The Lifeline

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Yes,’ Sara said. ‘Tell us what we need.’

  Isaak didn’t answer, but stood and paced the floor like a caged lion in a zoo.

  Sara took hold of Astrid’s arm. ‘It’s the shop. He misses it. He was so busy, and now … well, now it hurts him that there is nothing he can do. That all his books are gone, except my picture books.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Do we need to pack?’

  Astrid patted her sleeve. ‘Yes. You haven’t much, so just your warmest clothes. Take the small blankets from the airing cupboard, if they’ll fit. Warm socks and gloves. And there are some tins of oily fish under the sink, get those out and any other tinned food that’s not too heavy to carry. Can you pack for your father as well? I need to talk to him.’

  Sara nodded and hurried off into the kitchen.

  Astrid gave Isaak a wide berth as she continued her preparations. When was the right moment? She could tell he wasn’t ready to engage with her because the atmosphere was still so tense and full of mistrust. So she sat at the other end of the table to write a letter to Mrs Bakke thanking her for loan of the apartment and explaining it would soon be empty again. Of course she gave her no clue where she was going.

  She couldn’t quite believe she was doing this, giving up her life. She’d been naive to think she could go against the Nazis and they would just forget about it. She thought of Ulf, being taken to some icy camp, and of the chain-smoking Herman being interrogated in a cell. She couldn’t bear to think of what they might do to him. Or to her, if they caught her. She was suddenly anxious to be on the move, and rushed to collect all her belongings together.

  Isaak was still staring morosely at an unopened book. She glared at his back. Why was she doing this; for these people who didn’t even thank her? It was all so hard. She thought if Jørgen. Before, she’d thought the Resistance was all guns and bravado, not sitting here deciding how many cans of sardines to pack, or whether Sara had clean underthings.

  She walked past Isaak, stretched out an arm and took up the pass for her and Sara, now renamed Inga Dahl.

  She was about to put them in her pack when Isaak stood and stopped her, a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘It feels like I’m losing a child. I promised my father we’d stick together no matter what. But if it’s the only way for us to get out, then I’ll do it for Sara’s sake.’ Isaak’s expression was contrite, but he wouldn’t back down by making an apology. He was as stubborn as she was, she realised.

  Bearing a grudge wouldn’t get them out though, would it? She pointed to her bags. ‘Put your pass where it’s easy to reach,’ she said. ‘And you’d better learn your new name and who you’re supposed to be. Don’t forget to drill it into Sara that her name’s Inga, and if you call her that, she should answer.’

  The next morning the three of them headed downstairs and Astrid was about to step out when she spotted a car on the corner of the street. She’d swear it was the same car that used to wait at her previous house. She shut the door hard.

  ‘Quick! Back upstairs! There’s a car watching the house.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Isaak asked.

  ‘No. But do you want to take any chances?’ she whispered. ‘We’ll have to go out the back.’

  Back upstairs. Out of the fire door and onto the rickety iron fire escape.

  It was icy and slippery, and now that they were carrying their packs, pretty lethal. Astrid kept a firm grip in the rusting handrail on the way down, afraid that at any moment a Nazi soldier would come around the corner.

  They hurried across the yard and round the corner. It was a brisk fifteen minute walk, during which time she kept her eyes almost on stalks looking for Nazi patrols.

  No car came after them, but that didn’t ease the tension as they waited anxiously outside the pharmacy. Sara was bundled in two layers of jumpers and a knitted hat, with her plaits sticking out beneath it. Isaak wore a woollen flat cap that made him appear strangely youthful, like a costermonger’s boy, but his forehead was creased with worry.

  Ten o’clock came and went, and there was still no sign of any car or transport. Their presence had drawn attention from a passing German patrol who had seen them standing there an hour ago, and were now about to pass again. Astrid could feel Isaak’s nerves as the Germans approached by the way he kept licking his lips and shifting from foot to foot. He gripped Sara’s hand tightly whenever she made any slight movement away from him.

  When the patrol got closer, about two blocks away, an open-sided flat-bed truck, marked with the name of a hardware firm, its charcoal chimney steaming, suddenly drew up. The driver leaned out of the side window and gestured at them. ‘In the back,’ he yelled.

  ‘Have you got any cabbages left?’ she shouted the phrase she’d been given.

  ‘No, only turnips.’

  ‘Yes!’ she shouted gleefully to Isaak. It was the correct password. He unpinned the tailgate and let it drop with a clang, and threw in the bags in under the tarpaulin before giving Sara a leg up.

  ‘Hey, you!’ The two-man patrol was nearly upon them.

  Isaak bundled himself into the truck and reached out his hand to Astrid who grabbed it and clambered on, the icy metal floor bruising her knees. Sara shunted up under the tarpaulin to make space just as the truck took off, tailgate swinging. Astrid clutched at Sara’s arm, fearing she’d slide out.

  The men from the patrol called ‘Halt!’ in German, but the van didn’t stop.

  Astrid dived flat on the bed of the truck, fearing they would be shot at. The bitter dry wind blowing under the tarpaulin where it flapped loose took her breath. The tailgate clattered and banged as they went, lurching around corners. From here, she could see little under the green canvas, but could hear the roar of traffic and the parp of horns.

  Once they had to stop at an intersection, Sara raised her head to look under the edge of the tarpaulin where it was hooked to the side of the truck with eyelets.

  ‘Keep down,’ Astrid said. ‘There are German soldiers at the lights.’

  Isaak pulled her down and they pressed themselves flat until the truck trundled on again.

  Astrid’s stomach began to heave as they drove for more than two hours, screeching round hairpin bends and up and down mountainous passes. The roads were rutted and the truck jerked under them. Sara gripped the edge of the truck, face white as paper, her eyes wide and terrified.

  Finally the road surface grew even more bumpy and the truck slowed. When it came to a halt, none of them could move. They were all too cold and stiff.

  The tarpaulin was yanked to one side and they emerged blinking into the pale morning sunlight. They were at the end of a dirt track in some sort of forest clearing.

  ‘Off!’ a man’s voice shouted.

  They were surrounded by men. Rough-looking men, like lumberjacks, with guns pointing at them.

  ‘Shit, they’ve got a kid,’ one of the men said.

  Astrid knew immediately something wasn’t right, but Isaak helped Sara jump down, and stretched out a hand to Astrid, but she waved it away and awkwardly slithered down. When she hit solid ground, her legs were shaking with cold and fear.

  ‘You have the money?’ one of the men asked, a big man with thick lips and hair cropped as if it had been sheared.

  ‘Yes,’ Isaak said, fumbling for the cloth bag in the haversack. ‘For me and the child.’

  The man took it from Isaak’s hand without thanks, and counted out the money, whilst the rest of the men smoked, hands on their guns. ‘You?’ He fixed his eyes on Astrid.

  Astrid handed it over, though by now she knew there was something uncomfortable about this whole business.

  ‘What shall we do with them?’ one of the other men said, a man in a worn leather coat with a matted fur collar. ‘We can’t shoot kids.’

  At these words Isaak put an arm around Sara’s shoulders. ‘You’ve got the money, so you’ll take us to the Swedish border like you promised,’ Isaak said.

  One of them laughed, but then th
e men went into a huddle, arguing amongst themselves. They seemed to be dividing the money. Finally the big blond man emerged from the group. He and another of the men, a shorter darker man with a cigarette stuck to his lower lip, folded back the tarpaulin on the truck.

  By this time, Astrid’s stomach felt like an empty cavern. Perhaps they were going to take them after all.

  But before she realised what was happening, the men lobbed all their bags off the truck, into the dirt, and leapt on it themselves. The truck screeched off, with the other wood-fired car following it with the rest of the men. A screech of tyres and slush on the wet track.

  ‘Wait!’ Isaak let go of Sara and sprinted after them, but they’d soon gone in a stink of charcoal fumes.

  Astrid stood for a moment, staring down the track. They’d taken the money. In a sudden sickening realisation, she knew they’d been had. The men had never had any intention of taking them anywhere. They were just after making quick money. The amount had never really mattered.

  With a shudder so visceral it made her want to vomit, she understood that they had done this many times. But the other times the Jews had ended up dead. It was only the presence of Sara that saved them from the same fate.

  She crouched down where she was in the road, hugging herself.

  At length, she stood up stiffly and looked around, but could see no obvious landmarks. She should have made a note of the route, she realised, but now it was too late. She heard footsteps approaching.

  ‘They’re not coming back, are they?’ Isaak asked.

  Numbly, Astrid shook her head.

  ‘Bastards.’ He picked up a rock and hurled it as far as he could until it hit a tree. ‘D’you know what the worst thing is?’ he said. ‘Not being able to do a bloody thing about it. Looking like I’m too weak to fight. I’m afraid if I fight back and punch out their lights then they’ll take out their hatred of me on her.’ He indicated Sara who was scuffing at the gravel with a foot, her face grey with misery.

  ‘They were armed, Isaak. You couldn’t have done anything.’

  ‘I’m hungry, Pappa,’ Sara said.

  ‘I know. We’ll walk a bit, then we’ll have a picnic, yes?’

  Astrid shouldered her pack and scanned the horizon. Nothing. Forest in front of them with no definite path. Resolutely she started to walk back up the track. They’d given up everything to get out of Norway, and now they were deeper in than they’d ever been, and without shelter in the depths of winter.

  She looked back to see the others following her, two dark figures against the grey of the track. Things didn’t look good for her, but for them it was so much worse.

  CHAPTER 24

  Jørgen was readying himself for another journey to Norway. He’d made two trips as crew, and now the Shetland Bus had got some kind of official recognition and was known by the fancy title of the Norwegian Naval Independent Unit, or NNIU. The official title did nothing to ease the tension behind his ribs every time they put to sea. The sea was an unpredictable beast, and the north wind a monster. Each time his heart almost jumped out of his chest at the thought of it; though once he was aboard, he was too busy to think about anything else but the job in hand. Fingers crossed, so far, apart from the mountainous seas, they’d been lucky and entered Norwegian waters without detection. But now winter had truly come, and the weather was worsening. Gales and snow, and pitch-black nights. His fear rose up in his throat as if to strangle him.

  Karl had not been assigned a sortie yet, and Jørgen wondered if Harcourt had kept them apart on purpose. He often saw Harcourt drinking with Karl in Cooper’s Tavern, and they seemed to be very chummy, often retreating to the Catholic Mission to practice billiards at all hours of the night.

  Today he observed Karl and Harcourt with wry interest as he took a swig of beer from his bottle. They were laughing together at some in-joke. Karl used to call Harcourt ‘Captain Hard-core’, a barbed joke which caused them all guilty amusement, but not anymore. He supposed Harcourt must trust Karl as he often left him to lock up now, after they’d finished their billiard game. Today he saw them exchanging good-humoured banter together, before Harcourt put down his tankard and strode out of the bar, car keys in hand. To be truthful, it annoyed him the way Karl had become Harcourt’s sidekick.

  ‘I thought you were desperate to get back to Norway,’ Jørgen said, as Karl sauntered back to their table.

  ‘I am,’ Karl said, ‘but no point in pushing. Dare say my time will come soon enough.’

  ‘What’s up?’ joked Dag, an ex-fisherman and another of the crewmen. ‘You haven’t decided to turn Scots and stay in Shetland, have you?’

  ‘No, who’d want to stay in this dead end hole of a place? I just think Harcourt probably knows best.’

  So why didn’t Karl want to go out with the Bus? Was he afraid? No, impossible. Karl had no fear. Not of snow or water or weather, so what exactly was going on?

  A few moments later they were joined by three women from the catering department. Elsie, a big blowsy brunette with a gap between her teeth jostled her way in between Jørgen and Karl, and cadged a cigarette. Karl moved over and gave her his full attention. With some relief Jørgen saw this happen and wondered if Karl had ever asked Morag out. If he had, she’d never mentioned it. The thought still preyed on his mind.

  The next day, Jørgen was sitting on the harbour wall taking his lunchtime break when Morag stopped by the paint shed. Instantly, Karl leapt up from his painting job to go and talk to her. A moment later she’d lifted her hand in goodbye to Karl and walked over to join Jørgen.

  ‘I think you made a conquest there,’ he said.

  She made a face. ‘Along with every other woman on the island.’

  ‘A while ago, he told me he was going to ask you out.’

  ‘He did,’ she said. ‘But I turned him down. There’s someone else I’m hoping might ask.’ She looked sideways at him, her cheeks growing pink.

  Now was his moment.

  ‘Hey, Nystrøm, we need you!’

  Jørgen turned and stood up to look. It was Jacobsen calling him over to help get the boat out of dry dock. He hesitated, on the balls of his feet, torn between what he wanted to say, and his duty.

  ‘Nystrøm! Stop gossiping! Give us a hand will you,’ Jacobsen yelled.

  ‘Better go,’ Morag said.

  In the end Jørgen held up his hands in a shrug, downed his tea and hurried back to work. He could cheerfully have killed Jacobsen, but inside, his heart lifted. If ever there was a hint from a girl; that was it. And Morag was lovely.

  But the thought of Astrid needled him all afternoon. Somehow, Astrid and Norway were tied together and faithfulness to one implied faithfulness to the other.

  In Oslo, Falk was feeling the pressure. He slammed down the telephone receiver and rubbed his jowly face. That was Reichskommissar Terboven, and he wasn’t happy. The day before yesterday he’d suddenly sent orders all Jews were to be deported. Not just the men, but women and children too. Falk had until 25th November to do it. His department were supposed to have rounded up every Jew in Oslo, but there were still some who were unaccounted for, despite his men running ragged trying to catch them all. How did Terboven expect him to do it at such short notice? Two days! And he must enforce the death penalty for anyone caught helping Jews escape. Of course, it was always his men who then had the unpleasant task of implementing these orders. Terboven and Fehlis never got their hands dirty.

  So yesterday was chaos. Word must have got out to the Resistance, and it was like rats fleeing a burning building. They went by bicycle, taxi, horse, any way they could get out. He put all his men onto it, and they were like lads on a hunting party, but it still wasn’t enough.

  He hated this part of his job. He was squeamish about blood, and much happier behind his desk. Last night he’d had to witness three Jews, young boys who’d been hiding in a disused cellar, shot as they tried to run away. Schmitt had got rather too enthusiastic with the gun. Falk looked down at his feet. Blo
od had ended up on his shoes. Good thing his wife had cleaned them up. And worse, despite deploying his whole task force, hundreds of Jews from Oslo had somehow got out of the city. Terboven was on his back and the blame was being laid firmly at his door.

  Now he looked down at the paper in front of him. Another message from agent Brevik, who was still on Shetland. He wanted to know when he would be ordered to come back. His reluctance to serve on the boats was raising suspicions. Over the last months he’d kept him there, but now Brevik had begun to realize something was amiss and was demanding they gave him protection on the boat that was to bring him back, and a guarantee that they’d not send planes or patrols after it.

  He’d done enough, Brevik said. It was risky getting to the transmitter in Harcourt’s office, and he’d supplied them with most of the contacts in Norway and the routes out. Now he wanted to get back to Norway, and claim his cash.

  Trouble was, with this Jewish expulsion, only Nazi-approved individuals were granted border zone permits, or were allowed to travel close to the borders with Sweden or Finland. So it would be hard to get him out of the country on false papers. And Brevik knew far too much about German espionage.

  Fehlis was right, he’d have to go. He couldn’t have a security risk on his watch, not now Terboven had an eye on him.

  He toyed with the paper a few moments longer, before telling Selma to send Brevik a coded message; Get next boat back. Will withhold fire. Will meet you. Advise date, time and landing destination.

  Once they had the landing destination they would make sure to meet him all right. He’d contact the coast patrols and get a warship put in the area to sink the boat and ensure there would be no survivors. Brevik was right; he’d done enough. It would give Falk great pleasure to sink boat and crew. He thought of Nystrøm for a moment. He’d rather hoped to hand him to the Stapo for interrogation, take him down a peg or two. Maybe he’d be on that next boat too.

  He shrugged. He didn’t care so much now. Not now he was friends with big Nazis like Fehlis and Terboven, and in control of the whole of Oslo’s Nazi police force. If Nystrøm was lost, so what? He was just collateral damage.