This Shining Land

by Rosalind Laker

  By the next post she received a letter from Steffen. She was so thankful to see it that her excited fingers could hardly tear away the censor’s resealing strip along the back. Spot checks were being made on the mail, presumably to ensure that no subversive plots were being hatched, and this caused some delay in delivery. She saw by the date that he had written to her on the same day as she had sent a letter to him at his aunt’s address in Ålesund. He must have been wary of a chance investigation of his letter, for it was as guarded in its own way as Anna’s had been, and as easy to read between the lines.

  Hello, Johanna. Greetings from the west coast. After the events of recent weeks it’s good to be getting back to normal. There’s nothing like farm work for making one feel fit. A few aching muscles at first but that was to be expected. Now it’s as if I had never been away from here. The harvest promises to be an excellent one this year. I’m looking forward to the time when you can get home for a visit. Don’t forget we have a date at Saeter Lake. I went fishing there yesterday and nothing has changed. I’ve missed you. It’s been far too long. Write to me. My regards to Anna and Viktor. Steffen.

  She laughed softly. Cleverly, he had chosen not to return to engineering, which would have drawn him at once into the German work force to do their bidding. Instead he had taken up farm work within easy distance of his home, an occupation least likely to be interfered with by the enemy, who would want the land to be as productive as possible and so would leave the husbandry of it to the farmers with a minimum of interference. Could he be at her parents’ farm? He had certainly been in contact with them to find out if she was still in the Alsteens’ house, and from Saeter Lake he could look right into the valley below where her home lay. Her mother had given no hint, but neither would she if it meant risking Steffen’s new guise as a farmhand.

  She wrote back to him at once. The reply came by hand in a most unexpected manner one warm August evening when she was sitting in the garden, still in the sundress she had changed into after coming home from work. She saw the silhouette of a tall man with the sun behind him coming across the lawn to her with a suitcase in his hand, and when she shaded her eyes she recognised her elder brother, Rolf. With a shout of joy she sprang up from her deck chair and ran to him, laughing in her pleasure and surprise. Lithe and lean with thick fair hair that flipped across his forehead, peaked brows over keen greyish-blue eyes, and a wide, energetic mouth, he was at heart the more serious of her two brothers with feelings that ran as deep as an underground stream. Nothing of that side of his character showed on this occasion as he laughed with her in their shared hug of greeting.

  “I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed delightedly. “However did you get here? How’s everybody at home? Mother and Father? And Erik?”

  He gave her immediate assurance that everyone was well. Then came the information that she had hardly dared to ask. “There’s a friend of yours helping out at the farm these days. You’ve heard from him, I believe.” He patted the pocket of his jacket. “I’ve another letter from him for you and others from Mother and friends in the neighbourhood. You know how it is in a country valley. Word that I had a permit to go to Oslo seemed to float through the air and within hours everyone was wishing me a good trip and sending greetings to you.”

  “Come into the house and I’ll make you some supper. The food won’t be much, I’m afraid. Rationing has begun to pinch hard and the bread is getting most peculiar in colour and taste. White flour is only for hospitals and the sick.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. Already things aren’t as you remember at the farm, although nothing like as difficult as it is for townspeople. There are Germans billeted in the hamlet of Ryendal; they’re there to keep order and ensure that local produce gets channelled in the right direction, which usually means to the cookhouses of the German Army.” He went with her into the house, his suitcase in his hand. “Mother has sent you some food. Butter and eggs and meat. She’s always thought you were too thin and now she keeps saying she’s afraid you’ll waste away.”

  They laughed together again at the old family joke, for their mother was as thin as a little bird herself. “Butter!” Johanna said appreciatively when it was unpacked. “I haven’t seen butter on the shop shelves for weeks. Now I want to hear how you were able to come and see me.”

  He told her he had managed to get a permit to travel to Oslo to receive confirmation of his new post at the school in the valley, for with the Germans arranging everything to their own authority, it had not been clear if the local educational board had the power to appoint him.

  “Normally I would have gone farther afield to a bigger school,” he said. “But when I came home after the conflict, a delegation of local people came to see me and ask if I would take over the school. They wanted someone they knew and whom they could trust to be in charge of their children. So I accepted.”

  “I’m glad. It means you can keep an eye on Mother and Father at the same time.”

  “The same thought had occurred to me.”

  They had a happy meal, although there were serious moments when he told her of those whom they had both known who had been killed, either in a bombing raid or on the battlefield, filling her with sadness. He told her that Steffen had been with the King’s own men throughout the campaign. The parting of ways had come towards the end when the royal party had reached Molde, which was not all that far from Ryendal on the opposite side of the fjord. The Luftwaffe, following its established pattern, bombed the little Town of Roses, as it was called, to the ground. Steffen had stood near the King and the Crown Prince, who had watched the bombing in grief by a tall birch tree, with the inhabitants of the town gathered in stunned groups to gaze at their homes going up in flames. The next day, while the town still smouldered, the King and the Crown Prince and the government ministers had sailed for Narvik in the north where the last stand had been made before they were forced to leave the country. The Norwegian troops, no place for them on the ship, had been told to join other units where they could. The men obeyed to the best of their ability, but in a matter of days it was all over. Steffen then went home to Ålesund to see his aunt, and afterwards presented himself at Ryen Farm for employment.

  “Steffen explained to Father that he needed time to lie low and wait to see what should be done next. He began work in the fields the same day and has been staying at the farm ever since.” Rolf smiled at her. “He’s lost no time. Already he has a group of men training in the mountains at week-ends. They have no arms except those that were buried when the Germans ordered the surrender of all weapons, even field guns used to pot a woodcock or a deer in the hunting season.”

  Her face was alight. “Do you mean that those weapons were buried for a purpose? As a means to fight on, in spite of what has happened?”

  He nodded. “Steffen’s group isn’t the only one. I’ve heard of others. Usually an experienced soldier from the campaign is in charge, although sometimes it’s just a gathering of men keeping fit in readiness for action in the future. The fight isn’t over, Johanna. It’s just beginning.” A look of concern came into his face as he saw her eyes fill with tears. “Hey! What’s the matter?”

  “I’m just so thankful to hear what you’ve told me. There’s been such an air of despair about everyone I meet. The only thing any of us have had to cling to has been the rallying call from the King in London. Now I know that sooner or later there’s bound to be a chance for me to join in this new revival of the fight to get our freedom back again.”

  He raised an eyebrow warily, his expression stern. “Hold back there. You’re my sister and I don’t want you involved in any trouble with the Germans. You remember that.”

  She saw she would make no headway against his brotherly protectiveness and decided not to protest that she was as able as any man to learn how to fire a gun and plot an ambush. It was as well that he did not know how she had already defied the Germans over the matter of Steffen’s car. In her own mind she was undeterred. Somehow and so
mewhere her chance would come. It was simply a matter of exercising patience for a while.

  When she was alone in her bedroom she read her letters, saving Steffen’s until last. With no danger of the censor’s interference, he had written freely of being at the farm and of his aunt’s wish to meet her at the first chance that came along. Then he told her what receiving her letter had meant to him and of how much he missed her. His words, tender and fond, created of the sheets of writing-paper she was holding a true love-letter. A yearning to be home again swept through her with new impetus, simply because he was there.

  Chapter 3

  Her brother was only able to stay overnight. He telephoned her at the fur shop from the railway station before he left the city to let her know that his appointment had been given the official stamp.

  “That’s splendid news,” she said enthusiastically. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  When she replaced the receiver and returned to her typing, one part of her mind seemed set on leaping ahead of him on the journey to their home far away on the west coast. With difficulty she wrenched her concentration back to the routine of the day.

  German officers had begun to drift into the shop, and the saleswomen hated serving them. “They’re so arrogant,” Sonja had exclaimed angrily on one occasion. “They come in expecting to be served before any civilian customer who happens to be here, and they have wads of Norwegian kroner to spend on gifts to send home to their women. Not that many ordinary people can come in any more. A coat or cape, fur or otherwise, these days takes too many precious clothing coupons.”

  There was a German officer in the salon that morning. He was seated in one of the velvet upholstered chairs while his Norwegian girlfriend was deciding which of the coats she was trying on he should buy her. Sonja was serving with a face of stone. The officer’s eyes slid down Johanna’s figure to her legs and lingered there until she entered Leif’s office and closed the door after her.

  Leif greeted her with his customary smile. “Before we get down to work there is something I would like to discuss with you. Are you still alone in the house at Grefsen?”

  “Yes.” She sat down in the chair opposite his desk, resting her hands in her lap. “I’ve no idea when the Alsteens will return for the reason I told you the other day.”

  “I remember. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t rented a room to anyone since then. You said how quiet it was there on your own.”

  “So it is, but it’s the Alsteens’ house, not mine. I know they would have been pleased that my brother stayed overnight. That’s a different matter entirely. I certainly wouldn’t have a stranger there in their absence.”

  “That’s what I thought. I also noticed that you kept quiet about the copy of the King’s speech that you found on your desk one day.”

  She answered him frankly. “It was my guess you had put it there and that the Germans weren’t going to be pleased about that kind of distribution. I was right about them and, I think, about you. Isn’t that so?”

  “Correct. Sonja was equally discreet. I consider myself to be a good judge of character and in your case and hers I’ve made no mistake. Do you have a good radio in your house? One that will pick up the broadcasts in Norwegian from the BBC? Not everyone can receive them, particularly in some parts of the country where reception from overseas is never satisfactory.”

  She was still mystified. “I listen to those broadcasts every evening.”

  “Then would you like to put that listening to a wider use by taking the newscasts down in shorthand and typing them up for me?”

  Enlightenment dawned. “Are they to be distributed as pamphlets?”

  “As news-sheets to be delivered once a week. This is not my own project, although I am behind the organisation of it. Later we hope to distribute two or three times a week, at least. Everything is still in the early stages. Some of the news-sheets will go out from here under Sonja’s supervision and there will be other outlets, but that part of the operation isn’t your concern.”

  “I’ll start this evening. There is a typewriter at the house that came from Viktor Alsteen’s goldsmith shop. I can use that.”

  “What about headphones? It’s a small precaution and yet a worthwhile one. If someone hostile should overhear by an unlucky chance, everything would be lost.”

  “I’ll do as you say.”

  The excitement of having been given this task was heightened by the special knowledge that here in the city certain members of the community were stirring, as they were in the forests and mountains in secret sessions of drilling and exercise. She felt her steps were lighter that day than they had been for a long time. This work would bridge the gap until something more vital came her way.

  That night, and for many nights afterwards, she sat wearing her headphones, the radio on its own table in front of her, a shorthand pad in her hand, and waited for the announcement that had already become familiar to her. “Dette er London!” This is London. Then the inspiring burst of music, which faded as the news in Norwegian began.

  She soon felt through this intense listening that she knew the announcers personally, able to tell by their regional dialects in which part of Norway they had been raised. Before long she thought of them as unseen friends.

  General war news and authentic accounts of happenings in her own country went down in pencil to be typed afterwards for the underground news-sheet, which had been entitled London Echo. She did not know where it was printed, but she guessed it was in a cellar or warehouse. Secrecy was vital.

  Through her headphones she followed in suspense the Battle of Britain. A handful of young Royal Air Force pilots were defying the might of the Luftwaffe in the skies above England. Well over a hundred enemy aircraft were brought down in a single September day. It was evident that Hitler was suffering his first defeat. To Johanna it was as if a beacon had been lit in the darkness, although it was only later she knew it was at this point that Hitler angrily jettisoned his plans to invade England, trusting that he would eventually compel surrender through heavy bombing and the cutting off of vital food supplies by sinking the Allied merchant fleets. The leading headline of the London Echo took Winston Churchill’s own words of tribute. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.

  Coinciding with the successful conclusion of the Battle of Britain, there was a kind of spontaneous rebirth of spirit throughout Norway that had evolved independently. It was almost as though with the coming of autumn and the crisper, invigorating days that followed, men and women had suddenly overcome the lethargy of gloom and despondency that had prevailed since the day of defeat, taking a lead from those already showing the way. Many underground news-sheets had appeared, edited and printed in secret hideouts and, like the London Echo which was growing in strength, graduated to being several pages long with a thrice weekly appearance.

  It had been particularly galling for the citizens of Oslo when Quisling had moved into the royal palace. Now it also housed the official headquarters of Hitler’s personal representative in Norway, Reichskommissar Josef Terboven. He was an arrogant, cold-blooded Nazi, a former gauleiter, and his aim was to see that Norway, once the occupation was complete, gave the fullest strategic and economic benefits to the German war effort while a minimum number of troops were kept in the country to ensure full control. He foresaw no problems.

  Then overnight, as if a silent signal had been passed from the southernmost tip of the land to the Arctic north, people were wearing paper clips on their collars and lapels as a sign of keeping together against the Germans. Invented in Norway and taken up by the rest of the world in calmer days, it was a totally Norwegian symbol that could be worn with special significance. Like the rest of the shop staff, Johanna wore one on her dress as well as her coat. The Germans soon became aggressive about this symbol. If they snatched off anyone’s paper clip in the shop, Johanna had a box in her office ready with replacements. Then the men began to secure a razor blade behind their lapels, and
after some painful experiences the Germans began to turn a blind eye to the eternal paper clips. Johanna saw a sergeant in the street lose the top of a finger in one such encounter.

  Other movements were afoot. From the start the Lutheran state church, backed by the other churches, had spoken out fearlessly against the Gestapo and the Nazi regime. It had come as a severe setback to Reichskommissar Terboven when the judges of the Supreme Court resigned en bloc in protest against his interference with the justice of the land. Sportsmen and athletes had made a defiant gesture of their own, refusing to join the Nazi Sports Association set up by the Germans and thus bringing competitive events to an end which, in a sports-mad country, was a great personal sacrifice, not least to those of Olympic standard. Fortunately every profession and trade had its own organisation by long tradition and this gave strength to opposition, nobody having to stand alone. Johanna, taking down the radio reports, shook her head sometimes at the Germans’ ham-fisted methods. They had failed completely to understand the character of the people they were trying to crush. It was not for nothing that over the centuries Norwegians had come to identify themselves with the staunchness of their own mountains.