The Quisling Orchid

by Dominic Ossiah

‘Will it leave a scar?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Silje narrowed her eyes. ‘Do not enjoy yourself too much, Marit.’

  Marit turned the knife over and smiled. ‘I will try my best.’

  Chapter 57

  Silje awoke to a village that was strangely silent. The sun had risen, but there was still dust and smoke in the air.

  Her injured shoulder was bandaged with a strip of chequered linen. Marit had torn it from the sleeve of her shirt.

  ‘You’re awake. Good.’ Marit was sitting beside her, stirring a pail of hot water with the knife she’d used to seal her shoulder. ‘You fainted as soon as I began.’

  ‘Anyone would have, Marit.’ She tried to stand and found her legs were not working.

  ‘You will need to rest a while longer, but as you are awake and as ungrateful as ever, there are others I must attend to.’ She struggled to her feet, picking up the pail of water. ‘You fought well, Silje Ohnstad. I did not think you had it in you.’

  Presented with a compliment leashed to an insult, Silje was unsure how to respond. She forced herself to stand up and surveyed what was left of her home.

  It was much worse than she ever thought possible. The entrance to the village had been destroyed, along with the buildings that surrounded the square. Only the monument to her mother remained. She thought that she should be overjoyed, but it was simply a circle of stones, no longer the pivot of her existence as it had been a few hours before. It wasn’t her mother; it wasn’t her village.

  The Germans had been driven back, Marit told her. ‘It was glorious. Norway will tell of this victory for a thousand years.’ And then she was on her way, over the rubble to where the Resistance and villagers had set up a makeshift field area to treat the wounded.

  Others collected the dead.

  Magnus carried Grette’s body and placed it gently next to that of Eva Tufte.

  ‘If I had not seen her with my own eye,’ Magnus said, ‘I would not have believed it. Old Mrs Tufte, cutting down Germans like chafes of wheat. She took six of them before she fell.’

  Silje knelt down beside her, and crossed the old woman’s hands across her chest. She felt numb, and then ashamed that she did not feel more. Perhaps it is for the best, she thought. The time for mourning has not yet come.

  Magnus looked back towards the road outside the village. ‘We could have saved her if we had Doctor Lomen.’

  ‘Where is Father?’ Silje asked.

  Magnus scratched his neck. ‘He took a small force to pursue the Germans back down the mountain road.’

  ‘What of the ambush?’

  ‘They held their position. The Germans will not make it far.’

  Silje nodded. ‘I wish I could have been more use.’

  ‘You did more than anyone expected of you.’

  ‘And I wish people would stop saying things like that.’ She rose to her feet, hearing the sound of weeping from behind the monument. ‘You will find me when he returns.’

  ‘I will,’ said Magnus. ‘He said that you should look for Freya.’

  Silje made her way across the remains of the collapsed village hall. She stumbled over the pyramids of rubble that had fallen into the street, stopping finally at the monument where she found Jesper Bergström crying with Ingrid Haug in his arms. Ingrid had been hit with a stray bullet that had left a small hole in the side of her throat.

  ‘Jesper, can I see her?’ Silje said quietly.

  ‘There is no need,’ Jesper replied. ‘She has gone.’

  Nevertheless, Silje sat beside him and examined Ingrid for any sign of life; there was none.

  ‘She should have gone to the mountain with the other children,’ Jesper said. ‘But she would not leave, not without me. She is gone, Silje, and it is my fault. How can I tell her mother?’

  Silje had seen Mrs Haug; she was one of the dead lying outside the remains of the village hall. She had refused to leave Fólkvangr for the safety of the mountains, not without her daughter. ‘I will tell her myself, Jesper. Have no fear.’

  Jesper nodded and held Ingrid closer. ‘You should find Freya. There was so much noise last night – she will be very frightened.’

  ‘You are right. I should go.’

  ‘We saw you fighting last night, Silje. You are very brave.’

  ‘And you are a good friend to think of Freya when you are so sad.’ She caressed his cheek and was on her way.

  * * *

  For Silje, finding Freya was not a matter of searching every nook and hiding place in Fólkvangr. She knew that Freya was fearful of loud noises in the same way she grew fretful and restless if she found herself in complete silence.

  The firefight would have confused her, left her disorientated. If she were able she would try to find her way out of the village, make her way to a place of tranquility, and wait until she could find her way home again.

  Silje headed west to the outskirts of the village where Doctor Lomen lived – where Doctor Lomen had lived. Less than a hundred steps away from the village square, Fólkvangr became home again. The streets were clear, the winter flowers bloomed and the buildings were still whole. The Fehns’ home stood untouched, along with the disused church and Mr Bergström’s grocery store. The fighting had not travelled further than the monument to her mother.

  Outside the village boundary, she climbed the familiar rocks that led to a small plateau and the uneven footpath which would take her to Doctor Lomen’s cottage. It was not a difficult walk, but her limbs ached with fatigue and her shoulder simply ached. She wished more than anything that Doctor Lomen was alive. He would treat her shoulder, tell her that she had the strength of a stallion, tap her on the nose; she would obediently open her mouth so he could put a lump of sugar on her tongue. Quite unexpectedly, Silje began to cry.

  She approached the gateway that led to Doctor Lomen’s front door and wiped her eyes. Then, in a voice so soft she could barely hear it herself, she whispered Freya’s name. She waited for the whisper to be carried on the wind.

  ‘Silje! Silje, is that you?’

  ‘Freya!’

  ‘Silje, please go! Run!’

  Germans, she thought. The Germans have her! She remembered that she’d dropped the scythe when she had been shot, and she had no clue as to what had happened to the hammer. It didn’t matter. If the Nazis were holding Freya then she would simply tear them limb from limb. She ran to the side of the cottage and stopped cold.

  Freya was there, quite safe, but she was not alone.

  Erik Brenna looked thin and tired. He was holding a pistol, but it hung at his side.

  ‘Silje,’ he said and looked back towards the trees.

  She was going to launch herself at him, to claw at his face, drag him to the square to face the wrath of the villagers, but he did not seem as she expected. He looked sad and lost, but there was no trace of shame about him.

  ‘What are you doing here, Erik?’

  ‘I… came to help. I heard the Germans had attacked the village.’

  He was wearing a suit. A new suit, with an orchid in the buttonhole.

  ‘You are not dressed for war, Erik.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am not.’

  ‘If I am not mistaken, you are dressed for a wedding.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He’d travelled all this way to try again, to give her another chance. She didn’t think it possible for love to take someone with such savagery and refuse to let them go. ‘Erik, listen. I am—’

  ‘I am married, Silje,’ he said quickly. ‘The wedding was yesterday, in Lillegard.’

  Silje’s heart snapped cleanly in two. She took a breath and tried to smile. ‘Lisbeth.’

  Erik nodded. ‘She came looking for me.’

  ‘And so you married her, just like that.’

  ‘The love she has for me, Silje; it is the love I have – had – for you. I would not be so cruel as to deny someone whose life depends on me.’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘I w
ill learn to.’

  There was something else, something that had haunted her while she cut down her enemies, and now it tried desperately to claw its way to the surface.

  ‘Is she here?’ Silje said flatly. ‘I should congratulate her on her victory.’

  ‘Love is not the same as war, Silje.’ He turned to Freya and told her she looked well.

  Freya smiled meekly; Silje looked at her and her mind churned.

  ‘I tried to rally the local Resistance fighters to come to our aid, but they said that they could not risk so many men for a small village of little strategic importance.’

  ‘Does Lisbeth know you are here?’

  Erik shook his head, and Silje’s memory finally gave way. Her eyes widened and she spun on her toes to face Freya. ‘The General knows you!’

  Freya said nothing.

  ‘He knows you.’

  ‘Perhaps… he knows I am here. Perhaps someone from the village has gotten word to him.’

  ‘No, it is much more than that. When did you meet General Gruetzmacher?’

  ‘I have never met him, I swear it.’

  She had sworn herself to the truth far too quickly.

  ‘I was with him before the battle; he spoke of you. He said things about you that I thought only I knew.’

  Silje approached her, and Freya took a step back. ‘Silje, please listen to me. I can—’

  ‘Dear God, it was you.’

  ‘No, no, it—’

  ‘How could I have not seen it. It was you. You betrayed us.’

  ‘No!’

  Silje lunged towards Erik, pushing him off his feet and snatching the pistol from his hand; she turned the gun towards Freya and released the safety catch. Freya backed away until she could go no further, her escape blocked by the cottage wall.

  Silje grabbed her throat and pressed the muzzle of the gun against her head. ‘I gave you everything! I gave you a home; I gave you my friends!’ The rage subsided as quickly as it had come, replaced by tears she knew would never end. ‘I gave you myself. All that I am, it was yours – for the keeping.’

  ‘If you believe I betrayed you, Silje,’ Freya whispered, ‘then kill me; my life is already over.’

  ‘Oh, Freya; can you not see? You have killed us both.’

  Silje closed her eyes and pulled back the hammer, and it was then that Erik Brenna scrambled to his feet and cried, ‘No! It was me! It was I who betrayed you, Silje!’ He lurched forward and tried to take back the gun. ‘I know how much you love her! If you kill her you will surely take your own life! Not today, perhaps, not while your village still needs you, but you will. Your grief will consume you and you will wither and you will die. So I am telling you, Silje; it was me. I betrayed Fólkvangr because you hurt me, because you destroyed me, and I wanted to destroy something you loved in return.’

  Silje wrested the gun from his grip and pointed it at his eyes. ‘You are lying. You are lying to protect her. Why would you lie, after what we have done to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, raising his hands. ‘Why would I say this if it were not the truth? Think hard, Silje.’

  There was shouting coming from the village, but the voices were too far away to hear clearly. Silje looked to Erik for signs of deceit, and it occurred to her that if he were lying, she would not recognise it.

  ‘You want to believe me,’ he said.

  The voices from the village grew more urgent.

  ‘What are they saying?’

  Freya shivered.

  ‘Freya, what are they saying!’

  ‘The Germans have regrouped. Reinforcements have come. They are heading back towards the village.’

  ‘Then I must go,’ said Silje.

  ‘Take me with you!’

  ‘If the Germans overrun us, you’ll be killed. You must head for the higher mountains, as fast as you can.’

  ‘I am not going anywhere without you.’

  ‘Go to the mountains.’

  ’I will not.’

  I will come for you.’

  ‘No.’

  There was no time for them to fight, for Silje to make her see reason.

  ‘Freya, I will miss you.’

  ‘Silje, no! Don’t do th—’

  Silje struck her as hard as she could with the stock of the pistol. Her prayer was answered; Freya fell, unconscious. She would not have to find the strength to hurt her again.

  Erik swallowed and looked to Silje.

  ‘Take her to the mountains,’ she said. ‘You will take care of her. Do you understand?’

  ‘You trust me? After I betrayed you?’

  ‘Well, you are unlikely to do so again.’

  ‘You do not believe me, do you?’

  ‘What I believe does not matter anymore. Whatever you are, whatever you have done, I will always trust you with my life.’ Silje knelt beside Freya and caressed her. ‘Whatever she is, whatever she has done, she is all that matters.’ She kissed her mouth. ‘So you will take her to safety, and when she wakes you will tell her that I love her and I forgive her.’

  Erik lifted Freya from the ground. ‘I will take her to the Resistance, and then I will return here. You will need every man you can—’

  ‘No, Erik. You will stay with her until she is safely in Sweden.’

  ‘Silje, I cannot just—’

  ‘I trust no one else to do this. Stay with her; make sure she does not make contact with anyone.’

  He protested, saying his place was at her side, defending the village they both loved, and for once in their lives she let him speak; she let his love pour forth and she accepted it with grace and humility. And when he was done she said, ‘You will do this for me, won’t you, Erik?’

  And though it would scar his soul, he agreed.

  ‘Then go, please.’ She kissed him and left a crescent of blood on his lower lip. ‘And remember you will always be mine, Erik Brenna.’

  Chapter 58

  For most of the night I lay awake staring at the ceiling, trying to draw the pieces together inside my head. There were still parts of it that were untidy, hanging threads that had to be pulled and tied to make the whole thing neat and watertight.

  If Freya had some kind of multiple personality disorder then how were her episodes triggered? Coded messages? Stress? Maybe it was a sound or a smell.

  According to Silje’s diaries, Freya became a different person when they were fucking, ‘like a thing possessed’ were her exact words, so maybe sex was the trigger.

  And how did she contact the Germans? Their spies used message drops, so perhaps there was one somewhere in Fólkvangr. The Germans were there often enough, delivering supplies and picking up drafts of The Quisling Orchid.

  I smoked three cigarettes and got up to take a shower. It was five in the morning; I was still wired, so I smoked two more and climbed back into bed.

  The deeper question was why Bergström needed me. He had all the answers, so why this pantomime? Why not just let me bring my father home?

  An hour later there was a knock on the door. I got up and pulled on my bathrobe.

  I was expecting Bergström, but it was another faceless MOSSAD agent: dark hair, tanned skin, dead eyes.

  ‘Get dressed,’ he clipped. ‘Your plane leaves in two hours.’

  He waited in the corridor, while I brushed my teeth, put on my clothes and packed a small bag. Then he walked me down to the lobby, sticking so close to me that I could feel his sweater against my shoulder. He held my wrist as I paid the hotel bill.

  I told him I wasn’t going to bolt. He carefully checked the receipt and then squinted at me. For a moment I thought he was going to question my raid on the mini-bar; in the end he just shook his head and tucked the receipt in his back pocket.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘car waiting.’

  The car, a white Alfa Romeo, was driven by a thin dark woman who could easily have been a taxi driver or another MOSSAD operative. She diligently checked the roads at every turn and every change in speed, and also used
the mirror to look at me when she stopped at traffic lights. She didn’t say anything for about twenty minutes, but then suddenly piped up, ‘You don’t look like much.’

  I had no reply to that, but Mr Dead Eyes next to me smiled into his magazine.

  She whisked us to the outskirts of Dresden while most of the town slept, to an airfield where a small plane waited on the tarmac with its engines running.

  The car pulled up next to it and I was frog-marched up the steps. I hadn’t been through passport control and I doubted a plan had been filed for the flight. The word ‘kidnap’ buzzed loudly inside my skull.

  I sat down near the rear of the jet and recited my mantra. If they were going to kill you, they would have done it already.

  The driver was also the co-pilot; she went through to the cockpit, and while the door was open I caught sight of Bergström running through a checklist. The cockpit door closed, leaving me to wonder if there was no end to his talents.

  Ten minutes later, the sound of the engines rose in pitch and then throttled up to a dull roar. The plane lurched forward and accelerated so quickly I was pressed back into my seat.

  Bergström shouted ‘Short runway!’ from the cockpit by way of an apology. The plane took off into a steep climb that left me grinding my teeth. God, I hated flying.

  * * *

  Bergström woke me up during the flight. I looked out the window and saw only ocean. The sky was a clear blue around us and we were riding on the clouds.

  ‘I have good news,’ he said indifferently. ‘We have found your mother. She is on her way back to the hospital.’

  I felt guilty that I wasn’t more relieved. She’d always accused me of being self-centred and here was the proof.

  Bergström threw himself down in the seat opposite. ‘I have persuaded the Norwegian authorities to lend us a few police officers, just to ensure she stays put.’

  ‘You can’t make her stay if she doesn’t want to.’

  ‘Yes we can.’

  He poured himself a large vodka and offered me a cigarette. I took it and allowed him to light it. He took one himself and sat back with his eyes closed, blowing smoke through the side of his mouth. ‘You have no idea how long we have been planning this.’