Moltke and his men rode the remaining half-track along a winding country trail, following the soldier on the motorcycle. Though he’d hardly slept in days, Moltke was alert and excited at the prospect of finishing the assignment and returning to Trondheim. In his mind, he’d composed a draft of the letter he’d send to the Brigadier General, coming up with a way to sound determined yet still respectful. He’d also begun toying with the idea of asking a friend in the Gestapo to help him locate Elise. If he was going to take some risks, he figured, why not consider taking that one as well?
They continued their zigzagging advance through the forest, going slowly enough to prevent from sliding around corners or slipping on the ice patches that had formed overnight. Moltke looked for ways to distract himself, as he grew increasingly impatient along the way. He counted the passing birch trees first, reaching a hundred, and then two hundred, only growing even more anxious from the mindless repetition. Then he began to hum Mozart’s 40th Symphony, as the sound of the groaning engine reminded him of its aggressive tempo.
After a while, a few sets of tire tracks appeared in the snow, made by what looked like Opel Blitzes or heavy, off-road Einheits-PKW. They continued on, picking up their speed as they drove in the tracks. Before long, they rounded a bend in the road and descended into a valley. After going around another curve, they approached another motorcycle and a pair of six-wheeled Krupp Protzes, parked off to the side of the road. A dozen soldiers milled about, smoking unfiltered Ecksteins and blowing onto their bare hands.
Schweitzer pulled over and parked the half-track, and Moltke and his men got out and approached the others. Moltke looked around for the commanding officer, and when an older soldier with the flattened face of a pugilist stepped forward, Moltke addressed him before the man could even finish his salute.
“Where’s the body?” said Moltke.
“Over there,” said the soldier, pointing toward another group of soldiers standing by a frozen creek.
Moltke and his men made their way down a twisting path and approached the creek. The soldiers parted as Moltke’s men came near, revealing the body of an Allied airman lying facedown in the shallows. Goetz and Schweitzer knelt down and struggled to turn over the stiffened corpse, which had frozen to the earth. It sounded like paper tearing when they finally managed to pull it free, and they rolled it over, revealing the airman’s frostbitten face.
Moltke knelt down and examined the body. The airman’s leather jacket was as stiff as cardboard, and his vacant eyes gazed blankly toward the horizon. His pupils had an odd, blue-white haze to them, and the eyeballs themselves looked soft and flattened, like old grapes. His right arm had frozen in a raised and extended position, as if he was trying to get something that was just out of reach. Pale and frozen, it reminded Moltke of the Greek statues he’d seen as a boy at the Altes Museum in Berlin.
“It looks like our man,” said Goetz, pointing to the flight patches on the man’s jacket.
Moltke hesitated. It was the body of a U.S. airman, but was it the same airman from the plane they’d found? he wondered. He seemed to be a long way from the crash site, and he seemed to have been dead for some time, judging by his waxy, grayish-yellow skin. There was no nametag or dog tags, though, so it was impossible to confirm.
“What do you want to do, sir?” asked Schweitzer.
Moltke continued to look over the body, unsure. He envisioned himself wandering the frozen wasteland for weeks, searching for a corpse that might remain buried until summer. Then he visualized being back in Trondheim, packing his things and preparing to go to Africa. He saw himself leading an armored tank division through Cyrenaica alongside Rommel, then imagined celebrating with Elise at the Hotel Majestic in Tunis.
After a moment, Moltke stood.
“Send the body to Falstad,” he said, walking in the direction of the half-track. “We’re finished here.”
A wolf howled past the dawn, its lonely wail carrying down from the mountains. For a while, it was the only sound in the valley, sobbing in the darkness like someone recently bereaved. Before long, it was joined by birdsong and other harbingers of the approaching day. It eventually faded into the background before finally disappearing, replaced by a growing chorus of grosbeaks and redpolls.
Sverre pedaled his bicycle toward Hegra, humming along with the birds. He hadn’t slept, and he hadn’t eaten, either, but he felt energetic and alive, and much better than he’d felt in years. He’d spent the entire night planning what he was going to do once Moltke returned the family farm to him for helping them find the pilot. He needed to get a herd first; that was the most important thing. After all, he figured, what’s a dairy farm without any cows? Without the money, it would be difficult, but he could surely get a loan, having the farm as collateral. Once that was taken care of, it was on to planting; it was too late for potatoes, but he might be able to get the barley in on time. He also wanted to repaint the house its original red, covering the garish yellow those idiot Southerners had painted it when they’d taken it over.
Rounding a bend in the road, Sverre was so deep in thought that he nearly crashed into a horse pulling a cart full of lumber. The driver of the cart yanked up on the reins to avoid hitting him, and the horse lurched off the narrow road, causing the contents of the cart to tumble to the ground. The driver cursed and shook his fist at Sverre.
“Sorry,” said Sverre, riding past without stopping.
He continued on and soon pedaled into town, then turned onto the main street, passing the grocery store and then the rådhus. After turning at the train station, he approached the hotel that the SS had taken over. He hopped off the bicycle before it had come to a stop and leaned it against a tree. Then he composed himself before going inside.
A flood of memories washed over Sverre as he went into the hotel. It was just as he’d remembered from the last time he’d been there, as a boy, for an Easter supper with his family; the dark wood paneling on the walls gleamed in the firelight, and the dour subjects of the paintings remained as they’d been, unaltered by the passing of time. Everything was exactly the same—except for the Nazi flags that had replaced the Norwegian ones, and the Waffen-SS milling about.
An officious-looking desk clerk addressed Sverre when he saw him, unable to hide his disdain for Sverre’s appearance.
“May I help you?” he said, speaking in German.
Sverre replied in Norwegian.
“I’m here to see the Oberleutnant,” he said.
“And what’s this in regard to?”
“It’s official business.”
The desk clerk narrowed his gaze.
“Call him,” said Sverre. “You’ll see.”
The desk clerk picked up a telephone and pointed to some chairs by a fireplace.
“Have a seat,” he said.
“That’s all right,” said Sverre. “I’ll stand.”
The desk clerk turned his back to Sverre and dialed one of the rooms. Sverre felt his hands instinctively ball into fists, but he held himself back from going after the desk clerk, knowing that it wasn’t the right time. He envisioned himself returning to the hotel later that year, wearing a new suit and with a beautiful woman on his arm. He imagined himself checking into the hotel’s best room, then ordering the desk clerk around day and night. Then he took it a step further, seeing himself buying the hotel and firing the desk clerk, kicking him out into the street. The intoxicating feeling of vengeance quickly replaced his simmering resentment.
After the desk clerk had a brief conversation in German with the person at the other end of the line, he hung up and turned back to Sverre.
“The Oberleutnant won’t see you,” he said.
The new suit and the beautiful woman evaporated from Sverre’s fantasy, replaced by his threadbare clothes and the toady desk clerk.
“I beg your pardon?” said Sverre.
“I’m sorry—”
Sverre interrupted the desk clerk.
“There must be a mistake,” h
e said, making his way back toward the stairwell.
“Sir, you can’t go up there—”
Sverre pushed his way past the desk clerk, and the desk clerk called after him.
“Sir!”
Sverre ignored the desk clerk, but before he got far, the desk clerk motioned to a pair of Waffen-SS, who went after Sverre.
“Come on,” said one of the soldiers, grabbing Sverre’s arm.
“Let go of me—”
The soldiers dragged Sverre toward the hotel entrance. Sverre shouted up toward the rooms.
“Herr Oberleutnant!”
Ignoring him, the soldiers forced Sverre outside, where they shoved him into a snowdrift.
“Stay out,” said one of the soldiers.
Sverre scrambled to his feet, his hands again balling into fists.
“You bastards—”
“Are you deaf?” said the other soldier, knocking him back to the ground. “Get out of here, or you’re a dead man.”
Sverre glared at the soldier, his cheeks burning with rage. He looked around at the gathering crowd, then looked back to the soldier, who stood firm. The other soldier stood next to him, his hand on the holster of his pistol.
After a long moment, Sverre got up and approached his bicycle. Then he climbed onto it and pedaled away.
CHAPTER 18
Kari dreamed that it was summer, and that she was wandering toward the highlands past their farm. She was looking for cloudberries, as she and her mother often did during long July evenings, when the sun would stay out until midnight. They’d fill baskets and bring them back home, serving them with fresh cream or baking them into pies and crumbles. Whatever they didn’t eat, they’d turn into preserves for the endless winters ahead.
She trudged her way up a wooded hill and entered a meadow. The area was an explosion of color, carpeted with orange hawkweed, Nordic ginseng, and woodland cranesbill. Overhead, the sun shone so brightly that it caused her to squint. She closed her eyes and continued on, breathing in deep lungsful of the perfumed air.
After crossing the meadow, she reentered the forest, climbing further into the mountains under a thick canopy of evergreens. The forest was darker and cooler than the open meadow, and it was quieter, too. It felt like it was hiding something. Secrets, perhaps; the black earth underfoot was full of treasure, and full of bones.
A hawk took flight from a high perch, soundless in its exit, and somewhere in the distance, water ran through the wilderness. Kari made her way up a low ridge and then out into another meadow full of scrub and ragged brush. She soon saw her first cloudberry bush, its tiny, golden fruit dangling at the end of its stalk. Then she saw another, and another. Before long, she found an entire galaxy of them.
She bent down and began to gather the ripe berries. Some of the drupelets burst when she plucked the fruit off the stalks, staining her fingertips with a golden syrup. She kept dropping them into her basket, one after the other, but no matter how many she picked, the basket remained empty. She increased her pace, but the basket still wouldn’t fill, and the berries in front of her proliferated, multiplying like splitting cells.
She fought the urge to panic, finding it difficult to breathe. The sound of running water grew in the forest all around her, slowly building from a whisper to a roar. Curious, she stopped picking berries and began to look for the water’s source, soon finding a river. She approached the riverbank and knelt down to look at her reflection.
Instead of seeing her own face staring back at her, though, she saw the face of her father, his empty eyes clouded over.
The wind came down from the mountain and shook the branches, loosing snow from sagging limbs and rattling the forest. It curled around the tree trunks and ran down the valleys and coursed over stone. Wherever it met resistance, it found other pathways to advance. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, it disappeared again, moving off toward the west.
After feeling the wind wash over her, Kari opened her eyes. She saw the tree branches above her, crusted with ice. Then she saw the concrete sky, smudged with thick cirrocumulus. She glanced over and saw the empty space next to her, where Lance had been sleeping. Turning around, she spotted him across the fire, squatting on his haunches and smoking a cigarette.
“You all right?” he asked.
She nodded. He took one last drag off the cigarette, then flicked the butt toward the fire and stood up.
“We better get going,” he said.
A herd of goats boiled up a steep ridge, browsing for food. They spread out, clambering across the icy rocks and nibbling on whatever shrubs and weeds they could find. An older buck tried to edge a kid away from the frozen shoots it was eating, but the kid made a run at the buck and head-butted him in the ribs. A goat herder followed them from a distance, sucking an unlit briar pipe and leaving the animals to sort out their differences themselves.
Sverre pedaled his bicycle along the dirt road leading to the Dahlstrøm farmhouse, fighting his way through the snow. Though he tried not to think about it, he kept reliving the scene back in Hegra. Instead of a few people gathering to watch, though, he saw a dozen, and then a few dozen, and then the entire town. They kept coming and coming until it seemed like the whole county was there, and the chorus of their laughter swelled and built toward a crescendo.
He screamed out loud, trying to purge the hideous sound from his mind. His cry shattered the silence of the forest, and a bird took flight from a branch and flapped off into the distance. For a moment, he worried about what people might think if they saw him screaming as he rode his bicycle through an empty forest. Am I going crazy? he wondered. Did I see what I thought I saw, or did I just imagine it? Then he quickly shook the thought from his mind, refusing to consider it. No, he thought, I know what I saw, and I know that Erling’s up to something. To hell with what people think, anyway.
He fought his way up the hill, fueled by rage, not needing to stop this time and push the bicycle on foot. Then he continued past the Prestrud’s property, unwilling to take the extra time to go around it. When he approached the Dahlstrøm farm, he jumped off his bicycle without even bothering to come to a stop, letting it fall clunking to the snow. Then he went forward and searched the area.
He made his way toward the barn, where a number of recent tracks marked the snow. Too wide and too deep to be cart tracks, they’d no doubt been made by the Germans’ vehicles. He pushed open the barn door and went inside. This time, the sheep hardly paid him any attention; they’d clearly been watered and fed since he was there, and some bits of silage still lay in their trough.
Unsettled, Sverre left the barn. Am I going crazy? he wondered again. It took longer to shake the thoughts from his mind, as they gained strength while his certainty diminished. He recalled a line from a play he’d read as a young man, still fresh after decades of dormancy. “Oh, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife . . .” Maybe I am going crazy, he thought again. Then another voice spoke in his mind, a louder voice that reminded Sverre of his father. Shut up, it said. You’re not crazy. You know exactly what you saw . . . now go out and prove it.
Emboldened, Sverre made his way across the property and approached the farmhouse. No smoke rose from its chimney, and no lanterns or candles burned inside. He looked inside each of the windows, but he didn’t see anyone; the farmhouse appeared empty. He approached the kitchen window, then looked around to see if anyone was watching him. There was no one there, though the forest seemed to contain thousands of eyes.
Sverre turned back to the kitchen window, then smashed it with his elbow. He reached in through the broken glass and unfastened the latch, then raised the window and climbed inside. He wandered through the kitchen, making his way to the stove. Then he opened its grate and looked inside; he stirred the ashes with a finger, and they were cold, scattering from his touch.
Sverre approached the sink and looked into it, seeing a bowl. He picked it up and ran his index finger across it, noticing that it was still moist. Someone must’ve been there tha
t morning, he assumed. But how could that be, he wondered, and where were they now? He put down the bowl and continued through the house, going from room to room, looking for clues. If they did leave, they left in a hurry, and they didn’t take anything or leave anything behind that shed light on their whereabouts or plans.
Sverre finally left the house, dejected. He wandered the property looking for tracks or other indications of what Erling and his daughter were doing, or where they had gone. The only footprints he saw other than the Germans’, though, were his own.
He started to wonder again if he’d been mistaken, then began to worry once more that he was losing his mind. Before he got back to his bicycle, he noticed a set of tracks leading back behind the barn. They weren’t new tracks, like the others; they’d been filed down by the winds and obscured by the snowfall. There might even have been two sets of tracks, for all he could tell; they looked more like mountain ranges than footprints, yet there they were, clearly advancing toward the barn. It made sense that he didn’t see them his first time through, as they were somewhat concealed, but now that he did see them, they were impossible to miss.
Sverre followed the tracks, gaining speed as if he were travelling downhill. He broke into a trot, stumbling onward through the snow. The tracks came to an end behind the barn near what looked like the outline of a fire pit. He knelt down and cleared away the snow, using his bare hands to dig.
Among the ashes at the bottom of the fire pit, he found a burnt scrap of an Allied squadron patch.
CHAPTER 19
A lynx descended into the lowlands, stalking the trail of a roe deer into the taiga. The deer’s tracks were three times the size of the lynx’s, but prey was scarce, and the lynx was famished. It avoided the steppe and the deeper snows, keeping to the spruce and birch that filled the lower valley. Its thick, greyish-brown coat blended seamlessly with its surroundings, and it moved soundlessly across the harsh landscape.
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