The Lifeline

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Miss Dahl,’ Grieg said, ‘we’ve found a way out for you and your … visitors.’ He held up a hand to prevent her thanks. ‘But it will mean you leaving the day after tomorrow if you’re to get to the transport.’

  ‘Me? I’m not leaving. Just Mr Feinberg and his daughter.’

  Grieg exchanged a glance with Kloster. ‘We think it advisable for you to leave.’

  ‘Why? I’m not Jewish.’

  ‘Herman was arrested last night for running an illegal printing press.’

  They watched her closely as this news sunk in.

  The fact of it was like a slap on the face. ‘How did they know?’

  ‘It’s not clear,’ Kloster said. ‘Perhaps a neighbour? The point is, the Nazis have their methods, and they already suspect you were responsible for the countrywide school strike, and the demonstration at the railway line. You distributed leaflets for the Milorg too.’

  ‘You know?’

  Grieg shrugged. ‘Herman told us. It’s our business to know. And we also know you skipped trial and there’s a warrant out for your arrest. For that reason you are advised to leave for a destination you choose, rather than wait for the Nazis to choose one for you.’

  ‘When did you say I must leave?’ She was still trying to take it in.

  ‘The day after tomorrow,’ Grieg said. ‘There’s a well-organised route to Sweden, but it’s not without its dangers. Because of this, the cost will be six thousand Norwegian kroner in cash for each person.’

  ‘What?’ The amount seemed staggering. ‘Where will they get that sort of money?’

  ‘Where there’s a will…’

  ‘Even Sara? She’s only a child. She doesn’t take up much room.’

  ‘Your choice. What cost your life? Besides, a place is a place. Other people could go in their stead. You have to appreciate it’s dangerous for all concerned, and the time and effort in organising it is immense.’

  ‘Is there no other way? I don’t know if they have the money, and a day is hardly enough time to raise it.’

  ‘So you are refusing our offer? You know they’ll deport you to a camp? The child too.’

  ‘No … no. I suppose I’ll have to help them find it somehow.’ After all, it was better to be poor and alive, than dead in some Nazi camp.

  ‘So how many?’ Grieg lifted his pen ready to write it down.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Very well. You will be the contact for this group?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Write the names here.’ He pushed the paper over to her. ‘Your refugees will need false papers. These refugees, do they look like Jews?’

  She bristled. ‘What do you think Jews look like?’ Her anger evaporated. Grieg was only trying to help. ‘No. They look like anyone. Brown hair, brown eyes.’

  ‘Good. Then we can get papers ready. Could you be a family? It will be a rush to get something that will hold up. Write down the Feinbergs’ ages, descriptions and any distinguishing marks here.’ He passed over a notebook. ‘Your own too.’

  She scratched down the Feinbergs’ details with his fountain pen, which didn’t like accommodating itself to her writing. It felt odd describing herself from the outside — as if she’d stepped into someone else’s life already. She gazed down at her own description, blonde hair, blue eyes. It could be anyone.

  ‘What must we do next?’ Her question sounded calm, but inside she was still in shock.

  ‘Pack one small bag each with warm clothing and any necessities. And I mean necessities. Food, medicine, soap. Put the money in individual bags for counting. The meeting place is at the pharmacy near the tram stop just down the street from here. I suggest you behave as if you are family travelling together.’

  ‘What about the papers?’

  Grieg shrugged. ‘You’ll need to leave yours so they can be amended. The others’ll be rushed, so they won’t hold up to much scrutiny,’ he said, ‘but you can collect them from here tomorrow afternoon. Oh, and you’ll need to bring a thousand kroner for each of you as a mark of good faith. An advance, if you like.’

  She nodded, though the whole thing seemed impossible, as if she’d fallen into some sort of fantasy.

  ‘One more thing. Herman could talk. So make sure you’re not followed tomorrow when you come here.’

  ‘I haven’t got that kind of money,’ Isaak said when Astrid returned. ‘I have no bank account. I closed it down; it was just too risky. We kind of … live under the radar. Now we just have what we brought with us.’

  ‘I guess that’s that, then.’

  He drooped. Then slowly he took off his jacket, and felt along the seams of the sleeve. ‘Have you scissors?’

  Astrid got some from the kitchen drawer and watched as he slit the lining and emptied something onto the table.

  Gold glittered in the kerosene lamp. A rope necklace of gold links, a diamond brooch and two rings, set with precious stones. ‘This is all my mother’s jewellery,’ he said. ‘My mother’s wedding and engagement rings. She died before Sara was born, and I kept them for her as an inheritance until she was older. So they came with me when we fled Frankfurt. Like an insurance policy. It’s all we have. If I give this up, we’ll have nothing but what we stand up in when we arrive in Sweden.’

  Astrid watched him spread it out on the table. It didn’t look much.

  ‘I don’t know what it’s worth,’ he said. ‘Do you think it’s enough, for both of us? I don’t really want to sell it, but if it’s the only way…’

  ‘I don’t want it, Pappa,’ Sara said, firmly. ‘It’s pretty but if it helps us get away, somewhere safe, then sell it.’

  He hugged her tight. ‘I’ll buy you lots of nice things, one day.’

  Later, when he was alone with Astrid, he said, ‘Trouble is, I don’t know how I can turn it into cash without arousing suspicion. I bet there are no jewellers left open, in the whole of Oslo.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘They were all Jewish.’

  ‘There’s Edvard’s,’ said Astrid. ‘They were still open when I passed last week. I’ll take the jewellery for you, see what price I can get, then we’ll see.’

  The next day, Astrid hurried over to Edvard’s. The shop had a window full of glittering necklaces and earrings on stands, but the plate glass window was criss-crossed with a blue-painted iron grill to deter thieves, and the glass was taped in case of bombs.

  She placed Isaak’s items on the counter, and watched as Edvard, a man with carefully coiffured hair, prodded at them with his manicured finger. ‘Beautiful. Excellent quality, they have some value, but they’re all very old-fashioned. Not the glitz the Nazis favour.’ He sighed, looked up at her with a kind expression. ‘I can give you four thousand for the necklace and brooch, and two thousand five hundred each for the rings. Say nine thousand for the lot. Were they your mother’s?’

  ‘No. A friend’s.’

  ‘Ah. This friend, they must trust you, hey?’

  She felt her cheeks grow hot.

  ‘So, as it is for a friend, a friend who is in some sort of trouble —’ he raised his eyebrows in a knowing way — ‘we must help each other, and though it breaks me, I think I can give you nine thousand. But that’s my best offer. It’s more than they’re worth.’

  She felt her eyes fill with tears. He was trying to help, but it wasn’t enough. She swallowed. She didn’t know how to tell Isaak. He couldn’t go without Sara.

  It took a moment before she could compose herself. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll take it … and thanks.’ She would have to find the rest of the money somehow.

  She watched him pull the objects into his palm and put them in a drawer. A moment later he opened the till and brought out the notes. ‘I’m sorry it cannot be more,’ he said. ‘This occupation hurts us all.’

  It seemed a travesty that she should have to let go of these treasured items that would mean so much to Sara in future years. She had no such items herself. Her parents had both been drowned in a boating accident, when she was ten years
old, and their bodies had never been found. They had pulled her out of the freezing water but Mamma and Pappa were still at the bottom of Sognefjord somewhere.

  She used to imagine they were still alive, in some frozen wonderland under the water, but by the time she was twelve she’d grown out of such fantasies. They would not come back. And she had lost count of the number of times she was glad they didn’t have to witness the Nazi occupation of their homeland.

  She pulled her scarf more closely around her neck. So much to do in so little time. She’d have to give Isaak a loan. Her next call was the bank.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ the cashier said, and came back with a ledger. She was a neat, middle-aged woman with a heavily made-up face. Her face furrowed. ‘That account is closed,’ she said. ‘The balance is zero.’

  ‘Closed? Why? I don’t understand —’

  ‘The account belongs to a missing person. There’s a note on it to say that should the person try to claim any money from this account they should be referred to the Staatspolitiet. Are you Astrid Dahl?’

  She was aghast. ‘No. No, she’s a friend,’ she faltered. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’ll just fetch the manager, he’ll —’

  Astrid didn’t wait. She blundered out into the street, putting as much distance between her and the bank as she could.

  Her savings were gone. The thought of the empty account gave her a pain she hadn’t anticipated, and left her feeling strangely vulnerable. This was it. She was really on her own. She knew now how Isaak must feel. And only a few hours left to raise the money for herself too. Was there anything at all she could sell?

  She fingered the compass in her pocket. She didn’t want to lose this last link with her father, and besides, it was old and only made of brass. Worth shillings, if that.

  But it gave her an idea. She remembered her father’s collection of stamps from all over the world. Mr Rask, who used to be her father’s neighbour, had been trying to persuade her to sell them for years, but she never would. He was so proud of his collection, and used it to teach her about other countries and other languages. She thought of Pappa’s craggy face, his blue eyes behind his tortoiseshell glasses. When he died, he was only a few years older than she was now. The thought amazed her. He was still ‘older’ to her, despite that. But he would understand why she had to do this now, she knew.

  ‘How much did the jewellery fetch?’ Isaak asked, when she got back.

  ‘Nine thousand. Sorry, it’s all he could give me. So you’re still three thousand short.’

  He closed his eyes as if he no longer wanted to look at the world.

  Sara hurried away, returning with her piggy bank. ‘Here Pappa, let’s count what’s in here.’

  ‘Good, darling, that’s a big help.’ Isaak emptied the few copper coins on the table.

  ‘Is it enough?’ Sara asked.

  ‘It’s made all the difference,’ he said, hugging her tight. ‘We’ve got nearly enough now.’

  Astrid’s eyes met his despairing ones. ‘It’s all right. I’ll make it up. I’m going to sell my father’s stamp albums.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Isaak followed her, watching her pull the albums from under her bed and bundle them up in brown paper. She tried not to look at them too hard. ‘I can see it’s hurting you.’

  ‘It’s only stamps,’ she said. ‘Pappa would be proud they’re being used for this. He would detest what the Nazis are doing to Norway.’

  Nonetheless, she had to hurry the two blocks to Rask’s place before she changed her mind, because much as her father might have hated the Nazis, had he lived to see them, he definitely had no time for Rask, whom he thought of as a man with no moral fibre whatsoever.

  Rask, a quisling, whose house smelt of old urine and cats, was surprised to see her, but could barely keep his hands off the albums. ‘The 1871 Posthorn Blue, and the seven skilling red brown, are they still there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I believe so,’ she said. ‘But I’d want two thousand kroner each for them, plus extra for the three albums.’ She knew she had to have more money in reserve for when they got to Sweden.

  ‘What made you change your mind? Why are you selling now?’ he asked suspiciously, breathing over the paper, his nose close as he peeled back the layers of tissue paper protecting the stamps.

  ‘Now my teaching’s stopped, I need a little extra income.’ The excuse rolled off her tongue.

  ‘I’ll give you eight hundred and fifty a book.’

  She shook her head. ‘Then I’ll go elsewhere, Mr Rask. I only offered you first refusal because you’d shown an interest.’

  ‘The stamps with the traitor King Haakon would have to be removed if they are to have any resale value.’ His hand pawed the page. His chipped, yellowing fingernails repulsed her.

  She snatched the book from under his nose. ‘Two thousand each, Mr Rask, and the rare stamps are yours. Otherwise, I’ll go elsewhere.’ She stood and prepared to go out, brushing the cat hair from her skirt.

  She’d made it half out of the door before he called. ‘Naturally albums like this should be forfeit to the state,’ he said. ‘You would be obliged to hand it over, should I report you for owning an unpatriotic book.’

  She brought the book back inside. Damn the man. She couldn’t risk it. She was in trouble enough.

  Mr Rask took the money out of an old red biscuit tin that was kept under his chair, presumably so nobody could steal it. She caught a glimpse of an obscene amount of money in that tin, and yet this man lived like a pauper in his run-down house that stank of damp and cats.

  Reluctantly she counted the notes there, on the stained tablecloth. Half the amount she’d asked for. Just three thousand and fifty altogether. Even handling the money made her vaguely nauseous.

  ‘Where is the rest?’ she asked.

  ‘You have a fair price for no questions asked,’ he said, his hand on the pile of albums.

  Sorry Pappa, she thought. She tidied the money into a pile and folded it. He came to the door as she walked away, but she didn’t look back. All the same, she felt his eyes on the back of her neck all the way down the street.

  CHAPTER 23

  Astrid kept her head down and walked close to the shelter of the buildings. It felt like walking on ice, going down the street carrying that much cash, and it made her tense every time anyone passed. What if there was someone following? She looked right and left, relieved to finally get to the toyshop, and to hand over the down-payment to Grieg. In return, she was given a set of false papers, and a small notebook, the contents of which they must memorize.

  When she got home, Isaak’s gaunt face was enough to remind her why she was doing this. ‘Are we set?’ he asked.

  ‘Not quite enough,’ Astrid said. ‘My bank account was closed by the Nazis too.’ Before he could reply, she stalled him. ‘Don’t ask. I can’t raise any more. Not a single shilling. We’ll just have to hope when we get there they’ll take us anyway. We’re only a little short, but I’ve paid the down payment and got our papers. We’ll have to take the gamble.’

  Isaak, who had been reading aloud to Sara, put the book down and rocked his head a moment in his hands. When he looked up his eyes were glassy. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I hated it, asking you to do this. I should have been out there taking these risks, not you.’

  She shook her head. ‘The risk was greater for you. And what would Sara do without you? Anyway, you’ll not thank me when you see what we’ve to memorize. Look, here are our papers.’

  She laid them out on the kitchen table. Isaak and Sara left the book and came to see.

  ‘Oh. But there’s only two passes. Am I supposed to be this Aksel Dahl?’ Isaak asked. ‘But it says I’m your husband, and there’s no sign of Sara on this pass.’ He raised his eyes in concern.

  ‘Don’t worry, I have Sara on mine. They thought it safer if I was your wife, and so they added her to mine.’ Her face grew hot with e
mbarrassment. ‘They say to show mine first, if possible, as yours is not the best forgery. We’re to be a family travelling with one child.’

  ‘Let me look.’ He grabbed the passes and hurriedly opened them.

  ‘Astrid Dahl. Age 32 … daughter, Inga 13. It says you’re the mother of this Inga. That must be Sara, but they’ve got her age wrong. She’s ten, not thirteen.’ He pushed them away in disgust, and stood up, eyes on fire. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re using my Sara as a shield for your own escape. That can’t be right. What if we were to get separated, what if they only let two of us go —?’

  ‘Isaak, it’s not for my sake. It’s for the safety of us all. It will look less suspicious if we’re more like a family group.’

  ‘We are a family. Sara and I. She should be on my pass. It is you, who are not family.’ His bitter words struck home.

  Astrid swallowed. ‘The child is usually on the mother’s pass. If the worst comes to the worst you and Sara must go. She needs you. But very well, if you want to go alone, then go.’ She threw the rest of the money on the table. ‘Your jewellery fetched only nine thousand kroner. Enough for you alone, not Sara. The rest of the money that will get us all out of Norway is from my father’s rare stamp album. You can go back to my contact and tell him to change the papers. And then choose which of us will go.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Sara’s voice broke over them both. ‘Just stop it, will you. I don’t mind travelling with Miss Dahl.’ Her face was white with rage.

  ‘I’m not giving you up, even on paper,’ Isaak said.

  ‘Don’t, Pappa. We’d be going nowhere without the help of Miss Dahl. Nowhere except where the others went.’ Two red spots of colour appeared on Sara’s cheeks.

  Isaak pulled her over to comfort her, throwing Astrid a look of shame.

  Astrid bit back a retort. Isaak was just under strain; that was all. She made an effort to calm her rising temper. ‘Are we travelling together tomorrow or not?’ Astrid asked. ‘Because if so, there’s a lot to do, and we’d be better getting on with it than arguing.’