The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

  ‘You do not want to make love to me.’

  ‘No, not today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just because.’

  ‘Do you hurt?’

  ‘No,’ Silje said. ‘I cannot feel much of anything.’

  Freya raised herself on one elbow, her hair spilling across her jaw and her throat. Silje looked at her for what seemed like the first time in months, since her birthday. She marvelled at how much she’d grown, this thin blind waif rescued from under a floor. Her skin had lightened as the onset of autumn had begun to hide the sun; her hair had thickened and lengthened past her slim neck, the dark roots showing through the bleaching. Her shoulders had broadened under knots of taut muscle, her belly had hardened and her breasts had grown and lifted, the nipples black and swollen. Silje took one between her thumb and first finger. She drew her thumb back and forth, feeling the coarseness of the flesh. Freya closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. As her head began to fall back, Silje cradled her.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Open your eyes. I want to see your eyes.’

  Freya did as she asked.

  It is the eyes, Silje thought, so beautiful… She pressed her lips against Freya’s, forcing her tongue past her teeth. Freya seemed to fold from her.

  ‘No, stay.’ She raked her nails across Freya’s skin and bit into her lip.

  Freya cried for Silje to stop and pushed herself free.

  ‘Are you mad?’ she said, wiping her mouth; she was bleeding. ‘I told you never to do that!’

  Silje drew her legs up to her chin and gnawed savagely on her little fingernail, her thoughts suddenly assailed by images of Gruetzmacher: Gruetzmacher being shot; Gruetzmacher hanged; Gruetzmacher beheaded; Gruetzmacher raped by wild goats with eyes of burning amber. She revelled in them, or tried to. The images became more cruel, more depraved, and still she felt nothing.

  ‘I am not him,’ Freya cried, feeling through the hay for her clothes.

  ‘I know. I did not mean to.’

  ‘You were hurting me and you were enjoying it.’

  ‘That is not true.’

  ‘What is wrong with you?’

  Silje hid her face between her knees.

  ‘You will tell me, or I will leave this barn and we will never be together again.’

  ‘You do not mean that.’

  ‘It is the General, isn’t it? It is the General who drives you to do such things. You must not go to him anymore, Silje. I mean it.’

  Her words made the air seem thicker, harder to breathe; they hung there, making echoes.

  Witchcraft, the General would have said. Semite witchcraft.

  ‘When my mother left us,’ said Silje, ‘I wanted nothing more than to join her. Even though she didn’t remember me for the last months of her life, I missed her terribly. Magnus could do nothing to lift me from the darkness. I didn’t eat, I could not sleep. My poor father thought that I would follow her to the grave.’

  ‘But you did not,’ Freya said, putting on her dress.

  ‘No, I found my way through.’

  Freya sat by her and moved closer, so close that the scent of cinnamon was almost overpowering. ‘How?’

  ‘I became someone else: someone else who still had a mother; someone else who watched a little Norwegian girl weep day and night. This other girl was stronger, so much stronger than me.’

  ‘But when she was strong enough to bear the pain, Silje Ohnstad came back.’

  ‘No,’ said Silje. ‘No, she never did.’

  ‘I am sorry that she chose to leave the world,’ said Freya, embracing her, ‘but she left someone beautiful and strong and wise and magnificent in her place. So I thank young Miss Ohnstad for that.’

  ‘I am not strong, Freya. I never was. When Magnus came home without his eye and his soul, I became someone else again: someone who watches a young woman weep for her lost brother; someone who watches the same young woman violated by a madman.’

  ‘You have found a way to endure, Silje. There is nothing wrong in that.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right but how many times can I become someone else before there is nothing left of me? I feel myself slipping away. I sometimes think that no one sees me, and that I have to scream to stop myself fading into the night.’

  Freya pressed her lips against hers; Silje could taste the copper in her blood.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Freya said. ‘I will not let you fade. When you feel yourself falling then find me, hold on to me, and if I cannot anchor you to this world then we shall slip away together.’

  The tears in her eyes made them shine, and Silje knew then that the war would break them.

  ‘He knows you are here,’ she said.

  Freya blinked and wiped her eyes. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘The General, Gruetzmacher. He knows you are here.’

  ‘That is not possible. No one in Fólkvangr would—’

  ‘It is me, Freya. I carry something of you wherever I go. I thought it was just your scent.’ She snapped her fingers as Freya opened her mouth to protest. ‘And it is a beautiful scent. When I am sad I try to imagine it and it makes me think we will be together soon and then I am happy again.’

  ‘But you are not happy now.’

  ‘There is something of you that drives Gruetzmacher to madness. When he defiles me he thinks he is defiling you.’

  It was one of the very few moments in their lives when Freya was without the power of speech.

  ‘He knows, Freya. He knows you are here.’

  ‘You are wrong. It is not possible.’

  ‘Every time I think of you, in his eyes I become you. I cannot explain it but I fear that you are in danger while we are together.’

  Freya seemed to lose her. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw set. It is such a sweet expression, Silje thought. She seeks the questions and answers in the same place. As often when they fought, the answer she found was nowhere close to the truth. Still, Silje was caught by surprise when Freya slapped her face and jumped to her feet.

  ‘You sicken me, Silje Ohnstad. Such a transparent excuse to end us, even to a silly blind girl.’

  ‘That is not true,’ Silje cried, her face stinging.

  ‘You are using the war and its mad General as reason to leave me. That is horrible. You should at least have the courage to admit the truth!’

  ‘And what is the truth, Freya? Please tell me because if you know then you could save both our lives.’

  ‘The truth is that you are ashamed of me!’

  ‘For the love of God, I do not know what to say to you when you spout such childishness.’

  ‘Are you calling me childish?’ Freya said. ‘Oh Silje, if only you could see the irony in your words as clearly as I. Everyone knows about us now, everyone except your intended, Erik. Everyone knows and the only person who cares is you.’

  ‘I am leaving,’ said Silje, getting to her feet and hunting for her dress. ‘I cannot speak to you when you are like this.’

  ‘No, you stay; I shall go,’ said Freya. ‘Fólkvangr is your home after all.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I am saying that I will not spend another moment with you, because to you there is more shame in people thinking you are in love with a Jewess than thinking you are a slut!’

  Silje stopped fastening her dress; Freya's last word hung between them, burning away the last of their air.

  Freya swallowed and exhaled. ‘I should leave.’

  ‘No you will not,’ Silje said. ‘There are things you say that change things, Freya. You can say “I do not like your goat” and “I think you have big feet” and it will be forgotten. But if you leave after telling me I am a whore then we are undone. So do not leave, not like this, not while we lie in pieces.’

  Freya wavered, if only for a moment. ‘If you are asking me to say I’m sorry…’

  ‘No, I am telling you I love you.’

  Silje waited, her life riding the edge of a spinning coin.

  ‘You must marry Er
ik,’ Freya said suddenly, finally. ‘You should go to him this very night, tell him what we have done before talk of us reaches his ears. Then you must beg his forgiveness and marry him.’

  ‘You do not know what you’re saying.’

  ‘And you must marry him before the ground grows cold. God knows Fólkvangr needs something to lift it from the darkness of the war.’

  ‘And us?’

  And it was then Freya chose to be silent.

  ‘I see,’ said Silje. ‘If that is what you truly want.’

  ‘It is what you want, Silje: respectability. Take it. It is my wedding gift to you.’

  * * *

  ‘I hate it when you go to him,’ said Erik. He leaned across and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘I hate it too,’ Silje said, staring at the rafters that held the roof of his home in place. She turned her head away from him and her eyes fell upon the painting of the ladder in the sky. A beautiful and pointless existence, she remembered.

  She still ached from the General’s examination, and the eager attentions of Erik whom she could not refuse without reason.

  ‘But he never lays a hand on you,’ said Erik, drawing his finger through the sparse hair that covered her groin and then down to the sore opening below.

  Silje winced and sucked in air between her teeth. ‘No.’

  ‘And so what do you do in his study?’

  ‘I have told you. We discuss the state of the war and the plight of the Norwegian people; then we read through the articles and announcements for The Quisling Orchid.’

  Erik, thankfully, removed his hand and turned over onto his back. ‘Then he is a very odd fellow.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Silje heard him swallow. He should stop now, she thought. But he is a man and so he will press on and ruin everything.

  ‘Well, he has one of the most beautiful women in the district, alone, in his private chambers, and all he wishes to do is… read.’

  Silje rolled over and sat upright. ‘Perhaps then you’d prefer it if he forced himself upon me.’

  ‘No! No! Of course not! What I mean is—’

  ‘Perhaps you’d prefer it if he wasn’t an “odd fellow” and violates me as soon as he closes the door.’

  ‘For the love of God, Silje, why must you always say such terrible things?’

  ‘For the same reason you say such stupid things, Erik; I didn’t think.’ She lay down and turned away from him. ‘I am sorry. Forgive me.’

  ‘Always and forever.’

  She felt the heat from his hand as it danced over her shoulder. Please do not touch me, she thought. She shivered and the warmth suddenly vanished. ‘Freya says we should get married.’

  ‘Then Freya is very astute,’ Erik replied flatly.

  ‘She says we should get married soon, before the winter takes hold.’

  ‘Well, as much as we both love her, it is not up to her, is it?’

  Silje’s eyes were stinging. She realised she’d been staring at the ladder in the sky without blinking. ‘I think she is right.’

  It took a few moments for her words to sink through to him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said she is right.’ She turned around and kissed his lips, though his mouth was half open. ‘Oh Erik, you look like a slapped trout.’

  He clenched his teeth, afraid that if he spoke, if he made the slightest sound, then whatever enchantment had befallen her would be swept away.

  ‘I think this is the part where you say, “Yes, Silje. I will gladly marry you at your earliest convenience.”’

  Erik looked doubtful. ‘I thought you did not want to get married until Freya could look after herself, or Doctor Lomen had returned, or Magnus was better, or the war has ended.’

  ‘Yes, go on; spoil it,’ Silje said. ‘Do you want to marry me or not?’

  ‘You know that nothing would make me happier.’ He was smiling, at last.

  ‘Two weeks from now.’

  ‘That is not very long.’

  ‘Do you have something better to do?’

  ‘No! No! Of course not! I will marry you! Yes!’ He jumped to his feet and struck his head against an ornament he’d made from scraps of iron – a woman sitting on a hinged swing. The woman was supposed to be Silje, though she thought the depiction was rather wide of hip.

  ‘We have much to do,’ he babbled. ‘You will need a dress.’

  ‘My mother’s will suffice.’

  ‘Yes!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Good thinking! Freya can alter it to fit your—’

  ‘Tread carefully, Erik.’

  ‘I will need a suit… and a ring! My God, where will I find a ring?’

  He dropped to his knees and kissed her; then he was on his feet again, pacing the attic and pulling frantically at his beard. ‘Flowers! Where shall we get the flowers?’

  Silje raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, of course! I’m sorry; I did not think. There is so much to do! Why are you still lying there, Silje?’

  ‘Because I am tired.’

  ‘We have no time to sleep!’ He took her hand and tried to pull her to her feet.

  ‘For the whole fortnight?’

  ‘You start with the invitations! We must send them out by tomorrow, otherwise people will have made alternative plans.’

  ‘In Fólkvangr.’ Silje looked doubtful.

  He slid down the loft ladder, still as naked as the day he came into the world.

  She had never seen him so happy. It is a good thing. He carries enough joy in his heart for us both.

  She listened to him thrashing about in the kitchen. ‘We have no paper!’ he wailed. ‘We are already undone!’

  ‘Erik.’

  The thrashing stopped. ‘Yes, wife,’ he called back.

  Forgive him. He is simply trying it to see how it fits.

  ‘When you said “one of the most beautiful”…’

  ‘Clearly I meant the most beautiful.’

  Silje smiled and pulled the blanket up to her chin. His education had begun and would endure for the rest of his days.

  Chapter 41

  It was as Freya had said, the village needed a wedding of Jewish proportions to lift it from the mire of the war. News of Silje’s upcoming nuptials spread quickly, and the villagers rallied to do whatever they could to ensure the event would be remembered in Fólkvangr for decades to come.

  Though he said little to his daughter, Jon Ohnstad used his entire stock of matured goats’ manure on the fifty-square-foot orchid bed he kept for emergencies (sudden births were unlikely; sudden deaths, more so).

  ‘I barely have enough.’ He looked mournfully at the orchid field. He’d had to decimate his stock for the sons of Doctor Lomen who were laid to rest at the family plot high in the mountains.

  Silje squeezed his hand. ‘It will be enough, Father. You’ll see.’

  He nodded, and sucked his lower lip into his mouth. ‘You have made an old man proud.’

  Silje swelled, until he grinned impishly and added, ‘Finally.’

  She cuffed his arm and pushed his hand away, switching quickly to an affected sulk.

  Jon Ohnstad roared with laughter.

  ‘It is not funny.’

  ‘I have some advice for you,’ he said, hunting in his pockets for his pipe. ‘There are only three things you need in a good marriage: patience, forgiveness and laughter. If you have just those three then everything else will take care of itself.’

  ‘What about love?’

  Jon Ohnstad looked at her from beneath arched eyebrows and smiled. ‘And what do you think love is made of?’

  Silje shrugged.

  ‘Patience, forgiveness and laughter.’ He looked at her, surprised she could have gotten so far in life without knowing this. ‘I blame myself,’ he murmured and then glanced towards the cottage, his eye drawn by movement in an upstairs window. Magnus quickly withdrew, closing the curtains behind him.

  ‘The sound of laughter made him curious,’ Jon Ohnst
ad said. ‘It still binds him to us, you see.’

  Silje looked up to the window but did not see anything.

  ‘And we are patient with him. We will always be patient with him and with God, and we hope that one day he will be returned to us.’ He nodded, satisfied, and puffed on his pipe.

  Silje inhaled the smoke until it made her nose twitch.

  ‘I said some unforgivable things to you on Freya’s birthday, the day Magnus was taken.’

  ‘Father, please…’

  Jon Ohnstad raised his hand. ‘I said things that no man should say to his child.’

  ‘I am hardly a child.’

  ‘And to this day I remain deeply ashamed, so much so that I have been unable to apologise for my words.’

  ‘There is no need.’ Silje had no wish to be reminded of any part of that awful day.

  But her father was not to be swayed. ‘I am very sorry.’

  ‘You were forgiven then. You are still forgiven now.’

  He nodded again and smiled. Then he tapped her on the shoulder with the stem of his pipe. ‘You see now.’ He pointed the pipe at the upstairs window. ‘Between the three of us, laughter.’ He tapped her again and then himself. ‘Patience.’ He gently ran the back of his hand across her cheek. ‘And forgiveness. That is the Ohnstad family. That is love. Now do you understand?’

  Silje nodded.

  They sat down in silence to watch the orchids grow, her head resting on his shoulder.

  Laughter, patience and forgiveness, she thought. She’d always believed that love pulsed like a heartbeat at the very centre of creation. How odd it was to think it was simply made from other things. Gruetzmacher had once told her the human body was just a bag of water. She remembered thinking then that he was truly mad.

  Like Freya, Erik and herself: small, simple things that had come together and made something terrible and complicated. She wondered what would become of them after she was married. Would this simple ceremony change her? Worse, would it change Freya?

  Yes, they were three, but her father had just said that three things together make love. Perhaps, after a time, she could talk to Erik, explain things to him. Perhaps she could make him see that the three of them could make a life together. Would it be such a sin? If love were made of such simple things?