The Lifeline

by Deborah Swift

  Obviously he couldn’t stay in Norway now his cover was blown. He’d have to make for Sweden.

  He wondered what had gone wrong, how they’d found him.

  Astrid? No. She’d never make a spy. The chances of it being her were more than remote. But radio operators rarely lasted long. Even though he’d moved the transmitter every week, someone must have seen his comings and goings to the mountain hut and alerted the police.

  He missed the friendly Norwegian police of his childhood, the ones you used to go to if you were in trouble. Now, the police themselves were the trouble; the ones he remembered had all been replaced with the ruthless men in dark blue, the traitor Vidkun Quisling’s police. Even Falk, his old professor from the university had joined them.

  Jørgen crawled out from under the truck, and paused to light a cigarette. Mostly he didn’t smoke; the cigarettes were in his pack only for barter. But his nerves were jangling, and beneath that a deep sense of disappointment festered. He had failed somehow.

  He took another drag of the cigarette, grateful for the warmth and the calming effect on his body. He’d have to get transport to Sweden, go across country. That’d be the quickest way out of this mess.

  Then of course there was Astrid. He’d have to get word to her.

  Damn, damn, damn. Just when he’d found a girl he really liked, the Occupation had ruined it all. Of course she’d be all right without him, she had so many interests; he’d never met anyone who seemed to be in so many clubs. It was one of the things he found attractive about her; she never crowded him. She was so independent, belonged to so many things. But he’d have to warn her somehow, that his cover had been blown, and hope to hell no-one had seen them together.

  He didn’t dare go to her house, it wasn’t worth the risk.

  Keeping to the shadows he started to walk back towards the city, aware that to break curfew would mean he would be stopped, and then it would be the end. There was a route he’d heard of, one which went to the southern tip of the country, where a narrow fjord divided Sweden from Norway, close to the Swedish border. An insurance man, Bjørn Lind, had set up a Jewish refugee route that way, by train out of Oslo to the border town of Halden. If he could get to Lind’s office unseen, he might get help. He had no radio, so he couldn’t contact anyone, and besides, he couldn’t go home.

  His clothes were suspicious too, for a city man. He was dressed for the mountains, in jersey and cap, to blend in there, not for the world of suits and ties.

  One last drag and he finished his cigarette and stubbed it out. He heard sirens and car horns below, and knew they’d be hunting for him as soon as that German could get help.

  Quickly, he turned and wove his way back to the city centre, listening for patrols all the way. In this unfamiliar territory, and in the dark, it was a good hour later by the time he located the street where Lind’s insurance office was, close to Carl Berners Plass. The name of his firm was painted on the glass window at street level, but he knew the man lived above. He knocked, using the morse ‘V’ for Victory, followed by a short pause and ‘N’ for Norway. There was no answer, and the windows remained blacked out. Unsure what to do, he tried again. As he glanced up, he was sure he saw movement at the corner of one of the blinds. Insistently, he repeated the knock, more softly so it wouldn’t wake the neighbours.

  A few moments later the door opened a tiny fraction, and a man with receding hair and wire glasses peered anxiously out. He looked to be in his thirties, at a guess, and was wearing a baggy knitted jumper which made him look more like a fisherman than an insurance agent.

  ‘I’m Knut Henrikson,’ Jørgen said, giving his Resistance name. ‘I need help.’

  Something in Jørgen’s face, and how he was dressed, must have looked desperate enough for Lind to open the door and beckon him in. ‘What is it?’

  Jørgen explained he was radio operator for Milorg, and that his cover had been blown. ‘I don’t know how they became suspicious, but there were men waiting for me at home.’

  ‘Do they have the transmitter?’

  ‘I don’t know. I left it concealed in the roof void at the mountain hut. If I’d known I was under surveillance, I would have destroyed it. But I have the book. There’s not much in it, just a few coded keywords only I could understand.’

  ‘Good,’ Lind said. One of the main fears was that a German would find the radio and logbook and start to transmit to England as a Norwegian. ‘You weren’t followed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God. Then come upstairs and I’ll get you a drink, but I’ve not much time.’

  Lind padded upstairs and into a parlour which still bore some heat from a settling fire. A small haversack and strong leather boots stood next to it, alongside a pair of old-fashioned-looking skis. ‘Your book,’ he said, pointing to the fire. ‘Destroy it. I’ve just burned all my papers too.’

  Jørgen took it from his pocket and they watched as the papers crackled and flared. ‘What’s going on? Are you going somewhere?’

  Lind poured a small shot of aquavit into a glass and passed it to him. ‘I’ve bad news, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What?’ Jørgen took a gulp of the pale liquid, and felt it hit the back of his throat with its fire.

  ‘The last group failed. At the railway station in Halden. My brother was waiting to guide a group of Jews to the border. Unexpectedly a pass control was carried out on the train by a quisling policeman. When things got sticky, my brother lost his nerve and shot the bastard.’

  Jørgen sucked in his breath.

  ‘I know. A bad move,’ Lind said. ‘Two of the refugees, Jacob Bauer and his wife, jumped off the train. But it was no use — it prompted a full scale alarm. Hundreds of soldiers and men with dogs were sent into the area. They soon found the two Jewish refugees, poor devils. Apparently the remaining group on the train were arrested before they could even get off at Halden.

  ‘My brother was travelling under an assumed name, but to cut a long story short, they caught up with him, and I guess he broke under torture. Two days later the Gestapo searched his home in Trøgstad and arrested my father and my elder brother too. I don’t know where they’ve taken them.’ Lind’s voice cracked, showing signs of strain. ‘I thought you were the Gestapo coming for me. Until I saw your face.’

  ‘Sheesh.’ What could he say? He stood awkwardly silent. As well as feeling bad for Lind, it was a blow. He’d been banking on that route out. After a pause, he said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s awful timing, me turning up now.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Looks like we’re both on the run.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I can’t do much here. If I show my face anywhere, I’ll be hauled in like the rest of my family.’ Lind paused. His eyes had gone glassy. ‘Sorry. I’m not much use, am I?’

  ‘Where are you going? I can see you’re going somewhere.’

  ‘I’m not trained for Resistance fighting, so I thought I might try and hide out somewhere in the mountains. I should have left already. I was about to put my boots on.’ Lind poured himself a second shot. ‘Just needed a bit more courage to get on the road.’ He downed it in one. ‘Skol. At one point I thought I might have a go at joining a unit in England and fight the bastards from there. Pilot training, but it just seems a crazy idea now, when I’m scared to go out of the front door.’

  ‘Well, why not?’ Jørgen said. ‘It’s better than being sitting ducks here.’ Like most of the other radio operators he’d been trained in London. He’d come back into Norway by fishing boat from the Shetland Isles. ‘We could try to make it to England. Through the Northern waters to Shetland.’

  ‘Is it possible to still get out that way?’

  Jørgen shrugged. ‘I came in that way about six months ago. Got to be a better chance than being shot at the Swedish border.’

  ‘You’re right. Since the last fiasco, they’ll have stepped up border controls by now.’

  ‘I’m game if you are.’ Jørgen saw the doubt cross Lind’s
face. He knew two men were more conspicuous than one, and the Germans weren’t keen on groups gathering. ‘I have a pistol and I’m not too bad a shot,’ he continued. ‘One of us can always cover the other. Have you got a gun?’

  ‘No. But then again, a career in insurance doesn’t exactly equip a man for armed combat.’ He smiled in a self-deprecating way. ‘And I never used to like the idea of hunting. Deer are so beautiful. I’ve never been much of a sportsman, too skinny. But I guess it would be better to go together.’

  Jørgen’s heart sank. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to travel with him, but leaving him behind would be unthinkable when he was grieving for his family like this. ‘Do you have maps?’ he asked. ‘I have some basic idea of the route, but I’d rather scout out the terrain on a map.’

  ‘I can’t shoot, but I used to be a keen hiker. Maps I have.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Just before dawn Jørgen watched Lind turn the key in the lock.

  ‘Can’t believe I’m saying goodbye to this,’ Lind said. ‘Who knows when I might see it again?’

  ‘When the war is over, you’ll be back,’ Jørgen said, shouldering his pack.

  Lind had supplied him with a grey canvas rucksack, and a change of clothes, a smarter set for daytime wear, in case they had to be in a town. They’d be tight and too small for him, but they’d have to do. A swift call from the public telephone to one of Lind’s friends had already secured him new false papers, but they needed to fetch them from a safe house near the outskirts of town.

  Jørgen examined the maps, and they decided to go straight out of the city by tram, up the Holmenkollen Line, then up into the mountains working their way northwards, skirting Lillehammer where there was a big Wehrmacht presence, and aiming for the inlets around Ålesund where they hoped to pick up a boat to Shetland.

  Lind had been daunted by the route. ‘It’s a hell of a long way,’ he said. ‘Climbing those mountains will be tough.’

  ‘If we go up, we have to come down. Half of it will be skiing downhill,’ Jørgen said. He grinned and slapped him reassuringly on the shoulder.

  Jørgen kept watch from the end of the street, as Lind went to collect their false papers from the safe house he obviously knew well. He watched Lind walk up the path as if the path itself might bite him, his head swivelling to check for patrols the whole time. The place was in darkness, but Lind had no trouble gaining admittance. It was a contact he had used before, for the Jewish refugees still intent on leaving Norway. Many Jews had heard reports from other countries, and were talking no chances, fearful of what might come next in Norway under Nazi rule.

  Jørgen trod from foot to foot, restless. What he hadn’t expected was that this place would be so close to the street where Astrid lived. Only a few hundred yards away. She’d be sleeping right now, her blonde hair spread on her smooth naked back, unaware that Jørgen was so close.

  It wouldn’t be much out of their way to say goodbye.

  He weighed it up. He’d never wanted to drag her into any sort of danger, but at the same time, after what they’d done last weekend it would be bad to just disappear from her life without a word.

  A shaft of torchlight alerted him to a patrol, walking past in the next street. Just what they didn’t need. Spotting a wood store in a garden, he crept towards it. It was empty, but shelved and too small to get inside. Just in time, he wedged himself behind it, as the patrol turned the corner and came down the street towards him. Two men. He was relieved they had no dogs. They were chatting, talking in German about the women they had got to know. Jørgen’s German was passable, but not as good as his English, since he’d trained in England. He willed Lind to stay inside the house as the swinging flashlight beam came nearer.

  His fingers felt for the cyanide capsule in his pocket. If caught, he was supposed to swallow it rather than die a traitor’s death. Could he actually do it? He shuddered, then held his breath. The men passed by less than a car-length from him, but they were intent on their conversation. So much so, that when Lind came out of the house he froze at the sight of their retreating backs.

  To his credit, Lind was motionless, as if welded to the doorstep. When the men had turned the corner again Jørgen saw Lind look frantically from side to side, searching for him. He put his hand up and waved it, and Lind had the common sense to wait another five minutes before they both emerged.

  ‘Christ, that was close,’ Lind said. ‘We’re in luck. Christina had a contact in Ålesund for the Shetland Bus. I’ve got the name written down. We have to memorize it, then destroy the paper.’

  ‘Good work. Are these my papers?’ He took the folded pass Lind held out.

  ‘Yes; you are now a naturalist called Olaf Stensen. You studied entomology at Oslo University, and you are in the mountains to study rare bees. It was a cover we’d intended for someone else, but he never needed it.’ Lind’s expression told Jørgen the other man was already dead.

  ‘Bees? In February?’

  ‘Best we could come up with.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m luckier. I’m Otto Ramundsen, a shoe repairer.’

  Jørgen laughed. ‘After trekking five hundred miles, we might need you.’

  ‘Except that I haven’t the first clue how to repair a shoe. Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ll head for the mountain hut. What shall I call you?’

  ‘It’s Jørgen. But best stick to Olaf.’

  ‘Okay Olaf.’ Lind gave a lopsided grin.

  ‘Olaf and Otto. Good grief. Sounds like a double act.’

  Lind mimed doing a tap dance, but then set off walking. They’d agreed the route the night before, and now they began to make their way northwards, eyes peeled for anyone on the streets.

  They had only gone a few hundred yards when Jørgen stopped. ‘I just need to do something on the way,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘What?’ Lind’s eyes were instantly wary.

  ‘There’s someone I need to see, that’s all.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘Are you crazy? Whoever this friend is, they could tell someone they’ve seen you, and then who knows what might happen.’ Lind’s eyes were fearful behind his glasses.

  ‘You told Christina.’

  ‘She’s been part of the Milorg since the beginning. She knows to keep her mouth shut. Who is this mysterious friend?’ When Jørgen he didn’t answer, Lind said, ‘Oh no. Don’t tell me. It’s a woman, isn’t it? Do the Nazis know she’s your girlfriend?’

  Jørgen shook his head. ‘It won’t take long. I won’t even go inside. I just want to leave her a message.’

  Lind’s hand came on his shoulder. ‘She’ll keep it, and then if they question her and find it, it will go badly for her.’

  ‘It won’t be that kind of message.’ Jørgen set off at a loping run. He hoped Lind would keep watch, and not go off on his own. They didn’t know each other well enough to be certain of each other’s loyalties.

  Astrid’s street was still in darkness, though the light was beginning to pale over the horizon behind. He looked up at the window, behind which he knew she would be sleeping. It seemed so strange to think of her breathing there, only a few yards from where he stood, his own breath steaming in the winter air. Near the front gate was a letterbox on the picket fence. Jørgen slipped his hand in his pocket and felt the cold weight of the brass compass. It used to belong to Astrid’s father, and had been a gift from her last time they’d skied together. With a swift movement, he pushed it through the slot. It landed with a loud clunk, and immediately he ran for cover behind a neighbour’s shed.

  Nothing moved. A blackbird began its piercing song, heralding the dawn.

  With regret he hurried back to where Lind waited, shifting from foot to foot and blowing on his hands to warm them. ‘You’re an idiot,’ Lind said.

  ‘Nobody saw. It’s fine.’

  ‘Maybe, but knowing I’m on the run with someone who’ll take unnecessa
ry risks isn’t exactly reassuring.’

  ‘Stop beefing, and let’s get moving before someone sees us. We need to be out of here before first light.’

  CHAPTER 3

  On Monday morning, Sveitfører Falk of the quisling police, drove out to the hill above the suburb where Astrid Dahl lived, and parked in a quiet layby at the edge of the road. He pulled off his warm fleece-lined gloves and took out a pair of binoculars from their black leather case. Within a few moments he had focussed them on Filestredet 14, Astrid Dahl’s house. He knew that Jørgen Nystrøm and Astrid Dahl had been close friends at university, along with a group of several other young men and women. All of them were under suspicion of being sympathetic to the Resistance, and all were being watched now in case Nystrøm went there.

  Nystrøm had been too cocky as usual. He’d sent signals once too often from his mountain location, and they’d tracked it down, and guessed it was him from the ski club records. One of his men had got a shot at him, but just missed him on his return. The fact he’d run, made it certain it was him.

  W/T operators were the bane of Falk’s life. Somehow it was always his fault if Norwegian Resistance did something to upset the Nazis, just because he was Norwegian, and so by implication, suspect. The Kommandant had given Nystrøm’s capture the highest priority, and if he, Falk, could bring him in, then it would grease the wheels with Nazi command, and move him up the ranks of the quisling police, the Hird. Of course, he had the advantage in that he actually knew what Nystrøm looked like from his time teaching him at the university.

  Falk pressed the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the street for movement, but could see nothing amiss. He thought back to his days in front of the blackboard, teaching engineering. He knew his lectures were dull, because of the ripple of amusement when he turned his back, and the pellets of spit-covered paper that mysteriously surrounded his feet at the end of every lecture.

  And Nystrøm had been a cocky student, one of the worst offenders; too clever for his own good, and far too handsome. Students like Nystrøm, the popular ones, set off a feeling of resentment so intense it hurt. He remembered being a student himself, and the girls flocking to men like Nystrøm, leaving Falk in the shade. He’d always been awkward around girls. Too short, too tubby, and without the good looks that made men like Nystrøm’s life so easy.