The Lifeline

by Deborah Swift

  The idea took hold. Within a few minutes she was pulling books from Enge’s bookcase and frantically looking for paper to scribble notes. Of course it would be forbidden, unless it was part of the Nazi curriculum, so it would all have to be done in secret, and she couldn’t think of a way to make it pay. And where would she get paper? But still, she was determined to do it.

  She remembered Herman, and his printing press. Would it be possible?

  A week later, and Astrid had her first batch of learning materials. They were printed on newsprint, and the only way she had been able to persuade Herman to help her was by agreeing to deliver anti-Nazi propaganda with each batch. He’d wanted the Milorg advertising printed on the same sheet, but she’d flatly refused. She’d argued long and hard with him about this, as she felt that giving children any kind of propaganda was wrong.

  ‘Ulf wouldn’t like it,’ she said. ‘You know he wouldn’t.’ And the thought of Ulf in arctic conditions, breaking rocks or building roads silenced them both.

  They had compromised in the end, but it did mean that delivering the educational materials was going to be a lot riskier. After all, she had now unwittingly joined Sivorg, the civilian Resistance.

  So today she was going door to door with a batch of the new educational papers hidden under her shopping. The sun was shining and she felt optimistic for the first time in weeks. Summer had come at last and the sky was blue, with a sharp bright sun. Falk and the trial seemed a long way away. Herman’s recruitment flyers about joining the Milorg were in her pocket and she had to put one of each through the doors where she was delivering. He had supplied her with a little cash for using the tram, and she was able to criss-cross the city that way.

  After the first day she was tired, but had got rid of a hundred of her worksheets.

  When she got home, she immediately started preparing the next, though she had no idea if the sheets would be used, or if they would be thrown away. On this next one she had the idea to put in a few jokes, the sort a child might enjoy, and a drawing with ‘Spot the Difference’ and a simple crossword with answers relating to Norway’s history.

  When she went to collect them from Herman, he said, ‘I think these will be popular. They’re good. The drawings are lovely, and it’s nice to have something cheerful.’

  She flushed. ‘Thank you, I enjoyed doing it.’

  ‘You realise it’s propaganda, though, don’t you?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘It sells a particular point of view. That everyone should be free to choose.’

  ‘That’s not propaganda! It’s human rights.’

  ‘Just be careful, though. Nothing’s ever neutral. Everything has an agenda. Yours is anti-Nazi.’

  She thought of his words often over the next few months as she continued to invent new materials, agonising over each one. The Sivorg had found the funds to supply the paper, and it gave her great pleasure to think of the children in homes all over Oslo colouring in her drawings and doing her educational puzzles. In all this time she kept a low profile, and didn’t go near the police station. What had happened when she didn’t turn up for trial? She’d no idea. Though every day she worried that she might bump into Falk, or one of the policemen that had arrested her, and living with that degree of fear made her lose weight and bite her fingernails to the quick.

  To keep Herman safe she varied her route each day, in case of attracting German attention. Over time she was surprised to find the children came to recognise her as ‘The Puzzle Lady’, and many of them watched for her and came to the door excited for the next week’s batch of puzzles and exercises.

  By the end of the summer the demand for the children’s paper had become so great that it was hard to hide the papers in her basket. Herman often asked her to deliver messages or propaganda, but she always kept strictly to her principles and kept the Milorg business separate, although by now it was no use pretending she wasn’t actually working for the Resistance.

  Coming out of Herman’s house one autumn day with her usual heavy basket, she caught sight of a man further down the road loitering on the corner by the tobacconist’s, lighting a cigarette. She ignored him, and paused to pull on her beret and scarf, but as she set off up the road towards the tram stop he set off too in the same direction. At first she was not unduly alarmed. Probably just on his way to work.

  He got on the same tram and walked past her to sit a few seats behind. She caught a whiff of aftershave, a pungent, slightly bitter smell as he passed. A thin-faced man in a raincoat, wearing a felt hat with a brim. Something about the way he avoided her eye made her wary. If he was following her, she’d have to lose him. She waited until the tram was about to pull up at the next stop, then made a sudden run for it.

  As she suspected, he dived after her. So she was being tailed. She ran across the street and in through the revolving door of Steen & Strøm department store, haring up the escalators, pushing past the crowds to the fourth floor, where she hid herself behind a shoe display of expensive leather shoes.

  She crouched down, trying to calm her breath, pretending to admire the shoes on display. Of course all the other women in the store must be rich, or in cahoots with the Nazis. She watched their legs go by, clad in sheer stockings that most ordinary Norwegians couldn’t afford. Had she lost him?

  She picked up a pair of high-heeled shoes. It was so hot in here. A bead of sweat trickled from her hairline. She pulled off her beret and scarf and tucked them in the basket. The beret was a rusty brown colour. Without it, maybe he wouldn’t spot her.

  After about fifteen minutes the man hadn’t appeared, and the female shop assistant was staring at her. Probably thought she was after stealing something. Hastily, she put the shoes back on the shelf.

  Astrid turned to leave. What would she do if she was him? Wait outside. She’d be easier to spot by those revolving doors. She’d have to go out some other way. Was there a back entrance? A hanging sign said ‘Stairs’ so she hurried down to the next floor where she knew there was a Ladies Powder Room.

  A cubicle was vacant so she hurried in and bolted the door. She dragged the Milorg recruitment leaflets from her pocket. They were dynamite. She thrust the whole batch in the toilet and pulled the flush chain. But what to do with the children’s paper? It was too bulky, there were too many sheets; it would never flush down.

  And it was so much work. She hesitated. She didn’t want to leave it behind.

  No choice. The man had followed her from Herman’s, and she didn’t want the paper to be linked to him or it might never get printed again. Carefully, she emptied the basket of her purse and keys, and her identity cards, and pushed her scarf and beret in with the papers. A loss she’d have to bear.

  She came out of the toilet to find a woman in a fox fur stole waiting, so she hurried away, guiltily, knowing the pan was clogged with paper. Down the stairs to another floor. Here she abandoned the basket on the landing before going down again. At the ground floor she scanned the crowded shop for the man who was following her. No sign of him.

  She headed for the side door further down the street, and followed close behind a young couple. There he was, waiting near the main entrance.

  Across the road was the tram stop. A tram was just approaching with a squeak of wheels. She made a dash for the tram, leapt on, and saw him spot her just too late.

  Heart thumping, she ignored him as he ran alongside, praying that the tram wouldn’t stop again. She only rode a few stops before changing trams once more, and this time heading for the Ekeberg Line, nowhere near her apartment. The more changes she made, the less chance he’d catch her.

  Nobody must know where she lived. The official resident of her apartment was still Mrs Bakke’s sister, Enge. As far as the authorities were concerned, Astrid Dahl had just disappeared. There was always the faint chance that one of the parents might tell, but she didn’t think it likely, as she used a false name on the worksheet, Aunty Nora. So she made as certain as she could that she wasn�
�t still under surveillance when she went home.

  She’d have to get word to Herman though, that his house was being watched. But how?

  In the end she did nothing. She didn’t dare risk it. Besides, she knew he’d wonder why she hadn’t brought the next week’s sheet for printing, and guess something was wrong, and make a calculated guess that she was keeping away from him for his own good.

  The following week Astrid was on her knees on the rug, creating another worksheet, when she heard an unfamiliar buzzing sound.

  With shock she realised it was the doorbell from the street below.

  Warily, she put the door on the latch and went down the three flights. ‘Who is it?’ she asked from behind the locked door.

  ‘Herman.’

  She opened it. ‘How the hell did you know where I live?’

  He pushed his way into the lobby. ‘Surprising what we know. We have to be careful who we trust.’

  ‘Come up. I live on the third floor.’ She set off up the stairs. ‘You weren’t followed?’ she turned to whisper at him.

  He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Sorry. I had to ask. Someone was following me. That’s why I didn’t make the drop offs last week. I had to dump everything at Steen & Strøm’s.’ She pushed her way into her apartment, and closed the door after him.

  ‘I knew something was up,’ Herman said, sitting down and lighting up without asking her permission. ‘So we have to be careful. You’re not to come near me, or make any contact from now on, understand?’

  ‘But what about my children’s paper?’ She pushed an ashtray on the table towards him.

  ‘Not important. It was a nice thing, and a good cover for our recruitment campaign, but —’

  She was outraged. ‘Is that all you saw it as? Just cover for your campaign?’

  ‘It was useful to us, but you’re getting too popular, too easy to trace.’

  ‘It was a vital service for those children,’ she flashed. ‘For them it reminded them of normal life, gave their parents a few hours to themselves —’

  He put on a soothing voice. ‘Oh, I’m not saying it wasn’t valuable in its way, just not to us. So we won’t be printing any more, and I’ll ask you to stay away from my house.’

  Now she was livid. ‘So that’s it? You’re dismissing me, now I’ve risked my life delivering your damn leaflets?’

  ‘Now look, Astrid, I know you think a lot of your teaching, and I admire that, but your time with us was always going to be limited. A woman who looks like you is bound to attract German attention. Just be thankful you’re alive.’ He tapped his ash into the ashtray.

  She walked to the door and opened it. ‘How dare you. It’s time for you to leave. You’ve made your point and it works both ways. You had your uses to me, but now I no longer need you.’

  ‘Aw, Astrid, don’t be like that.’ He stood up, tried to put a hand on her arm. ‘Ulf wouldn’t like it if we weren’t friends.’

  ‘Don’t dare to bring him into this! Get out of here before I lose my temper.’

  ‘You can’t just resign, you know. Once you’re in, you’re in for life. Think about it some more because Milorg won’t hesitate to remove people who threaten their networks.’

  ‘Get. Out.’

  He went, trying to swagger, but failing, and leaving a cloud of cigarette smoke in his wake.

  When she’d calmed down she opened the window to get rid of the smell, and made some chicory tea. So she was trapped in the Milorg now, was she? Threatened by the Germans and now threatened by her own people.

  Herman was wrong, her children’s paper was important. Children’s minds were important.

  She hugged herself, trying to come to terms with the loss of the activity that had kept her sane in this mad world. The loss of the paper meant she was once more a person with nothing to offer. It made her redundant again, as if she had no value.

  Who needed her now? No-one. She was expendable to her own country. It was an odd sensation, as if she had become invisible. A citizen of nowhere.

  CHAPTER 20

  Karl crept out of his bed and dressed silently. He carried his boots downstairs, listening for the creak of bedsprings that meant he’d woken Jørgen in the room next to his. There was no sound, so he took himself out into the wild dark, closing the door by turning the handle gently so the latch made no noise.

  Outside, he blew out through his mouth, a sigh of relief, and paused to put his boots on before heading down towards the harbour. The wind whipped around him, but he moved stealthily, quick and cat-like in the dark. God, how he loved this. He thought he’d die if he didn’t get out to some action soon. Jørgen stuck to him like a limpet, always watching him with those assessing eyes. But Jørgen wouldn’t give him much trouble; he was already showing cracks.

  Karl smiled in satisfaction. He’d always been good at brazening things out. He’d got Harcourt on side at least; he knew how to charm the men that were influential.

  And the women for that matter.

  The harbour was full of the noise of the wind, the buzz-clank of metal wires, the slap of waves and the thud of wood against rubber as the boats bumped into the tyres that protected them from the harbour wall. He grabbed a pair of oars from a rowing boat and headed out to one of the small motorboats bobbing at the end of the quay.

  He untied the mooring rope and jumped in. He’d row out until he was out of sight, and earshot. He grasped the oars and pulled strongly away from the shore. The wind blew in his face and the waves were steep but it felt good to use his arm muscles like this. Like they needed some heavy work, not the fiddling and tinkering he’d been doing in the workshop.

  The village was quiet, no lights and nobody around. Not a guard, nothing.

  Once he’d rounded the corner, out of sight of the harbour, he threw the oars inside the boat, and cranked the handle hard to get the engine going. He was rewarded with a throaty roar. The sound made him grin. Now he’d really let rip.

  A second later he opened the throttle, feeling the little boat power away. He stood up by the wheel as the boat shot out towards the islands, bounding over the waves.

  Thank God for old Hard-core. He’d a map in his office showing all the mined areas. A dead straight course would keep him out of their way. Though their presence did add extra excitement to this joyride. He half-wished one would go up. Though not with him above it, of course.

  The wind was at his back as the boat sped through the dark. He made a roaring pass around the first island, cutting a swathe of white wash and narrowly avoiding a pinnacle of rock. He had about twenty minutes of exhilarating speed, before he slowed down to come back closer to shore.

  He’d done this twice before. The other times he’d gone round the main island to get what intelligence he could. Tonight, he just felt like it. He had to get rid of his pent-up energy somehow. It used to be skiing, but Shetland was a useless, bald rock of a place.

  Now he cut the engine, and rubbed his hands through his salty hair. It was harder rowing back with an offshore breeze, but he enjoyed the effort, the chance to pit himself against the tide. His sporting muscles missed their exercise. He missed the feeling of besting someone or something.

  Soon the boat was moored back where it had been before. Time to go up to Harcourt’s office.

  Keeping to the dark shadows of the buildings, he pushed himself to head rapidly uphill toward the Mission in long, loping strides. A dog yapped and came snarling to a gate as he passed, but he ignored it. The Mission itself was open. Shetlanders were stupidly un-aware of security, considering they were at war. At least the building was blacked out; no lights showed. He walked straight in, up the front steps. Harcourt and Harris were billeted there, but the stone building had thick walls and their rooms were on the other side of the building from the office.

  In the dark, he skirted the billiard table, feeling his way around its edge, and along the wall to Harcourt’s office. It was locked of course, but the police force had taught him basic lock-picking
. Actually, he’d never used it much before. More fun to break down the door.

  But here, he needed the quiet way in. He slipped his homemade picks from his pocket. The inside of a fountain pen, a wire from a boat, a paperclip and a broken knife. The paperclip and knife should do it, like last week.

  Footsteps creaked above, and he stopped. Listened.

  He took a few hurried moments to rake the lock, listening for the sound of the pins dropping before opening the door, and he was in. Better shut the door.

  He drew the blind and pulled the curtains across slowly, minimising the rattle of the hooks. Wouldn’t do for someone to see him in there. Now he switched on the torch they’d been issued with and headed for the radio. Within a few minutes he’d got set up.

  He smiled at the idea that Harcourt was asleep somewhere upstairs whilst he made full use of his office. After a lot of hiss and crackle he finally got through to Norway and Falk’s W/T operator. The girl on the other end was slow, and he had to keep repeating. Some country hick, probably. Didn’t she know the risks he took to even get the message out to her?

  He was just repeating information about the make-up of boats and crew when he heard a noise outside.

  A shaft of light flashed under the door. Instantly, he logged off, switched off the torch and replaced everything as best he could by feel.

  Just in time. The door swung open, and the room was suddenly flooded with electric light.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Harcourt was in a paisley dressing gown and slippers, his squinting face without his glasses was wrinkled and bald. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir, it’s Brevik. I came up for a game of billiards, and saw your door was wide open. I came in to see if —’