But it was important that she do this; it was important that Silje see it being done. The village, the stalls and the shops and the taverns and the cottages and the monument to her mother would be lost, but if the children were safe then Fólkvangr would one day rise from the earth.
* * *
Within the hour Fólkvangr’s children had been sent away, with the exception of Jesper Bergström and Ingrid Haug.
‘Wherever they are,’ Silje assured their mothers, ‘they are together.’
Mrs Bergström stood with her arms folded across her ample chest, gripping her elbows, her anguish tightly bound.
‘What if they have left the village?’ she said. ‘What if they have taken their bicycles and are riding towards the German advance?’
‘Jesper is far too clever for that, Mrs Bergström,’ Silje reassured her.
‘You cannot find them,’ Mrs Haug said, her tear-filled eyes fixed on the archway.
Mrs Bergström agreed. ‘She is right. If you call for them, then they will hide from you.’
Silje felt her heart fall to the pit of her stomach. ‘That is not true.’
‘Jesper hates you, Silje,’ said Mrs Bergström.
‘And my Ingrid hates you because Jesper hates you.’ Mrs Haug looked to Freya. ‘Can you find them, my dear?’
‘No, she cannot. She is blind!’
‘And yet she sees more than anyone else I’ve ever met.’
Freya said, ‘I will try.’
‘You will do no such thing! The village has been turned on its head; nothing is where you think it should be. You will get in the way, or worse – you could be hurt.’
Freya said she would be careful, and before Silje could speak another word, she set off towards a large cluster of Resistance fighters smoking cigarettes outside the village hall.
Mrs Haug called after her. ‘Thank you, Freya! I know you will bring them back!’
Silje remembered a time when the villagers relied on her for small miracles. She watched Freya as she spoke to each fighter in turn, making gestures with her hands that described the height and breadth of Jesper and Ingrid with uncanny accuracy.
‘And how will you be making yourself useful, Silje?’ Mrs Bergström said.
‘I will find my brother Magnus, and have him remind me how to load a gun. And what about you, Mrs Bergström? How will you aid in the defence of our home?’
‘I will be away from the village,’ she replied.
‘I thought as much.’
‘Doctor Lomen is setting up a field hospital inside the Fehn’s cottage. I have some medical training so my meagre talents can find service there.’
Silje was lost for words, but Mrs Bergström was not given to pettiness. ‘I will also be praying for us all, Silje. I suggest you do the same.’
Silje bit her lip and nodded. ‘Everything will turn out well. You will see.’
Mrs Bergström smiled weakly and went on her way.
When Silje turned to look for Freya, she saw that the group of Resistance fighters was still there, but Freya herself had vanished. She took a breath to quell the panic rising from her chest. She is more than capable of looking after herself. You cannot always be at her side. Though she knew that is what she wanted more than anything else in the world, to be at Freya’s side until time claimed them and they had faded from memory.
She set off towards the village hall where Magnus was running a class in weapon craft, but she had not taken three steps before a horn sounded: a signal from the forward lookouts that their time for preparation was at an end. Gruetzmacher and a small army was less than a mile from Fólkvangr.
Chapter 54
The villagers and the Resistance formed an arrowhead in front of the monument to Emily Ohnstad. Jon Ohnstad stood at its point with his son to his left and Gunther Braithwaite to his right. Silje, standing behind Gunther, licked her lips and glanced across at Carina. The older woman, a born fighter by all accounts, trembled and blinked rapidly. She tensed herself and tightened her grip on the machine gun. She’d beaten back her fear; Silje wished she knew how to do the same.
The first tank rolled down the path towards the village, crushing the dwarf pines and bracken, and splitting the trunks of the trees. It demolished the archway to the village without effort and turned to the main thoroughfare. Behind it, two armoured personnel carriers and a detachment of foot soldiers uniformed in arctic combat gear: thick grey coats, hob-nailed boots, goggles and thick fingerless gloves. They had most probably marched on foot for miles, yet they still looked alert and eager for battle. Two outriders accompanied the infantry units, one of whom, despite his fur-lined hood, Silje recognised as Lieutenant Klein.
Gruetzmacher rode behind the tank in an armoured car without a roof. He had eschewed the winter gear in favour of a black SS uniform. He raised his hand to halt the advance and then leaned forward to speak to his driver. Another female, Silje noted, younger than Sergeant Krause. Silje doubted she had a drop of Jewish blood in her veins.
Gruetzmacher stepped down from the armoured car and straightened his coat. He ignored the Resistance, instead looking to the cottages and shops and then higher, at the trees that surrounded the village. He sniffed the air and let his eyes fall to the men and women standing in defence of Fólkvangr.
Something appeared to be amusing him.
‘Miss Ohnstad, if you please.’ He made his way towards The Mottled Goat without looking back. The waiting townsfolk turned to Silje, and she could see the suspicions she’d fought so hard to put to rest had returned.
She looked to her father who shook his head. ‘Do not!’
‘I will be safe, Father. We will be sitting in the tavern with his men outside.’
‘Silje, now is not the time for bravado!’ Magnus said.
‘And when is the time for bravado, Magnus – if not now?’ She stepped from the arrowhead and made her way to the tavern. Every eye turned, scorching a path to its door. Silje felt her stomach churn; she hardened her gait to prevent her legs from shaking.
Felix Borge swept off his cap and opened the door for her. ‘God be with you, Silje.’
They had been at school together, but she could hardly remember ten words she’d spoken to him since. He lived at the far end of the village, which had seemed a hundred miles away when they were both children. How much smaller her world had become of late…
She bowed her head to enter the tavern, and Felix stole a kiss from her cheek. The kiss was warm and timid. When she turned to look at him he looked away, unable to meet her eyes. She squeezed his hand and went inside.
Grette liked to keep The Mottled Goat lit by candles; she said it created an air of comfort. Today, it just seemed dark. A small crowd had formed a cautious semicircle around a single table near the centre of the tavern. Gruetzmacher sat there, supping ale and eating from a small plate of bread and cheese. The crowd parted to allow Silje through. She looked for Grette and saw her behind the bar, pointing a rifle at the General. Grette lifted her shoulders slightly and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
‘Sit,’ Gruetzmacher said.
Silje sat across the table from him with her legs turned to one side.
‘Are you hungry?’
She shook her head. The crowd closed in around them. Hands slid slowly into pockets and the whispers grew louder, more foolhardy.
He is alone!
Who will stop us?
‘When the world was ruled from Rome,’ Gruetzmacher began, ‘a citizen could travel anywhere in the conquered lands without fear of assault. Do you know why?’
‘Because Rome would punish such an affront a thousandfold,’ Silje replied. ‘Whole villages would be put to the sword in vengeance.’
Gruetzmacher looked surprised. ‘Not vengeance, justice. Those who rule decide the difference.’
He dabbed at his mouth with a cloth, and Silje dared to raise her head and look into his eyes. They were blood-red, the flesh around them wrinkled and grey. Silje suspected that
the General was half-drunk before he’d sat down.
‘Tell your courageous friends to leave us,’ he said.
Kvist said, ‘We will not leave you here alone, Silje.’
‘She is not alone,’ Gruetzmacher replied. ‘She is with me.’
‘Kvist, please, just go,’ said Silje. ‘I do not want you here! Any of you!’
The General looked to the tavern door, beyond which the might of the Third Reich waited with its finger on a hundred triggers.
‘Go!’
The villagers looked at each other, whispered amongst themselves, and then Kvist spoke again. ’We will wait outside.’
‘Yes,’ Gruetzmacher said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Why don’t you do that very thing.’
The villagers filed out of the tavern, each one touching Silje’s shoulder as they passed.
‘And the barkeep,’ said Gruetzmacher.
Grette said that she would stay.
‘He will not harm me, Grette. He never has.’
Reluctantly, Grette lowered her rifle and stepped from behind the bar. On her way to the door, she stopped to address the General. ‘One day, soon, you will all face a reckoning for things you have done.’
The General looked up and smiled. ‘And one day, a week from now, you will be punished for your insolence. Now be on your way, my good woman – if that is indeed what you are.’
Grette fumed and took a step towards him, but Silje stopped her, reaching out and holding her fast by the wrist.
‘Grette, just go… please.’
The General laid his sidearm on the table and pushed it towards her. ‘Try this instead of that old rifle. You will have a better chance.’
Grette looked at the pistol and licked her lips.
‘Grette!’
Grette did not move.
‘If you try, if you fail, he will kill us both.’
And it was only then that Grette relented.
‘One day, Nazi,’ Grette said. ‘You’ll see.’
The tavern door closed, and Silje suddenly felt very cold and very alone. She embraced herself and shivered.
‘I thought you’d be used to the mountain chill,’ Gruetzmacher said.
‘It is not the mountains.’
He stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet. ‘I should have ordered drinks before she left.’
‘I suspect that you have had quite enough already.’
His smile faded, his face reddened, and Silje wondered if perhaps she’d pushed him too far. He considered striking her, she could see it in his eyes, but that would be the beginning of his endgame, the makings of his final ploy to get what he wanted. So instead he made his way to the bar and began examining each of the caskets in turn. Silje watched him, fighting every instinct to run from the tavern, back to the safety of her father and her brother and Freya.
Gruetzmacher made his choice and filled a tankard to the brim. ‘I will come straight to the point,’ he said. ‘Give me the Jew or I will turn everything you love to ash.’
In that moment she thought, All is lost. Her heart shrank, her knees began to shake and the small room seemed to pull away from her, while Gruetzmacher grew in size until she felt like a child in the shadow of a giant. ‘What Jew?’
The General rolled his eyes and sat back in his seat. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘then let us play. I have time.’
‘I am sorry. If I knew who you were talking about then I would—’
‘You have been harbouring a Jew in your village for a year. A blind girl, about twenty years of age.’
Silje tried to think, but when she closed her eyes and desperately sought a way out, she saw only a bright white light.
‘You will give her to me, and I will be on my way.’
‘Back to Bergen.’
He filled his mouth with ale and swallowed. ‘Back to Germany, after a small detour into the mountains.’
‘I do not know this girl.’
‘Fräulein, do not make me search for her in the rubble of your village.’
‘I swear, General, I have no idea what you are talking about.’
He threw back his head to stare at the ceiling, making clicking sounds with his tongue. ‘You waste time for us both. I know I will find Jews in the mountains and I know I will find the girl I seek here in Fólkvangr. Why prolong the inevitable?’
For love, that is why. Silje pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I cannot help you, General, so I will be on my way.’
‘And you have been using The Quisling Orchid as a line of communication for the Resistance.’
She swayed and sat down again.
‘For that alone I should kill you, but I am offering you your life, and the lives of all your co-conspirators in this village. All I ask, in return for my mercy, is the girl. Think carefully before you refuse me again; I will not ask a third time.’
‘I am sorry. I cannot help you.’ She waited, for the sound of a shot and the nothingness of oblivion. She could hear him breathing, thinking. She waited for a moment more and then slowly opened her eyes. The General was staring at her, not with rage, but with something akin to admiration.
‘You are brave. I will give you that.’ He dropped his eyes to the table; Silje’s followed, and she saw that while she’d been waiting for her life to end, he’d left a crumpled piece of paper next to the pistol.
‘You should read it,’ he said.
‘I do not wish to.’
He sighed. ‘Then let me tell you what it told me.’
‘If you must.’
‘Yes, I must!’ he shouted, and slammed the flat of his hand against the table.
Silje crushed her thighs together so she would not wet herself. God, please let this end, she thought. I care not how.
He stared at the floor, his lips moving through some mantra she could barely hear. When he looked to her again, he appeared calm, sober, the fire of his anger having boiled the poison from his body.
‘From the day we met, I could smell her on you. That scent of flowers and cinnamon. It comes from her hair, I think, though I was never sure. I hoped if I treated you kindly then you would bring her to me of your own volition.’
She wanted to blink, but was afraid the world would end if she closed her eyes again.
‘You know her.’
Gruetzmacher nodded. ‘Yes, Fräulein. I know her.’
‘How do you know her,’ Silje asked, her memories twisting and folding inside her head.
‘I will tell you if you bring her to me.’
Silje’s eyes fell to the pistol, the note. ‘What is that?’
‘Evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’
‘Her betrayal, of you, your village, of the Resistance. She told me about the coded messages in The Quisling Orchid.’
‘You lie.’
‘I have no reason to.’
‘You have every reason to. You think you can make me turn on her, betray her!’
‘So,’ the General said, lighting another cigarette, ‘you do know her.’
Silje’s hand landed on the pistol, and the General’s hand landed on top of hers.
‘I told you,’ he said. ‘I warned you when we met! I told you she is a witch who would enslave you, heart and soul!’ He pulled her close and took a handful of her hair; he held it under his nose and inhaled deeply, his eyes rolling back into his skull. ‘My God, yes!’ And then his eyes snapped back and he stared at her in horror. ‘God in heaven, you’re fucking her!’
Silje grabbed the tankard and struck him as hard as she could. She heard him cry out but did not stop to see how much damage she had done. In the same moment she was out of her seat and running towards the door. A gunshot rang out and her heart skipped. The bullet splintered a wooden beam to her left and her heart began pumping again. She almost pulled the tavern door from its hinges and threw herself out into the night. She could hear Gruetzmacher swearing from inside the tavern.
Gunther and her father ran towards her.
‘Silj
e!’ Her father took her in his arms. ‘What happened? What did he—?’
‘Kill him,’ Silje said to Gunther. ‘You must kill them all.’
Gunther glanced at the soldiers who were bringing their weapons to bear. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘He is mad. He means to burn the village, murder every last one of us…’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Do you think I am lying?’
‘No, of course not, but—’
‘Then do as I say! Fire on them! Kill them before they kill us!’
The General appeared at the tavern door, his gun hanging loosely in his hand, blood streaming from the gash at his hairline. ‘You will die this day, Silje Ohnstad!’
Before a single shot could be fired, someone ran past them; Silje's eye caught a flash of tweed, and the smell of horse sweat filled her nostrils.
He was weeping, and as he ran towards the armoured car he screamed the names of his five sons.
Chapter 55
I sat on the steps of Dresden’s library until the sun went down. Apparently the temperature was minus two that night, but I couldn’t feel the cold. Inside my head was just a sea of black, and every so often, in the mire, I caught sight of my father drowning.
I watched the commuter swarm making its way home for the night. I tried to pick some of them out, those that stood apart, in some small way, from the rest. They were like bees: all separate, all the same. I wondered what it would be like to steal one of their lives, to slot into someone else’s existence, to go home to a husband and three children (two girls, one boy), to fall asleep in front of Gilligan’s Island with my head resting under my husband’s chin. What if I could steal someone’s life as history had stolen mine?
From the corner of my eye I saw Bergström limping down the steps, carrying the folders and papers I’d dropped on the library floor. I wondered if he’d been there every day, watching me struggle and curse my way through the documents and the text books. He sat down next to me, keeping his left leg straight.
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