The Lifeline

by Deborah Swift

  He looked thinner, she realised, and more anxious, and signalled at her that he wanted to speak with her.

  ‘I think I was followed this morning,’ he said. ‘There was a car outside my house, and a couple of times, I’ve spotted the same uniformed Nazi whenever I go in or out. He lives in my building, but he seems to be appearing too often by coincidence in my hallway.’

  ‘What shall we —?’ She paused. The noise of some sort of disturbance outside. It sounded like feet on the pavement and voices.

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘Get the children,’ Ulf said, but there was no time to do it.

  The door flew open and a group of armed soldiers burst in, rifles held before them.

  ‘Hände hoch!’

  Ulf put his hands on his head.

  ‘Get down!’ Astrid tried to press down the heads of the children nearest to her, who were dazed and staring. Outside the windows she saw more helmets and rifles.

  ‘You. Hands up.’ It was Schmitt, the man from the tram.

  She held her hands high.

  ‘What are these children doing here?’ he asked. ‘School is zu. Closed. You understand?’

  ‘But we’re doing no harm,’ she said. ‘By doing this, we allow the parents to work.’

  ‘No. All the children must leave. But first you will give me your names. Bring me your identity cards.’

  She delved into her coat pocket and brought out her pass. He took it from her and handed it to another uniformed soldier who wrote down all the particulars in a notebook. ‘You seem to be wherever there is trouble, Fraulein Dahl,’ he said. ‘If you wish to teach, then you may join the Teachers League and you will be assigned a school. If not, I can find better work for you to do in one of the factories in Germany.’

  She said nothing. He stared at her with a grim air of satisfaction. He turned towards Ulf . ‘Your documents,’ he said. Ulf obliged. ‘Another troublemaker. We will remember your name Herr Johanssen. Now clear the building. Everyone out.’

  They hustled them into the cold and closed the door posting two armed guards outside.

  ‘What now? Ulf whispered.

  ‘We wait,’ she said. ‘Nothing else we can do. We keep the children busy on the street until the parents can come for them.’ She turned to Schmitt. ‘I take it you will have no objection if we continue our lesson out here.’

  He ignored her, so she began a round of the song; ‘Ro, ro til fiskeskjær’ with the children joining in all the actions of rowing to the fishing reef, and shouting out a different name of a child each time at the end of the verse. At least it kept them warm, but not for long. The sky was an ominous grey, and as she suspected it might, the cloud began to release its weight of snow in ever heavier flakes.

  ‘Please,’ she said to Schmitt, as the children huddled together, teeth chattering, their shoulders growing whiter by the minute, ‘let us wait inside. The children will be frozen to death in this snow.’

  ‘It’s your fault, if they do,’ he said. ‘You knew you were breaking the law with your illegal school.’

  It was all right for him, in his thick leather gloves and warm wool greatcoat. She bet his boots were fur-lined too. ‘It would be a kindness,’ she persisted. ‘Some of them are not dressed for so long outdoors.’

  He approached her then, too close, so he was looming over her. ‘Look Fraulein, there is a way.’ He took hold of a strand of her hair, fingered it with his glove. A shiver of fear rippled up her spine. ‘I’ll tell you what; we go in first, have a little time alone. He gave a suggestive smirk. ‘Then later, if you please me, maybe I’ll let the children inside.’

  She could not reply. Everything inside had hardened to stone. She turned her face away.

  ‘Ha! So you cannot really care about the welfare of these children. You are a fraud, Fraulein Dahl.’ He came up behind her so she felt his breath on her neck.

  She stayed immobile, as the sound of his boots receded again. Ulf, who had witnessed the conversation, but was too far away to hear, came over. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, folding her arms and gripping her trembling hands under her armpits. ‘Only another half hour to go. Let’s keep the children moving or they’ll freeze.’

  Another round of forced gaiety as they sang the farmyard song, and did a version of a traditional dance which was soon stopped by Schmitt for being pro-Norway. Finally, thank God, a few parents began to arrive. The Germans insisted on taking everyone’s names and addresses. When Mr Feinberg arrived, he was grim-faced at the sight of the armed soldiers. He pulled Sara into a fierce embrace and tried to hustle her away.

  ‘You,’ Schmitt called. ‘Wait. I need your name and address.’

  Mr Feinberg stopped, his expression blank. He took out his pass and handed it over.

  ‘Jew hey? Who else lives at your address?’

  ‘No-one. Just us.’ To Astrid it looked like Mr Feinberg was shrinking into his shoes.

  ‘What do you say we send someone to check?’ Schmitt said. ‘The SS would have something to say if you’ve lied to us. Who else lives there?’

  Astrid saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. ‘Just me and Sara.’

  ‘Never trust a Jew,’ Schmitt said to his colleagues. ‘They bled Germany dry with their lies and double-dealing.’ He turned back to Mr Feinberg. ‘Names?’

  ‘Isaak Feinberg.’

  ‘And this is?’ He pointed to Sara.

  ‘Sara,’ Astrid said.

  She had drawn his attention. ‘How many Jews do you have, in this so-called school?’

  ‘I don’t know. We don’t differentiate between religions or races in Norway, Herr Schmitt.’

  Had she gone too far? His eyes narrowed as he heard her use his name. She saw his frown as he tried to work out how she knew it, but she didn’t flinch. She kept herself erect and defiant, until he turned away.

  By now, more parents had arrived that needed his attention and his men to record their names. When she looked around Isaak Feinberg and Sara had disappeared, ghostly shapes fleeing into the flurrying snow. When all the children had gone, she realised Schmitt still had her identity card. With trepidation, she approached him and asked him to return it.

  He juggled it in his hand. ‘So, Astrid,’ he said, emphasising her first name. ‘You think you can defy your government and the orders of the Fuhrer? You are setting a bad example. I would not want such a person teaching the youth of tomorrow.’

  ‘Then it is fortunate you are not in charge of Norway’s teachers,’ Ulf said, appearing beside her.

  ‘I have both your names,’ Schmitt said, pulling back his shoulders, ‘and your addresses. There are punishments for disobeying the orders of the State. Do not be surprised to hear the night-time knock on your door.’ With that, he summoned his men and they strolled away, like tourists in a seaside town.

  ‘Don’t let him scare you,’ Ulf said. ‘He would have arrested you then, if he’d had the power.’

  Nonetheless, that night she double-checked all the windows and doors, and with the wind moaning in the trees, she could not sleep easy.

  CHAPTER 13

  When no more letters from Jørgen came, Astrid scoured the papers every day for further news of him, though she dreaded reading his name in the paper for it would mean he was certain to be dead. The Nazis revelled in showing the punishments of saboteurs, radio operatives and rebels, and in executing random Norwegians if any Resistance men escaped.

  So it was with surprise when one morning over her acorn coffee, she saw the headline that schools were to reopen. Did this mean their protest had won? No. Unlikely. The Quisling administration must have realised it was causing too much disruption to keep them shut. They needed all hands in the factories to manufacture what the Nazis needed for the Russian offensive, and school closures were blocking people getting back to work. It was pragmatic, designed to get the Norwegian arms-machine working efficiently for the Nazis again.

  She closed the paper, took a gulp of her
coffee, now cold and bitter. In one way returning to school would be good, for she missed her familiar classroom, and her colleagues, but in another she was apprehensive. If she knew Pedersen, a man she now viewed with a kind of repressed loathing, he’d apply more pressure on them all to teach the Nazi ideology.

  The official letter informing them of the reopening arrived the next day, complete with its horrible Nazi crest, so by the following day she was back at school. She couldn’t afford not to work. Pedersen behaved as if they’d never been away, despite the over-excitement of the children. The joining of the League was not mentioned again, but nor were the old text-books replaced, and there was no sign of Sara Feinberg in her class, or of any other Jewish child.

  The staff in the staff room were subdued, for even though it was some kind of victory, being back at school under the reality of the Occupation — the repression, the rationing, and an unforgiving winter which seemed never to burst into spring, was beginning to get to them all.

  It was a week later when Pedersen threw open the door of Astrid’s classroom and announced, ‘All staff to report to the school gymnasium, now.’ At her frown, he reiterated, ‘Now!’

  ‘Get on with your work, class, whilst I’m gone,’ she said, in as calm a voice as she could muster, though inside she was in a turmoil.

  What now? Was it an air-raid? It must be something serious to summon them all like this. She flew down the corridor, heels tapping on the linoleum floors, passing other members of staff also hurrying there. A glimpse through the corridor window showed the school was surrounded by armed soldiers. A sense of dread made her swallow, pull her cardigan more tightly across her chest as she pushed through the double doors into the hall.

  A group of armed soldiers were waiting on the stage, surrounding a huddle of quisling officials. She recognised one of them, Sveitfører Falk, a jowly, thick-set individual, from his photograph in the paper. She stared. The set of his shoulders was familiar. Was he the one who had been watching her house?

  The group of teachers gravitated nervously to the centre of the hall, like birds flocked together in the huge space. Pedersen arrived shortly after, his gown flapping, with a few more teachers, including Ulf, in tow. She threw Ulf a glance as if to say, ‘What is all this?’ but his slight shake of the head told her he was no wiser than she was.

  But then she saw his eyes fix on the stage as if something had caught his attention.

  ‘What?’ she whispered.

  ‘That man. He’s the one who’s watching your house.’

  So she was right. The wire-like tension in her stomach increased.

  ‘Quiet!’ Falk raised a hand.

  Silence fell as Pedersen mounted the steps to the stage. He was sweating and white-faced, his usual arrogant demeanour gone. The visitors had obviously rattled him.

  ‘Is that all of them?’ Falk asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Pedersen gave the teachers a cursory glance. ‘All here.’

  Falk took out a piece of paper. ‘These men are to stand to one side. Gustav Hansen. Bo Baum. Ulf Johanssen.’

  Nobody moved, but the men looked to each other.

  ‘Stand to one side, or we will fetch you.’

  Reluctantly the three men moved to the spot Falk was indicating. Immediately they were surrounded by armed soldiers. The sight of them being held at gunpoint elicited gasps from the women, especially Karen Baum who was married to Bo, the biology teacher.

  Falk moved forward on the stage to address them all. ‘These men will be imprisoned until such time as teachers in Norway come to their senses and decide to join the official Teachers League and teach the curriculum that is best for Norway and its allies. If everyone in this school signs, the men will be released. Papers are available on the desks by the door.’

  ‘No. Don’t sign!’ Ulf shouted.

  His response was quickly taken up by the other two. ‘Don’t sign!’

  ‘Alt for Norge!’ Gustav yelled.

  ‘Alt for Norge!’ All for Norway, Astrid took up the rallying cry.

  Karen Baum was silent. Her face was white as her husband was forced to move and the men were hustled from the room at gunpoint.

  ‘Don’t give in!’ shouted Ulf as he was taken away.

  ‘Mrs Baum,’ Pedersen said. ‘Don’t you want to sign?’

  Karen Baum gripped Astrid by the arm. ‘We stand together. I’ll never sign. Bo would never want me to sign.’

  One by one the remaining teachers linked arms. ‘We won’t be bullied,’ Astrid said.

  Falk narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t recognise what is good for you,’ he said. ‘But you will, in time.’ With that, he clomped heavily down the stairs from the stage. No-one moved as the tread of Falk’s entourage faded into the foyer.

  At the bang of the door, everyone rushed to the windows. Outside, Nazi soldiers hustled the men at rifle-point into a truck.

  ‘Where are they taking them?’ Karen turned on Pedersen.

  ‘Prison, or the camp at Grini, I should think,’ he said. ‘I warned you what would happen, but none of you wanted to listen.’

  ‘They’re inhuman,’ Mrs Bakke said. ‘The Nazis are like a different species.’

  ‘They are not so different from us,’ Pedersen said. ‘We have the same Norse roots. In history there’ve always been raids and occupations. Look at the Vikings. We were the same as the Nazis when we raided England. We all sail by the same wind. The power just shifts back and forth. Best sail with it, I say. I wish you’d see, that by making all this trouble, you’re only hurting yourselves.’

  ‘Rubbish. They are betraying their roots,’ Mrs Bakke said, her face red with outrage.

  ‘It is a waste of energy to complain or resist. They have might on their side and they’re bound to win in the end.’

  ‘They can’t imprison us all,’ said Astrid, holding tight to Karen’s arm.

  Pedersen shook his head. ‘You think not? I think they’ll do whatever they need to do to make sure we follow their rules.’ For a moment he was almost contrite. But then his expression hardened again. ‘Thanks to difficult members of staff like you, I’ve three more classes to get cover for, so you’d best get back to your class while I decide who will take them. Unless of course, you want to be unemployed.’

  CHAPTER 14

  The mountain passes were hard in winter, and battling the weather took most of Jørgen’s energy. He didn’t sleep well at night; he kept having nightmares of men chasing after him whilst his feet were trapped in the snow. It was a week later when he turned to look back and glimpsed another figure in the distance. A lone figure, just cresting the hill.

  No. His mind was playing tricks, he had to be hallucinating.

  The figure had disappeared into a dip. Or maybe he’d never been there at all.

  Until he reappeared. A dark stick-like figure moving closer.

  Jørgen squinted against the blowing snow; definitely another person. A bolt of fear streaked up his spine.

  He shot into a brake of trees, took out his binoculars and focussed them. They were Swiss binoculars, with a powerful magnification, and what he saw filled him with deep unease.

  The man was tall and well-built, wearing goggles against the light, a black hat, and a dark scarf over his nose and mouth, so he couldn’t see his face. He was examining Jørgen’s ski tracks, and he saw him dig in his poles and swoop off to follow them, arcing around the trees in smooth curves. Of course, he could just be a sportsman having fun in the mountains, but the likelihood of that in the middle of winter was what? Close to zero.

  He’d need to gain distance. He took advantage of the downhill to pick up speed, but it was tough going up the steep side of the mountain and his thighs burned with every step. The weather was closing in too, a thick saddle of cloud hung low over the pines, with the occasional eddy of snow. A glance back.

  Unbelievable. The man was gaining on him, doggedly marching uphill. Jørgen redoubled his efforts and headed for a denser forested area. He’d be able to take off hi
s skis there and disguise his tracks. The snow, which was increasing, would cover them too. With any luck, then he’d be able to double back on himself and come back the way he’d come in.

  The other man wasn’t in any kind of uniform, but that meant nothing. He still didn’t want to take any chances.

  He took off his skis and jammed them into his backpack to run dodging through the trees away from the obvious cleared routes made by deer or cattle. Underfoot, the ground crackled and spat with pine needles, and when he was a little way into the dark of the forest he scraped at the ground and buried his pack and skis under some snow and fallen branches, the skis’d be a hindrance for what he planned. He spotted a tree which had branches close to the ground that would make good footholds and climbed until he had a view of the man coming up the hill towards him.

  Wedging himself in the branches, he focussed his binoculars again on the man coming up.

  From the movements of his pursuer, he could see he was an experienced skier on the latest skis. He moved powerfully and fluidly in the modern style. At the edge of the forest he paused where Jørgen’s tracks had disappeared. Jørgen stayed motionless, legs wrapped around a high branch, watching, not daring to move. The wind whistled in the branches now, an eerie moan. Snow was blowing horizontal, making it difficult to see.

  The man took a few steps into the forest, boots crunching on hard-packed snow, before coming out again and systematically working his way around the edge looking for tracks. He took off his goggles again and lowered his scarf as he squatted to examine the ground which was being rapidly covered by snow.

  Jørgen wiped the lenses of the binoculars and zoomed in on his face. Hard cheekbones, strong jaw. He was clean-shaven, and fair-haired, judging by his eyebrows under that black hat. He searched him over with the viewer and made a quick assessment — bigger and more muscular than him. Worrying.