she put out for them, and by the state of the trough Silje could see they had already gorged themselves on corn and spoiled fruit. She heard the sound of laughter from the small barn next to the patch of orchids her father deemed ‘experimental failures’. One of the voices belonged to Magnus; the other she did not recognise.
‘Silje,’ said Magnus as she stepped inside the orchid barn. His eyes darted between her and his companion, the tall man she’d seen at Mr Kleppe’s funeral. Silje sniffed and waited for an introduction.
Before the silence could solidify any further, the stranger coughed into his fist and said his name was Gunther. ‘And I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He extended a hand at least as large as her father’s. Silje thought that he seemed handsome enough. He was young, perhaps a little older than Magnus and herself. His hair was blonde and fine and he carried an attractive scar on the left side of his face. His eyes were a solid grey in colour, and his nose seemed somewhat small for his broad skull. There were no lines around his mouth, so he did not smile very often, and if he did not smile very often then she wondered how he could possibly be a friend of Magnus.
‘Your brother speaks kindly of you.’
‘Does he.’ Silje looked sternly at her brother, and her brother looked for somewhere to hide. ‘This is most strange because he has never mentioned you. Did you both study at Stavanger?’
The two men looked at each other, each waiting for the other to reply.
‘I shall take that as a “no”, I think. Magnus, may I speak to you for a moment?’ As she said this, she dug her fingernails into his arm and pulled him to the east corner of the barn.
‘The Germans could appear and swarm over this village,’ she said, ‘in less time than it would take for you and your friend to think of a lie that would fool them.’
Magnus opened his mouth, but Silje placed her finger against his lips. ‘I am going into the village to bring Freya home.’ Beneath the pressure of her index finger, he curled his lips into a relieved smile. ‘While I am gone, I suggest you practise what you will say, should the Nazis ever chance upon your friend and want to know who he is.’
Magnus nodded.
Silje released him and took her leave. She turned at the barn door and said, ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Gunther.’
‘And you, Silje.’
‘And you will try to think of a name more convincing than Gunther, won’t you?’
The stranger looked puzzled. ‘But Gunther is my name.’
Silje made a show of looking surprised. ‘You do not look like a Gunther to me,’ she said and closed the door behind her.
But instead of leaving, she walked in a tight circle, making light footsteps, and crept back to the barn. She put her ear to the door and listened.
‘Your name is really Gunther?’ Magnus was whispering.
‘Yes! For the thousandth time! Why do all you people think this is not my name?’
His accent had changed. Silje’s mind reeled. He is English!
‘That is because she is right,’ Magnus was saying. ‘You do not look like a Gunther.’
* * *
The second unpleasant surprise of the day concerned Freya; she was nowhere to be found.
‘I do not know where she is,’ Mrs Tufte said, vigorously scrubbing an already spotless doorstep. ‘I have not had any materials delivered in days, so I said she could have the morning to do as she pleases.’
Silje dug her nails into the palms of her hands. ‘And you did not think to ask where she is going?’
‘She is not a child, Silje. You know perfectly well that she can find her way about the hills as well as any of us. It is only you who treats her as though she is blind.’
‘She is blind!’
‘Yes, I sometimes forget. You should too.’
‘If she returns then please tell her to come see me.’
Mrs Tufte stopped scrubbing and looked up, wiping her brow. ‘I will ask her, Silje. That is all I can do.’
As the morning went on, Silje’s anger deepened, but then at noon it vanished and was replaced by a fretful despair. No one had seen Freya and no one seemed to care.
‘She could be in the hands of the Nazis,’ she implored. ‘We should search for her!’
‘You worry too much, Silje,’ Mr Bergström replied. He was sitting on the three-legged stool outside his shop, smoking the wooden pipe that had been carved for him by her father. ‘She came to my shop looking for something to do. I had no work for her because I have no fruit and I have no vegetables.’ He made a loud sucking sound and raised an eyebrow. ‘Can you not do something about our situation?’
‘I do not know what you mean.’
Mr Bergström scratched nervously at the side of his neck. ‘Well, you seem to have the ear of the Germans, so I thought that perhaps you could intercede on the village’s behalf.’
‘Intercede.’
‘Yes, we need supplies. We have no vegetables, no fruit, no raw goods with which we can trade…’
‘I think you overestimate my influence, Mr Bergström. And the reason we have nothing is because the Resistance has destroyed the supply lines and blown up many of the harbours. Perhaps someone should “intercede” with them.’
The shop doorbell rang and young Jesper Bergström peered out from behind the frame.
Mr Bergström jumped to his feet and tried to shoo his son back inside. ‘Go and help your sister!’
Jesper pressed his lips together and stared at Silje through narrow hate-filled eyes. ‘The Resistance will free all of Norway! The Resistance will free the whole world! You will see!’
He was cuffed soundly about the head for his pains, and pushed back inside the shop. Mr Bergström slammed the door, making the glass rattle. The pane that had been broken weeks before slipped from its mount and shattered on the ground.
‘Such a wilful child,’ the grocer said nervously. ‘He does not know what he is saying. Children just hear things and then shout them without understanding how these things could be misconstrued. It is a habit we are trying to break, but as I said, he is very headstrong, and when he hears fanciful stories about the Resistance—’
‘I will not tell anyone, Mr Bergström.’
‘Of course, of course. I did not mean to imply that—’
‘You think that I am a Nazi spy who would betray your son to the enemy. He is a child, a child whom I have looked after more times than I can count!’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to shout. I take it the whole of Fólkvangr thinks the same.’
Mr Bergström looked dumbly at the three-legged stool as though it held the answer.
‘I see.’
Silje looked around her and saw the changes, gradual in their approach, now laid clearly before her. There was a greyness to things, a tangible aura of fear that pulsed from her in waves. The villagers glanced at her as they went about their business, but then looked quickly to the ground. Only one would fix eyes on her: Marit Ohnstad, sitting on a rocking chair outside her charms and trinkets stall. She spat a mouthful of tobacco into a ba
sket, leaned back and closed her eyes.
‘Excuse me, Mr Bergström,’ said Silje.
He nodded anxiously, making no attempt to hide how pleased he was to see her leave.
Silje crossed the cobbles, causing a groups of whispering villagers to part hastily to allow her through.
‘Is this your doing?’
Marit Ohnstad opened one watery eye. ‘You are blocking what little sun I see in these mountains, child.’
Silje put her hands on her hips, blocking the light still further. ‘Have you done this? Have you turned Fólkvangr against me?’
Marit rocked gently, but chose to say nothing.
‘I thought we had begun a new journey, you and I,’ said Silje. ‘When you sent your piece to the newsletter, I thought it meant you were ready to—’
‘Ready to what? Forgive the theft of my husband? To open my arms to his bastard children? The recipe was to help the village in times of need. I did not do it for you. Besides, you did not even thank me for it.’
‘Then you did not read the newsletter.’
‘You did not come to find me to thank me for it.’
‘Dear God, Marit, if I had to personally thank everyone who sent a contribution then I would spend my whole life wandering the mountains.’
Marit Ohnstad snorted and closed her eye. ‘I have said nothing. It is Mrs Tufte who is turning the village and the Jew girl against you.’
‘I do not believe you.’
‘Your name is my name, Silje Ohnstad,’ she said. ‘I would not poison it. And if you seek the Jew—’
‘Please do not call her that.’
‘If you seek Freya then you will find her in the hills where you whore yourself to Erik Brenna.’ She smiled without looking at her. ‘She asked me if I knew of somewhere she could be alone with her thoughts, and I said I knew the perfect place.’
‘You are an evil woman, Marit.’
‘Ohnstad,’ Marit said. ‘My name is Marit Ohnstad. I want you to say it, and I want you to thank me for teaching you how to make goat stew, and I want you to thank me for telling you where to find your Jew.’
Silje thrust a trembling finger under her nose. ‘Now you listen to me, you bitter old—’
‘And look,’ Marit said, pushing the finger away. She nodded towards the sound of a truck rolling across the cobbles. ‘More of your handiwork, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Silje scowled at her and turned around.
The truck belonged to Mr Fehn, the farrier. He drove slowly, leaning on the horn to clear the villagers who looked on with eager curiosity. His wife sat next to him, occasionally dabbing her eyes with one of Mrs Tufte’s finely embroidered handkerchiefs. In the back of the truck, riding alongside her trunk and her cello case, was Lisbeth Fehn.
‘We are not done here,’ Silje said to Marit Ohnstad, and then ran across the street.
Lisbeth’s parents did not answer when she asked where they were going with Lisbeth and all of her things.
‘If you speak to her,’ Mrs Fehn said loudly to her husband, ‘then it is the end of us, do you understand?’
So Silje hurried to the back of the truck and climbed onboard. She poked out her tongue at Mrs Fehn who glowered at her through the rear window.
‘Lisbeth, what is all this? Where are you going?’
Lisbeth picked up a book and started to read, raising it to her chin to hide herself away.
‘I will stay here until you speak to me.’ Silje perched on the tailgate and folded her arms. ‘Come now, Lisbeth; we have been friends for—’
‘We have never been friends, Silje,’ Lisbeth said without showing her eyes. ‘You are Erik’s intended and I am Erik’s friend. All we have in common is Erik. And now we no longer have that.’
‘That is not true. We have been friends since we were children. You taught me to ride a bike, and I taught you to—’
‘Kiss boys; yes, I remember.’ She placed the book down at her side. Silje could not decide if her eyes spoke of longing or loathing. In the end she saw it was both; Lisbeth longed for her to never have been born. ‘And why did I teach you to ride a bicycle, Silje?’
‘So that I could ride quickly to my mother’s monument. And I thank you for that.’
‘And why did you teach me to kiss boys?’
Silje swallowed.
‘Come now, Silje. It was many years ago, but I am sure you remember.’ Lisbeth launched herself at her. Silje, thinking she was about to be pushed from the truck, held on tightly and squeezed her eyes shut. A moment later, finding she wasn’t lying broken on Fólkvangr’s cobbles, she cautiously opened one eye. Lisbeth was so close to her that their noses almost touched. ‘Because I wanted to kiss Erik Brenna.’
‘I do not know what you want me to say, Lisbeth. I cannot say I am sorry because I am not. I love Erik with all my heart, and the same heart wishes that you could be happy for us. Will you not stay?’
‘So you would not have to travel far to gloat? I think not.’
‘That is unkind.’
‘It is you. So tell me, all those years ago when your lips were pressed against mine, were you thinking then that you would steal him from me?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Later then, when you were telling me that I should not be so eager, and that I had a tongue like a fat, wet snake. Was it then you decided you would take him simply because you could?’
Silje wanted to protest her innocence, but when she opened her mouth, no words came. The sudden truth, it seemed, had struck her dumb.
‘Ah,’ Lisbeth said, kneeling back on her haunches. ‘So it was then.’ She turned her head and called out to her father. ‘Stop the truck. Silje is getting off.’
‘I will write to you,’ Silje said desperately.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘At least tell me where you are going!’
‘No,’ Lisbeth replied. ‘Now get off my truck.’
Chapter 23
I didn’t call the police, not straight away. I took the bundle of notes and papers he’d left for me and anything else I could carry. I moved to a hotel about two miles from the museum and then went into work. No one asked about Mr Klein; he often disappeared for weeks, chasing down a German uniform, or a medal, or a diary. I carried on as best I could, sorting artefacts, answering phone calls, pretending to ignore the sideways glances and whispers of the other staff.
It’s her I tell you!
Don’t be stupid; she wouldn’t dare…
And all the time, I carried a picture of Klein in my head, sitting in his chair, rotting next to his favourite window.
‘You talked to him a lot,’ said Kirsten. She was Head of Merchandising and Personnel; that’s what she told people. In fact she was the gift-shop manager – or would be when it opened. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’
I scratched my elbow and shrugged. ‘Six days ago, I think.’
She nodded and sat back in the chair that filled half of her tiny office. ‘So you’re probably the last person to see him here.’
‘Probably.’ My palms began to sweat.
Kirsten tapped her front teeth with a pen. ‘Does he have a phone?’
I said I didn’t know.
‘I don’t suppose you could pop round and make sure he’s all right? He seemed quite fond of you.’
‘I’ll go after my shift.’
‘Better go now, if that’s okay. I’ll get Daniel to cover you until you get back.’
‘Right.’
‘I just have this really bad feeling, you know what I mean?’
My life was a catalogue of bad feelings. ‘I think so.’
We looked at each other for a moment; she raised an eyebrow.
‘His address?’ I said.
Kirsten made an odd little jumping motion in her chair. ‘God, sorry! Of course!’ She tried her drawer, then her rolodex, then her notebook. ‘Are you enjoying it here? Not here in my office, obviously; I mean the museum. Do you enjoy working at the museum?’
I said I enjoyed it very much, and then I thanked her for giving me the job, handing over the mote of gratitude she’d been fishing for.
‘Everyone said I was mad to take you on. “People still haven’t forgiven her father; there’ll be hell to pay if the public finds out!”
“Nonsense,” I said. “She deserves a chance.”’ She peered at me over the top of her spectacles and smiled. ‘In fact, I think you’ll be a bit of a draw. “The Traitor’s daughter” and all that. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here.’
I wanted to hit her in the face, which was the feeling most people got after spending time in her company. The office reeked of cheap perfume and even cheaper cigarettes.
‘And how is your mother doing?’
‘Fine,’ I said, wishing she’d just have the balls to admit she didn’t know where Klein lived. ‘Look, Kirsten, I’m sure I can find out from—’
‘Here it is!’ She waved a dog-eared note under my nose. ‘Never doubt me, Brigit; I do have a system, believe it or not.’ She was as surprised as I was.
I made a show of reading the address and then gave it back to her. She didn’t say another word; she just steepled her fingers, smiled and nodded at the door.
I took a bus to Mr Klein’s apartment. I knocked on the door and called his name, thinking I’d shit my own bodyweight if he replied.
‘Mr Klein! It’s Brigit! Are you in there?’
I had to shout eight more times before a suitable alibi popped out from her apartment, two doors down. ‘He’s not answering,’ said Mrs Einhorn. ‘I tried him yesterday. Nothing.’
‘When did you last see him?’
She shrugged.
‘Maybe we should call the police.’
She shrugged again and said, ‘Up to you,’ before shuffling back towards her apartment. There was a smell escaping from under Mr Klein’s door.
‘Can I use your phone?’
Mrs Einhorn turned and scowled. ‘There’s a public phone about two streets down. Just head towards the—’
‘He could be ill, Mrs Einhorn.’
The Quisling Orchid Page 22
