This Shining Land

by Rosalind Laker

  In the doorway Steffen and Johanna faced each other, she poised to go out into the night. “Good luck, Jo,” he said evenly.

  Briefly their gaze held, each able to see how greatly the gap had widened between them.

  With flashlights to show the way home, brother and sister hurried back across the plateau and began the descent to the valley. Steffen would be guiding Delia down another route in the direction of Ålesund. At the farmhouse, everyone else was asleep. Although tired, Johanna had to make preparations for the morning, packing an overnight case and going through her wardrobe to decide what would match up with the general attire of the women of Oslo. It was enabling her to keep thoughts of Steffen at bay. Her whole concentration had settled on her assignment as if it were an anchor to steady her.

  Eventually she chose a dark blue suit that was neat and trim, teaming it with a polka-dotted scarf. In spite of hardships, Oslo women were maintaining their standards, and if stockings were almost entirely darns, gloves mended and shoes patched, it did not detract from their general appearance. There were more ways than one in which to defy the German attempts to demoralise.

  In the morning she had to contend with questions from her mother as to why she had made this plan to go to Oslo without mentioning it. She made an excuse that she had become so used to living her own life away from home that she did not always think about explaining her movements. In this case she was going to visit her former employer to talk over the future. Gina said no more. She could always tell when her children had affairs of their own that they wished to conduct privately and she had suffered too much from the inquisitiveness and domination of her late mother-in-law not to allow them their independence.

  Johanna got a lift from home on the milk truck. Ryen Farm was the last call the driver made for the churns left on small platforms at the side of the lane, and she rode with him to the dairy, which was located near the jetty. The steamship from Ålesund came in on time. On board, as she sailed up the fjord to Åndalsnes, she was reminded of seeing Steffen when she had made the voyage in reverse at her home-coming. Their relationship had become complicated and stressful and yet a new bond had been formed through their Resistance comradeship that had nothing to do with personal feelings.

  She disembarked at Åndalsnes in good time to catch the overnight train, which had not yet come in from the north. When she bought a newspaper she was dismayed to read of the extent of the arrests in Oslo. It was as if the strike had been a long-awaited signal for the Gestapo to run amok. People from all walks of life had been taken from their homes and their places of work. It was as if Reichskommissar Terboven had decided that this should be a final crushing, an example to bring the rest of the nation to heel at last.

  The train was crowded with military and she did not get a seat. She sat on her overnight suitcase all the way. Under emergency restrictions in view of the strike crisis, civilians were not allowed to leave the train at any stop unless it was their place of destination.

  The conductor, looking harassed, had to face armed guards coming aboard at each halt, and during the journey Johanna had to show her papers nine times, sometimes snapped out of a doze by a barked order from grim-faced, helmeted men relishing their authority. Not for the first time she thought the general harassment and constant interference in the normal and mundane run of life was as heavy a burden as anything that could have been deliberately contrived to lower and debilitate the stamina of a people.

  When the train drew into the platform at Oslo, she felt alarm at the number of armed guards who stood watching the carriages slowing to a halt. She had never seen so many there before. Among them were some of the dreaded Hird, Quisling’s Norwegian Nazi stormtroopers who were hated as much as the collaborators and informers frequently responsible for delivering people into their clutches.

  The train halted with a hiss and a jerk. Johanna lined up to get off with a wedge of passengers before and behind her. When her turn came to go through the open door she saw that some of the stormtroopers had closed into a semicircle through which she would have to pass. Concealing the great leap of fear that had sent her heart hurtling against her ribs, she made to alight. In the same instant a quietly dressed man behind her, who had been her neighbour throughout the journey, gave her a huge thrust in the back that sent her flying forward to fall against the nearest stormtrooper. He pushed her from him with an angry exclamation, sending her crashing down on her knees. Amid the noise and uproar that followed she saw her fellow passenger making a run for it, guards and stormtroopers in pursuit. Full of pity for him, she bore him no grudge for the bruises she had received. He did not get far. As he was dragged away the rest of the guards returned to their surveillance of the passengers as if nothing had happened.

  She tidied herself up in the women’s room. Both her knees were grazed and her carefully darned stockings ruined beyond further repair. Fortunately she had another pair in her suitcase. They were thick lisle and irreplaceable, a far cry from the silk stockings that had once enhanced her long legs and slim ankles. After brushing the dust from her coat and adjusting the brim of her hat, she felt ready to emerge.

  She checked her suitcase in the depot and left the railway station. It had been little more than three months since she was last in Oslo. In spite of the bright autumn day the city looked gloomy to her. If anything, there seemed to be more German eagles vying with the swastika for space on the buildings. There was also a new flag, with the sun cross of Quisling’s Nazi party, and these were in abundance around a building she had to pass to reach the stop where she would catch a tram. A rally of Norwegian Nazis was being held there. A banner outside bore the slogan: Forward with Quisling for Norway, and there were colourful recruiting posters on display. The officials at the door, as well as many of those entering the doors, were wearing the brown shirt, black tie and cross-strap that had been adopted as the uniform of Quisling’s own party. It was a fact that he was drawing people of a certain type and character to him, and although they were a minority of the population, it was a dangerous one. Propaganda leaflets were being thrust into the hands of passers-by, and she managed to avoid taking one.

  Otherwise the paper clip was everywhere, worn in some cases more discreetly than before, due to the heavy fines that had been imposed for wearing it. On the tram the same bitter game of moving seats away from any German passenger was still in force. Johanna had no need to change seats, being between an elderly woman and a postman off duty.

  She alighted from the tram at a stop not far from the entrance to Vigeland Park. Without hesitation she turned into the tree-lined street where the apartment block was to be found. It proved to be a plain building with a balcony to each apartment, planted boxes nodding blossoms over the edge of every one. She pushed open the glass door and went up the stone stairs. There was no lift. On the third floor she found the door of Number 7. The name in the slot was commonplace. She rang the bell. There was no response.

  She was about to ring it a second time when there came the sound of cars squealing to a halt outside. A gasp of fright escaped her. Nobody except the enemy had vehicles to treat like that. As the entrance doors crashed open at street level, there came the noise of booted feet ascending the stairs. Johanna darted away from the apartment and up the next flight to the floor above. There she paused to listen, her pulse racing. She had been just in time. The door she had just left was being pounded by heavy fists and the bell pressed urgently.

  “Open up!”

  Those demanding admission were not prepared to wait. A sharp order brought a lunge of shoulders to burst open the door. In a once peaceful city where locks had not been designed for that kind of forced entry, it was a matter of seconds before it gave. Johanna peeped cautiously over the balusters to see if there was any chance of slipping past unnoticed, but those who had entered the apartment had left two of their number outside. There would be more at the street level entrance. They were Gestapo S.S. As she drew back, a sergeant returned briefly to give further instruc
tions to the two men at the door.

  “He’s got away. Check every apartment and see if you can find someone able to give us information. Take the upper floors first.”

  Johanna instinctively spun around and went up another flight. She must not let them question her presence in the building. In the mood that prevailed she could be taken into custody simply for failing to satisfy them as to her reason for being in a place where subversive activity had been uncovered. As she reached the landing she saw that one of the apartment doors stood open and a child aged about four, quaint and button-nosed, was waiting in outdoor clothes, holding a rubber ball.

  “Are you going to play in the park?” Johanna asked her quickly.

  The child nodded. “Mama is coming too.”

  At that moment the young mother came out of the apartment and pulled the door shut behind her. At the sight of a stranger on the landing she raised her eyebrows inquiringly. “Were you looking for someone?” Then, attracted by the commotion two floors below and the door-thumping of the men at the apartment doors, she leaned over the railings to take a look. “Do you know what’s going on down there?” she asked in almost the same breath.

  “The Gestapo has broken into one of the apartments.”

  “Oh dear.” The woman blanched, drawing back.

  Johanna took a desperate chance. “Would you let me walk to the park with you and your daughter?” she requested urgently. “What’s her name?”

  There came an even deeper look of alarmed comprehension, but almost automatically the mother gave the child a pat. “Tell the lady your name.”

  The reply came shyly with hung head. “Margit.”

  Johanna stooped down to her. “May I hold your hand when we go downstairs? That would make me feel like one of the family.”

  “Yes.” There was a nodding that made the woollen bobble on the child’s knitted hat dance up and down. “You can hold the ball as well if you like.” It was held out.

  Johanna took it between both her hands and, still crouched down, looked up at the parent in silent appeal. For an agonisingly suspenseful moment the woman poised on the point of snatching up the child and disappearing behind a closed door. It might have gone that way if little Margit, impatient to get out, had not darted to the head of the steep flight. Maternally protective, the woman rushed to take the child by the arm. Facing Johanna, she gulped and nodded.

  “Very well. Don’t tell me your name or why you’re here. I don’t want to know. When we reach the park please go away.”

  “I will.”

  Johanna talked with the child as they went hand in hand down the stairs, the mother following behind. The two S.S. men, jackbooted and black-uniformed, were turning away from an apartment door being closed by an occupant.

  “Wait! Which apartment are you from?”

  The mother answered, drawing level with Johanna. “Number 12.”

  “Do you know the man Hansen who lives at Number 7?”

  “No. The apartment only changed hands a short while ago. I don’t think I’ve ever set eyes on him.”

  The questioner switched to Johanna. “What about you?”

  “I’ve never seen him either.”

  The man’s eyes went from her to the mother and back again. Then a curt nod permitted them to pass. A glance in the doorway of Number 7 as the three of them went by showed that it was being ransacked. In the entrance hall an S.S. man posted by the glass door watched them come down the stairs. Vehicles parked outside were similarly attended. The mother had become increasingly nervous and to hide the shaking of her hands she thrust them into the pockets of her coat. Johanna opened the door for her and Margit to go through.

  “Achtung!” It was the guard in the hallway, who had stepped forward to halt them on the very threshold of getting outside. Johanna and the woman froze. Then they turned. The man’s leather-gloved finger was pointing to a child’s mitten dropped on the marble floor. With a gulp of acknowledgement, the mother went back to snatch it up. As they went outside she pushed it back onto her daughter’s hand, not far from tears in the release of emotional tension. Stifled choking sounds came from her throat as the three of them walked hand in hand to the park, Margit dancing along in the middle.

  Inside the park, Johanna played ball with the child for a few minutes, dropping out as the mother took over. She knew how glad the woman would be to see her go, but for her part she would always be grateful for a kindness shown in an hour of great need. Leisurely she wandered on through the park, needing a respite to recover from the traumatic experience she had been through. The park was familiar to her. Peopled by statues created by Gustav Vigeland depicting every age and emotion of mankind, it was as yet unfinished, and in his Oslo studio not far away the sculptor worked with the same dedication as Munch, with whom he had once shared a mistress. By the tall white granite monolith that dominated the park, Johanna sat down on a seat. Her next move must be to go to the fur shop and surrender the package to Leif Moen. She felt intense disappointment that she had not been able to fulfil her assignment directly. A man had taken a seat on the same park bench and opened a newspaper. A page slipped and fell to the ground almost at her feet.

  “Excuse me, frøken,” he said, leaning down to pick it up. “Everything has become mixed up today.”

  Her gaze sharpened on him. He was youngish with an Oslo intonation. “Is that so?” she remarked cautiously.

  He nodded, folding the newspaper together again. “Due to an unexpected change of plan, I had to leave my apartment to meet someone off the night train at Østbane station, but I missed her.”

  “Oh? Where was she coming from?” She had to be certain this was not a mere fluke of conversation.

  “Åndalsnes, but she doesn’t live there.”

  Now she was convinced this was her contact. Casually she launched into what she would have said if he had opened the door of the apartment to her. “I’m looking for the Hauge family. I wonder if you could tell me where I might find them?”

  He gave her word for word the reply rehearsed by Steffen. “Do you mean Frederik and Solveig Hauge by any chance?”

  “No, I don’t. My friends are Rolf and Jenny of the same surname.”

  At this point he would have invited her to step into the apartment and look up their names in a directory. He slid the neatly folded newspaper into his pocket. “Jenny, eh?” he said, repeating the special password. Then he added quietly, “Put the package by the Vigeland sculpture of the mother with the braided hair playing with her child. I’ll be watching to pick it up. One more thing. As a precautionary measure, avoid going to the fur shop. The Gestapo, aided by informers and collaborators, have launched an all-out campaign to break up our resistance network. We don’t know yet whose names are on their suspect lists, except,” he added on a wry note, “it is more than apparent that mine is included. I must get away as soon as I have the package. Good day to you, frøken.” He got up from the bench and strolled away.

  After remaining seated for another minute or two, she stood up in her turn. There was only one place where she could unobtrusively remove the package from its seclusion inside her clothing. Behind a locked door in the women’s public lavatory she unfastened the buttons of her blouse and drew out the package, which she had sewn into a piece of cotton and suspended from a tape around her neck. This time she kept the package in her hand, tucked behind her purse, when she went out into the autumnal sunshine again. As it was a weekday, there were few adults in the park. Most of those were elderly folk and women with young children. Her unknown contact was the only male adult in sight when she mounted the steps of the monolith to slide the package in the allotted place. By the time she had wandered right round the monolith, looking up at the hundreds of sculptured figures that made it curiously alive, he and the package were gone.

  Back in the street she walked until she came to a telephone kiosk, having decided to ring Leif Moen, which seemed a suitable compromise. If a strange voice answered she would hang up. It was a rel
ief when he came at once onto the line. In case his telephone was being tapped, she spoke evasively, saying she wouldn’t be coming in that day.

  “I understand,” he replied evenly. “I’m relieved to know that all is well with you.”

  “Please give my regards to your wife.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  Neither could risk saying anything more to the other.

  When she had replaced the receiver, she looked at her watch. There was the whole afternoon left before she need go to the railway station for the overnight train. She would ride out to Grefsen, take a look at the Alsteens’ house, and check that all inside was in order. Afterwards she would catch the tram back into the city again with plenty of time to spare.

  She did not have long to wait for a tram to come along. As it took her down Karl Johans Gate she saw arrests being made as people were bundled into trucks and driven away. When she came level with the side street where the fur shop was located, she was relieved to see that all was quiet and there was no sign of Gestapo activity there.

  It was strange riding out to Grefsen again. As she left the terminal she could see the roof of the house showing through the distant trees. She set off up the lane as she had done so many times in the past. When she came near she slowed her quick pace, dismayed to see a military car parked in the driveway, and an open window showed that someone was in the house.

  “Johanna!”

  She turned to see a neighbour descending a ladder from picking apples in the orchard that flanked the Alsteens’ fence. Opening the gate, Johanna went through to her. “Hello, Fru Kringstad. Can you tell me what’s happening next door?”

  “I can indeed. Come indoors with me.”

  Johanna was made welcome with a glass of carefully hoarded homemade wine that dated back to the summer before the invasion. Over it she learned that the Alsteens’ house had been confiscated as Jewish property. A high-ranking Wehrmacht officer had moved in a month ago and made it his living quarters.