This Shining Land

by Rosalind Laker

  THIS

  SHINING LAND

  Rosalind Laker

  © Rosalind Laker 1985

  Rosalind Laker has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1985 by Doubleday & Company, Inc.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  To my husband Inge of 331 Squadron,

  who met me at Bergen with flowers.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  On the morning of Monday April 8, 1940, Johanna Ryen bought her daily newspaper as usual on her way to work. After an Eastertide of sharp sunshine, which had done nothing to ease the bitter temperature, there was a strong wind blowing off Oslo Fjord and a swirl of new snow in the air. Spring was exceptionally late in coming, following a winter colder in neutral Scandinavia and war-torn Europe than had been known for many years. At the exclusive fur shop where she worked as secretary and bookkeeper, business had been brisk during the past few days with end-of-season bargains to be had, some customers wearing their purchases out of the shop to combat the weather.

  Tucking the newspaper under her arm, Johanna turned in the direction of Karl Johans Gate. At twenty-one she was a tall girl with a good figure and long, beautiful legs. Her hair, which swung glossily at shoulder length, was a dark gold echoed in fine brows, her eyes a sparkling blue. Recent skiing on the slopes of Nordmarka, which cradled the city, had given a tan to her subtly expressive face, almost as if sheer good health illumined her features from within. Completely at ease with herself, she always laughed readily and honestly. Her mouth, wide and generous, had little need of the lipstick that brightened it to a red that matched the warm woollen cap hugging her head.

  On her way up the wide avenue she passed some of the best shops and stores in the city. On one side lay the Parliament buildings and the Students’ Park that was linked with the nearby university; on the other was the Grand Hotel, which had changed little since the time when Henrik Ibsen had drunk an aperitif there every day at noon. At the head of Karl Johans Gate the royal palace stood on a rise in neoclassical splendour, its windows looking out over the busy centre to the new City Hall, the harbour, and the long fjord-estuary that brought shipping of every kind, from liners to fishing smacks, right to Oslo’s doorstep. There were no walls around the palace grounds to keep out the public. Two sentries of the royal guard in dark blue uniforms, their bowler-shaped headgear adorned by a side burst of plumage, kept a quiet eye on those walking past the royal residence and the equestrian statue of an earlier king, less well known and less liked than the respected monarch presently living there.

  Johanna had seen King Haakon several times. He strolled about the city like an ordinary citizen and in May, on National Day, he stood on the palace balcony to wave to the hundreds of children and students who went past in a procession of flags to the music of their own bands. Exceptionally tall and thin, looking stick-like enough to be blown away by a strong wind, he had shown many times by his actions that he was a resolute, high-principled man.

  Turning out of Karl Johans Gate, Johanna reached the fur shop. It had an elegant frontage that faced trees and the Victoria Terrasse, one of Oslo’s finest buildings with cupolas and finely wrought balconies. She entered the shop by the side door, collected the mail and went straight to her office. At the end of the passageway she could hear the salon coming to life as saleswomen made ready for the day ahead. After hanging up her coat and hat, she took a quick glance at the headlines on her newspaper. There had been another big naval battle between British and German warships. Otherwise, apart from some air skirmishes, there seemed to be a curious stalemate to the war in Europe. She was thankful her country was not involved in the conflict. Norway, together with Sweden and Denmark, was resolved that Scandinavian neutrality should be maintained as it had been in the Great War, although that did not mean that she or anyone else in the three nations was indifferent to the plight of those dragged into war by the whim of a violent dictator. She had been greatly distressed by the suffering of the Polish people during the time of the blitzkrieg, when Warsaw had been reduced to ruins.

  Putting aside the newspaper, she settled down at her desk to work. As always after a weekend there was a lot of mail to go through, and it included some overseas orders. The export side of the business was of particular importance to her, for it enabled her to use her knowledge of English, which had been a normal part of her school curriculum, and French and German, which she had studied in college. Unfortunately, since the outbreak of hostilities between the Allied and Axis powers orders had been curtailed from the countries involved, and Paris no longer received large shipments of the handsome collars, cuffs, and other fur adornments of Norse origin that had embellished its haute couture. Somehow, to Johanna, it symbolized more than anything else the shadow that had been thrown over all that was artistic and civilized by the Nazis’ ruthless brutality.

  Around the walls of Johanna’s office were framed designs from earlier decades, the sketched figures in furs wearing the wide feathered hats of her mother’s youth or the cloche hats down to the eyebrows that belonged to her own childhood. They all had a certain charm, particularly the evening furs worn with beaded headbands. These days the garments were not made on the site as they had been in the past. The making up was done in modern, fully equipped premises elsewhere in Oslo where a dedicated work force was well paid for the superb garments they created.

  When some papers were ready for her employer’s attention, Johanna left her desk and went through to the salon to reach his office, which opened out of that domain. Two customers were being served. Sonja Holm, the head saleswoman, who was also a friend, came across with a sales slip for her.

  “I’ll see to it as soon as I can, Sonja,” Johanna promised. Normally she liked the chance to linger in the grey-carpeted salon with its tapestry panels, where the splendid furs were displayed. Silver fox was currently the height of fashion as it had been for some time past, and not only for full-length garments—it being the mode to wear one or two skins, complete with head and tail, around the shoulders and fastened with a silken cord. There was also great demand among the extremely rich for ermine capes, which were the shop’s speciality. Lynx and blue fox were glamorous furs, much favoured by film stars, and white fox was usually kept for evening wraps and considered a “young fur” and not for older women.

  One display, which was not for sale, was a spread across one wall of polar bear skins, white and opulent. Johanna could never look at them without a feeling of sadness, thinking of a wild, lost freedom in the ice-green waters of Spitsbergen. It was the same with the other furs not specially bred for the furrier’s trade. In particular she pitied the little ermine. If only it did not change colour to white with the coming of the snows, as did the Arctic fox, the hare and ptarmigan, it would have stayed in its natural habitat and never fallen victim to the trappers’ snares.

  Leif Moen, her employer, was not seated at his desk when she entered his office. Instead he stood by the window, examining one of several white fox skins unpacked from a box on a side table. The decor of his office complemented that of the salon in the same shaded hues. On his wide polished desk were silver-framed photographs of his wife and three children.

  “Good morning, Johanna,” he greeted her, replacing the skin with t
he rest before coming across to his chair at the desk. “What have you brought me? Ah, yes, that particular order has been delayed, and we must get the rest of these in hand immediately.”

  She liked working with him. He was a conscientious man who took a personal interest in each one of his employees, many of the sewing hands in the workshop having been with him since he had inherited the business from his father some years earlier. With the exception of imported Russian sable, South American chinchilla and other such furs, the skins used were of Norwegian origin, a link with his grandfather who had been a trapper in northern Norway and whose sepia-tinted photograph showed him to have been a rough, bearded fellow—a far cry from his immaculately groomed grandson with the smooth greying hair and well-cut features.

  After some time in his office Johanna returned to her own desk, collecting the queried sales slip from Sonja on the way. Working against the clock, she did not look up when her friend opened the door inquiringly a little later. Instead Johanna reached for the sales slip that had been dealt with and held it out automatically. “It’s done,” she said, her mind barely detached from the task in hand.

  “I haven’t come for that. It’s lunchtime. Aren’t you ready?” Sonja glanced at herself in the mirror on the wall. She had a round and lively face, and had been told more than once that she bore a resemblance to the three-time Olympic skating gold medalist and Hollywood film star, Sonja Henie. It rather amused her. She could see no likeness herself, although there was no doubt that her dimpled smiles helped her sales, and she was an excellent saleswoman. Older than Johanna by five years, she was married to an officer in the merchant fleet, and as he was away at sea for long periods at a time she was glad to keep working.

  Johanna sat back in her chair with a rueful sigh. “I had completely forgotten the time. I can’t join you today. I’m literally up to my eyes. I’m going to use a short lunch-break to buy some groceries that I need. My landlady and her invalid husband are on vacation, so I’m catering for myself.”

  “Where have the Alsteens gone?”

  “To Anna Alsteen’s sister and brother-in-law in Drammen. It’s a complete rest for Anna there, which is what she needs. She gets very tired at times nursing her husband night and day, although she would never admit to it.”

  Sonja knew Drammen well. It was a picturesque little town south-west of Oslo; flags always flew on the bridge leading into it. “Isn’t Viktor Alsteen any better?”

  “I’m afraid not. The stroke he suffered some years ago made a complete invalid of him. Anna’s brother-in-law is in the medical profession and is the only one to whom she will entrust Viktor out of her sight for any length of time. It does both the Alsteens good to be there. Apart from Anna’s getting time to herself, Viktor regains a modicum of independence in male company again. They both come back refreshed.”

  “When do you expect them home again this time?”

  “Not for another two weeks.”

  Johanna did not say that she liked having the house to herself, for that would have seemed disloyal to the Alsteens, of whom she was extremely fond. When she had first arrived in Oslo, a stranger in need of accommodation, they had welcomed her into their home and within a short time had become good friends. It was just that there was a true sense of freedom in coming and going without having to account to anyone, and there were times when good-natured Anna’s kindly concern bordered closely on interference. The Alsteens had no financial need to rent a room to her, for Viktor had been a prosperous goldsmith with his own business on Prinsens Gate before his illness. A quiet and dignified man, small in stature, he was patient and uncomplaining in his infirmity, comforted by the intensely maternal attitude of his wife, to whom he had now become child instead of husband. Had they had children, Anna might not have cut herself off from everything else to devote all her time to him. That was why they both liked to have a young person in the house, bringing in the outside world to their quiet and closeted existence.

  When Johanna’s exceptionally busy day came to an end she was glad to catch the tram home, the bag of groceries balanced on her hip as she followed other passengers on board in time to get a seat. With a clang of its bell the tram rattled away from Stortorvet, the large market-place, passed the cathedral, and followed the lines that would take it out to the terminal in the suburb of Grefsen. Large stores gave way to hardware shops, shiningly hygienic dairies, and bakeries with a gilded kringler bread roll suspended over the doorway. Confectioners displayed scarlet-and-gold boxes of King Haakon chocolates, and the milliners’ windows were filled with fashionably wide-brimmed hats. A black hat with a floppy brim had been one of Johanna’s first purchases after her arrival in the city. Since then, over the past fourteen months she had built up a wardrobe of smart clothes which she wore with flair.

  Her thoughts drifted. It was strange to remember now that riding on an Oslo tram had once been a novelty to her. On the farm where she was born there had been no spare money for travel, and she had never been on a train until the day she finally left home to take the long steamship ride up the Romsdal Fjord to Åndalsnes at the head of it, where the nearest railway was located. To those who lived on the mountainous fjord-riven west coast, the ferries were the same as trams to Oslo folk. In spite of the hard times of the late twenties and early thirties she had had a happy childhood in Ryendal, a valley of small farms where the community was like one family. In summer she had run barefoot and in winter she had always been on skis and skates, spoiled from birth by her father and two older brothers, but disciplined constantly and severely by her mother. There were times now when she wondered how two people as entirely different in character as her parents had ever made a match together. Never once had she seen them kiss or embrace, although her father was such an affectionate man, always enjoying a joke and good company. Yet the two of them had provided a stable background, and she had loved life on Ryen Farm.

  It had not been easy to break away from home, first of all to attend college in the nearby fjord town of Molde and then to come south to Oslo, but she had needed to make a career for herself, to expand and be as independent as her brothers and find out about living. She had learned a great deal since coming to Oslo and was confident that there was no situation, amorous or otherwise, that she could not handle. For a while there had been a certain man in her life who had mattered more than the rest. It had come to nothing. She had no regrets.

  The tram had left behind the concrete blocks of modern apartments, and older timbered buildings of mellow charm were giving way to the suburb of Grefsen. More like a country area than the precincts of a city, it spread out in gentle slopes and shallow dales. Trees and orchards gave privacy to the two-storied pastel-hued wooden houses set amid lawns and flowerbeds where as yet only the snowdrops had managed to defy the inclement weather.

  “Grefsen!” the driver-conductor called out.

  Johanna alighted in the throng of dispersing passengers and ran across the main road to reach the gravelled lane that would take her to the Alsteens’ house. Beyond some trees it came into sight, a sturdily built residence painted apple-green with blossoming plants in the lace-curtained windows which she kept watered in Anna’s absence.

  As she opened the front door she paused briefly on the threshold in a moment of surprise. There was the unmistakable scent of coffee lingering in the air. Her first thought was that her landlady and husband had cut short their vacation and returned home. Then she immediately dismissed the notion of their return, for the house was in darkness. There was only one person other than herself who would be equally at home in the Alsteens’ house, and his arrival was not welcome at the present time. Snapping on the light in the pine-panelled hall, she called up the stairs just in case the visitor was in his rented room.

  “Anyone at home?”

  There was no reply. She went through to the kitchen and switched on more lights, the yellow and white neatness there gleaming brightly. The coffee-pot on the cooker was still warm. Two cups and saucers had been washed
and left upside down on the draining board. The visitor had brought his own guest into the house. She picked up the note propped against the salt cellar. The masculine writing was strong and purposeful.

  Hello, Johanna Ryen. I’m here for a few days. I gather the Alsteens are away. Maybe we’ll meet sometime. I have taken the spare key from under the mat. Steffen Larsen.

  With a heavy sigh she tore the note across. After her busy day she felt particularly unsociable and not ready to share the house with a stranger known only to her as “the Englishman.” She was newly arrived in Oslo when she first heard the explanation for his nickname.

  “I’ve called him ‘the Englishman’ ” Viktor had said in his thin, dry voice, every word an effort, “ever since he first came here. See that photograph.” He had flicked the frail, colourless fingers of his stronger right hand in the direction of the enlarged snapshot framed on the sitting-room wall. “It was taken at Henley Regatta, when he was sculling for Oxford during his university days in England. There’s nothing more English than that. Tea and cucumber sandwiches on the lawn and straw boaters and pretty hats. Oh yes, he is ‘the Englishman.’ ” From that day forward Viktor had repeated his little joke countless times, always with the same husky chuckle as if he had never recounted it before.

  Leaving the kitchen, she went into the sitting-room where she refuelled the ashes in the wood-burning stove with logs from a basket. The flames flared up and flickered through the grille, touching on the fine antiques, rare porcelains, and some eighteenth-century silver bowls that Viktor had collected during his goldsmith days. The glow reached the row of Anna’s girlhood skiing trophies in a display cabinet. There were few homes in Norway that did not have at least one or two of these from local, national or international contests. Not for nothing was it said that for the past four thousand years Norwegians had been born with skis on their feet. Her gaze turned to the photograph of “the Englishman.” He was grinning cheerfully in anticipation of victory in the long, slender skiff, strong hands waiting on the oars, broad and muscular in shorts and a white top, dark hair blowing about his head, bare knees large as hams.