On the slope Anna paused to pick a harebell as she had done so often throughout her childhood. She smiled, remembering how her aunt was always on the quayside to meet her and how they had waved exuberantly to each other. Aunt Rosa’s welcoming embraces were warm and bosomy and full of love. They had needed each other, the maternally-minded widow denied children of her own and the lonely child.
To this day a certain French scent could bring back memories of childhood and teenage days, for Rosa had always used it. Although sated by travel through the years of marriage to a diplomat, Rosa Johansen had still made seasonal trips to Paris for most of her clothes. She had splendid hats too, and Anna remembered the hilarious sessions they’d had together when she had been allowed to try them on.
Those vacations had followed a regular pattern that had made everything so secure and reassuring. In spring there would be skiing from a cabin on Nordmarka, not far from Oslo, and Christmas was at Rosa’s elegant apartment within sight of the Royal Palace with parties and a tree aglow with real candles. But the summers were best of all. Then she would disembark at Bergen and take a steamer up the coast to the lovely little Town of Roses as Molde was still called. There she and Rosa stayed at the old family home with its view of the fjord. It was a time of picnics and sailing and trips into the mountains, most of it with local children who had become her friends.
The grassy slope had become steeper now as the forest began to take over. Anna entered its secretive, dark green shadows, the foliage of the sky-high firs so thick that only spears of sunlight could penetrate. She inhaled again the familiar fragrance of fern and bark and dry cones. In another such forest she had once been engaged in a gun-battle, and in yet another she’d had to run for her life.
She came to a standstill, pressing her fingertips to her temples. Too much was coming back to her, unwelcome visions of wartime events that she’d tried to keep from her mind. Then she reminded herself sternly that remembering was the reason why she had come today. The delay in raising the fighter plane was a bonus in which she could gather her thoughts together and prepare for the dreaded moment when she would see it.
There was a sunny clearing ahead where timber had been felled. Anna hurried to it, wanting to feel the sun’s warmth fully on her again. There she found a comfortable place to sit. Wild flowers were growing here too and wild cranberries, not yet red, showed in the nearby undergrowth. Within reach was a patch of ripe blueberries and she reached out to pluck a sprig of them. One by one she popped the blueberries into her mouth, using the old trick of pressing out the sweetness with her tongue to avoid staining her teeth.
It was a trick she had practised in her teens when she had not wanted Nils Olsen to see her with blue stains around her mouth. Before that in childhood she had never cared. Everything changed when she realised at fourteen that her long attachment to him had become something much more. But he was older by four years with a wide choice of girls of his own age. It had taken him until she was just seventeen and he was taking part in ski-jumping contests at Oslo’s Holmenkollen for him to see her in a new light. When the spring vacation was over they had to wait yearningly for summer when they could be together again.
It became a summer she could never forget. But then 1939 had stamped itself on the memories of untold millions of people in many different ways. Loving and being loved for the first time paled into insignificance beside all else that happened. She had returned home again to boarding school in Derbyshire on that first tumultuous day of September when Hitler’s forces had stormed into Poland. Two days later Britain and her allies were at war with Nazi Germany.
Correspondence had still come through from Rosa and Nils. She was able to let them know when her father’s ship was torpedoed and lost with all hands. Their replies comforted her in her grief, but those were the last letters she received. The next day Norway was brutally invaded by German forces and the contact with the two people she loved most was broken.
The day after final school exams Anna presented herself at the local recruiting office of the Women’s Royal Naval Service, determined to become a Wren, the nickname given to those who served in it.
“I’m here to volunteer,” she announced.
“Have you any connection with the Royal Navy?” the recruiting officer questioned briskly.
“My father was a Captain until he was lost at sea. I can’t replace him in the service, but I want to close the gap a little bit.”
She was trained as a radio operator. After a year she gained a commission. In the fitting-room of a naval outfitters she regarded her reflection in her new uniform of Third Officer, a single blue stripe on the sleeves. The old tailor, who looked as if he had been making uniforms for officers since Nelson’s day, had done his work well.
She slipped on the greatcoat, fastened the blue buttons and grinned with a sense of achievement as she straightened the naval tricorn hat. Then she picked up her gloves and slung the strap of her gas mask over her shoulder. Her new posting was to the south of England, not far from where her father had moored his sailing boat before the war.
“Portsmouth, here I come!” she said under her breath. Then she went out into the busy street and returned the salute of two ratings for the first time before running for a bus that was about to draw away. Wolf whistles followed her from a truckload of Canadian soldiers passing by.
Some months after her arrival and with the booming of anti-aircraft guns, Anna knelt in the choking dust amid the rubble of a bombed cinema, holding to her a fellow officer. It had been their last evening together before he rejoined his ship. Marriage between them had never been considered, but she had become very fond of him and he of her. The tears coursed down her begrimed face as he died in her arms.
She had to keep her grieving to herself, although she knew that many sympathised with her. Life was too difficult generally to allow private troubles to intrude on others. Outwardly everything went on as before until the day she was told the Commanding Officer wanted to see her.
“What happened?” one of her fellow officers asked when she returned to the mess.
“I’ve been posted!” Anna exclaimed in bewilderment. “But I don’t know where! I’m to take all my kit with me and report in London tomorrow afternoon.”
“It must mean promotion. Lucky you!”
Next morning Anna caught the train to Waterloo Station. There she took a bus to an address in Baker Street. She noticed that grass and some hardy wild flowers were growing in the gaps left by the Blitz. It was a comforting sight, seeming to show that normality could follow any nightmare.
Chapter Two
At an office window above Baker Street underground station a stern-faced man in his forties stood looking out, his rank that of major in the Free Royal Norwegian Army. He could see on the far side of the bomb-damaged street a young Wren waiting for a gap in the passing traffic before she could cross. Although he had never met her, he recognised her as Anna Marlow from a photograph in his files.
“She’s here,” he said to a fellow Norwegian, also in army uniform, tall and broad-shouldered, who came to join him at the window.
“If looks were all that counted she’d be OK,” Karl Kringstad replied drily. He had read the file on her in this office less than half an hour before; it had given her age, birthplace, parentage and much else about her. “Let’s hope she measures up to her Commanding Officer’s report.”
It had stated that Anna Marlow was intelligent, alert and conscientious in her duties. She had also kept a cool head in several emergencies during air-raids and once, at great risk herself from falling masonry, she had rescued and attempted to keep alive a fellow officer who had been trapped under rubble in a bombed cinema.
“I admit that what we would expect of her is specialised work,” the Major agreed. “But it was your hunch that put me on her track.”
“It was only based on what I heard said about her on one occasion.”
“But Captain Gunnarsen had known her and her aunt in Norway and
, as you said yourself, he’s a good judge of character. Anyway, we shall soon know. She’s starting to cross the street.”
“I’d better go.” Karl turned away.
The Major frowned, moving from the window with him. “Why not stay and make some judgement of her for yourself?”
Karl hesitated, his gaze darkening. “I’m not sure whether I’m ready yet to voice an opinion about any possible replacement for Ingrid.”
The Major was apologetic. “I was thoughtless. It’s too soon yet. I simply thought that, if the Marlow girl has the right qualities, you’ll be seeing more of her for a while than anyone else.”
He saw the tightness increase about the younger man’s mouth, but there came a sharp nod of acceptance.
“You’re right. I’ll sit in on this interview for a little while as an observer.”
“Good. But don’t hesitate to ask the young woman questions if there’s something you want to hear direct from her.”
When Anna was shown into the office, she was surprised not to see at least one or two naval officers or even a board of them. Instead she was facing a Norwegian major, ribbons on his chest, who was seated at a desk in a rather bare office brightened only by the scarlet, blue and white of Norway’s flag. Another man with striking Nordic good looks, whose age she judged to be about twenty-eight, stood by one of the two spare chairs. The only naval link was in the large photograph hanging on the wall behind the desk of King Haakon in his Admiral’s uniform.
“I’m Major Andersen,” the officer said at once in Norwegian, “and this is Captain Karl Kringstad. You’re not here on any naval matter, but to give me the chance to talk informally with you. Please sit down.”
“Thank you,” Anna said, also in Norwegian since that seemed to be the language chosen for this meeting. She took one of the seats in front of the desk, vaguely aware that Karl Kringstad had seated himself in the other. She was still bemused by this unexpected turn of events. Then, without warning, she was gripped by an icy fear of what she might be about to hear. “Am I here to receive bad news about my aunt in Oslo?” she demanded quickly, her hands clenched together in her lap.
Major Andersen was quick to reassure her. “No! That’s not the reason! Not at all!” He rose from his chair to come round and perch his weight on the edge of the desk, facing her. “I regret causing you any unnecessary anxiety. We are all concerned about those whom we know in Norway. My own wife and children are there.” Then, before she could say anything, he continued, “I believe you have been in the WRNS since the very day King Haakon and Crown Prince Olav and the Government left Norway in exile for England.”
She gave a nod, wondering how he knew. “It was June, 1940. I was already eighteen and about to leave school.”
While speaking she had felt Karl Kringstad’s hard gaze on her from where he sat nearby. It made her feel uneasy and also intensely aware of him as an extremely physical man. In every way he was a contrast to the Major, who wanted her to be at ease. Glancing across at Karl she met a kind of dark look in his sharply intelligent grey eyes. It was not exactly hostility, but something equally turbulent and disturbing. She wished he was not in the room.
“So you were very eager to join up,” the Major commented.
“I was. In fact, I thought I was coming here today for a special interview before promotion.”
“It’s nothing like that.”
Karl chose to speak for the first time, his eyes never leaving her, and his voice held an oddly challenging note. “I can hear the west coast in your Norwegian.”
Anna looked fully at him. He had a strong face, high-cheeked with a handsome Viking nose and a jaw to match, his mouth well-cut and his hair a dark wheat colour. There was a self-assured ease in his whole manner combined with an air of confidence that normally she liked in a man, but in his case she felt an extraordinary need to assert herself in order not to be overwhelmed by the force of his personality. There was a curious undercurrent passing between them.
“As a matter of fact,” she remarked smoothly, “I can tell that you’re from Oslo.”
“Correct.” He raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve an ear for the nuances of the Norse language.”
“I think I can pride myself on that.” She turned again to the Major. “I believe that you, sir, are from Bergen.”
“Yes, indeed.”
But Karl Kringstad had not finished with her yet. “I’d like to know how you absorbed the county of Romsdal into your speech.”
“There’s nothing surprising about it. I was only a year old when my mother took me to spend my first summer near Molde and that set the pattern for many summers afterwards. I suppose it could be said that for a while every year I grew up with the local children.”
The Major was not oblivious to the underlying terseness in the questions and answers being exchanged between the two seated opposite him. Karl was revealing an interest in the character of this girl, bringing her out in his own way and it was going well.
Karl, sitting back with one long leg crossed over the other, continued his selective questioning of Anna as he watched her closely. “You mentioned your aunt in Oslo. What is her name? Perhaps I know her.” But when Anna told him he shook his head. “No, I’ve never met Fru Rosa Johansen.”
“Whereabouts did you live in the city?” She was determined not to be beaten down in this extremely civilised battle of questions and answers.
“Grefsen. Do you know it?”
She smiled, more at her own pleasant memories than due to any softening towards him. “Yes, I went often with my aunt to visit the Moen family on Tonsenveien.”
“I grew up in the next road. They’re fine people. A bomb was dropped nearby on the first morning of the invasion and I went to see if they were all right, but they had only suffered smashed windows from the blast.”
Major Andersen intervened at this point. “I’d like you to tell me who else you know in Oslo.”
Anna’s resentment soared. It had been obvious to her almost from the start that these men were questioning her about Norway for some inexplicable reason of their own and she felt it was high time that it was explained to her. But she obliged the Major by listing her acquaintances in the city, adding that her closest friends were those with whom she had shared her summer days. Just as she was about to make a direct request to be told what this interview was all about, Karl stood up to leave. He made his apologies for having to break away. He turned to her.
“Goodbye Fröken Marlow. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day.”
It was a relief to her when he was gone. The room had been too full of his angry presence. She leaned forward and spoke forthrightly to Major Andersen, who was seated again at his desk.
“Why am I here? Have you been testing my Norwegian? It’s obvious that you wanted to see me for a specific purpose. Is it that you wish me to transfer from the WRNS to be an interpreter for newly-arrived escapees?”
He compressed his lips briefly. “It’s much more than that. But, before I explain, I want to tell you something of present conditions in Norway. The newspapers here print whatever they can, but I can give you an insight as to what Norwegians are having to endure in their daily lives.”
He went on to list some of the hardships being imposed by Reichskommissar Terboven, the German commander in control of the country. She knew, as everybody did, of the thousands of young Norwegians escaping to join the Free Royal Norwegian Forces formed in England under their exiled king, but she had not known that the penalty for even attempting to escape from Norway was death by firing squad. The Major also told her that recently the fathers of the successful escapees had been taken as hostages, whatever their ages, and sent to one of the concentration camps in Norway. The most notorious of these was Grini near Oslo where hundreds of patriots, men and women, were housed in apalling conditions and subjected to brutal treatment.
“Hitler thought Norway would be easy to subdue. After all, there are only three and a half million of us among all those mount
ains and fjords, but from the start on what we call the Home Front we proved him wrong. German reprisals and arrests and even torture happen every day, but nothing has checked the people’s determination not to be broken.”
Anna looked down at her hands linked in her lap, moved by all that she had heard. “Occupied, but unconquered,” she said as much to herself as to him.
“You’ve summed up the situation most accurately.” He paused for a moment. “How would you consider the chance to return there in these troubled times?”
Her head jerked up and she stared at him, her heart beginning to thump heavily. A possible understanding as to why she was here had begun to dawn on her throughout all he had been saying. “How would I do that?”
He sat back in his chair. “This is the headquarters of the Norwegian Section of Mr Churchill’s Special Operations Executive, which organises military sorties and sabotage by the Resistance in Norway, as is being done in every occupied country. Here we select fellow countrymen, who have escaped, to return to Norway secretly and to undertake extremely dangerous missions. Naturally they have to be of the right character and calibre to meet such requirements.”
“You haven’t mentioned women.”
“We have many women in the Resistance and you have been highly recommended. The training would be hard and strenuous. I’d want you to have a week’s leave to think it over.”
“How soon could I start that training?”
His eyes showed his satisfaction at her query. “Just as soon as I see you again. But there is an important point for you to remember. There can be no reunions with your aunt or anyone else in Norway. That would be putting their lives at risk just because you yourself would always be in danger. Their ignorance of your presence in the country would be their safeguard.”
The thought of being in Norway and unable to see those she cared about was a bitter disappointment, but she accepted that it was how it had to be. “Does anyone else except you and Captain Kringstad know why I’m here?”
The Marlows Page 32
