This Shining Land

by Rosalind Laker

  “I’ve no idea.” She turned her head to answer him. “From what I read it seems they are to be let out a few at a time. None of that matters as long as he comes home again. He’ll have to find another school. The teacher who took his place can’t be thrown out on his ear just because Rolf is to be freed.” She was quietly enjoying the drive. The countryside was steeped in late autumn hues, the wild cranberries still there for the picking, lying like rubies amid gnarled tree roots, while the wild and barren mountains lay under a cloud-streaked sky. “Why do you have an apartment in Ålesund when you could live out here all the week?”

  “I took the apartment when I had no car. The wood-burner was too much like hard work for daily travel. No, it suits me to be in town all the week. I wouldn’t want my house to become a permanent residence for my German acquaintances. They might start staying on if I were there all the time. I want to keep things the way they are.”

  She could have said that nothing stayed the same for long during a war. Everything changed constantly, from the prices that continued to soar for every commodity to the people themselves. Many were adapting to the new regime, not always through choice, merely wanting to call a halt to the German reprisals against their communities and to the shedding of blood. Some were against the Resistance for that reason only, even to the point of believing it was their moral duty not to hide what they knew when questioned. Such honesty was as deadly in its own way as vindictive betrayals by collaborators.

  Tom’s voice broke into her thoughts. “We’re nearly there.”

  She had expected the house to look smaller than she remembered it, knowing that in childhood memories proportions were invariably exaggerated. At the first sight of it she was surprised to discover it in no way diminished. Built in the late eighteenth century by a Trondheim-born ancestor of Tom’s late wife, it was reputed to be a copy of a house in the cathedral city that had won a competition among three rich women as to which of them could build the most beautiful residence. From a distance it might have been carved from ivory, with its filigreed ornamentation over windows and doorways and the graceful sweep of the horseshoe flight of steps to the entrance. When the car drew up outside, the fact that it was timber-built was much in evidence and made it at home with its setting of forest slope and water.

  “It’s as if it were yesterday that I was here,” she exclaimed, getting out of the car and looking up at the house. “It’s still like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “Come on in.” He took her overnight bag and his own from the back seat. Purposely he had managed to avoid having anyone else come this weekend, for he wanted her to have time to look around and decide what should be done.

  She paused on the horseshoe flight to look at the view of the fjord’s inlet and the slopes beyond. A wooded island lay offshore and a sailing boat was moored alongside a couple of rowing boats. The house could not have been located in a more idyllic setting. Indoors she found that much of the furniture was of the same period as the house and kept to the rooms where time-faded murals enhanced the walls with pastoral scenes or simply white clouds floating against a shaded sky. Chests, cupboards and chairs were painted and decorated with the old patterns known as rose-painting; the ceiling of one room was entirely covered with these designs, while the floors were of white pine with the knots gleaming like pieces of embedded amber. The rooms led one into another like stage settings for Hedda Gabler. Tom went ahead of Johanna, throwing open double doors, pleased by her appreciation of all she saw. The most lived-in part of the house was furnished comfortably in a style fashionable in the early thirties when Tom’s wife had still been alive.

  “I use the old rooms for parties,” Tom told her.

  “I can tell that. There are wine and grease stains on those lovely floors.”

  He spread his hands expressively. “That’s what I told you. This place needs proper supervision.”

  “Where’s your housekeeper?”

  “In the kitchen, I expect. I let her know we were coming.”

  There was no one in the well-appointed kitchen, which was far from clean. Johanna went out through the kitchen porch. The housekeeper was in a sun chair in a sheltered corner, her eyes closed, her skirts to her thighs as she attempted to deepen the tan of her legs in the last rays of the late September sun. Her age was no more than nineteen or twenty. Johanna set her arms akimbo and looked over her shoulder at Tom with a wry glance.

  “Did you appoint her for her cooking or her legs?”

  He grinned, unabashed. “Her mother does the cooking at the weekends.”

  “Go and give her a week’s wages in lieu of notice. I’ll see what I can rustle up for us to eat after I’ve taken a look upstairs.”

  From a bedroom window she watched the girl depart, irate and red-faced, a bulging suitcase in one hand and a carrier bag full of belongings in the other. Johanna’s inspection of the upper floor ended in the housekeeper’s bedroom. Holding her breath at the stale atmosphere, she went to the windows and opened them wide. As she came out again, closing the door behind her on the littered room, she met Tom coming up the stairs with his hand luggage and hers. “Have you chosen your bedroom?” he asked her.

  She gave a nod. “The one at the end.”

  He dropped his hand baggage outside the door of his own room and carried hers along to her choice of accommodation. She had selected it because it had access to a balcony above a verandah and in an emergency she could climb down. Her whole outlook had become geared to observing and thinking ahead, an awareness of danger always with her.

  “It’s not very large,” he said doubtfully. “I’m hoping you will be here often, so I want you to be happy with it.”

  “It’s fine.”

  In the kitchen she had no difficulty in finding the ingredients for a good meal. Tom had told her he received extra rations for the entertaining of his German guests and the evidence was there in abundance. It went against her whole nature to be extravagant in any way in present times and she made a simple and economical meal. Tom praised it highly.

  “I still wish I could persuade you to run this place.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “I told you, that’s out.”

  “Then you’ll have to find me someone as practical as yourself.” His ultimatum, given in jovial tones, was nevertheless on a serious level. He knew there had been hopeless mismanagement in the kitchen and it was inevitable that in time the extra rations for collaborating personnel in his position would be reduced. From his Wehrmacht friends he had learned that Hitler was convinced the Allies would attempt to invade Norway sooner or later and reinforcements had brought the number of troops stationed on Norwegian soil to two hundred and fifty thousand. It was likely that more would come. There would have to be cut-backs, and the Wehrmacht would be the last to feel the pinch.

  “I’ll see you get a good housekeeper, don’t worry about that.” She knew Gunnar was looking out for a woman with Resistance sympathies willing to wait on Germans. He was being selective about his choice, for he had to be sure of getting one prepared to support her in an emergency.

  After they had eaten, Tom lit a log fire in the open corner hearth of the sitting room against the chill of the evening. The birch logs, set vertically, blazed and crackled cheerfully. She browsed through his collection of books while listening to the radio. As a collaborator he was allowed to have as many radios as he wished.

  The next morning she went for a walk on her own. By following the inlet she came within sight of a fishing village reflected in the water of the cove. She could just discern the German sentry on the jetty. That uniform was everywhere.

  At her suggestion, Tom agreed that nobody should be invited to the house during the renovations and redecorations she deemed necessary. Through his authority it was not difficult to organise army transport for the gang of cleaning women from the office buildings to be driven out to the house daily after their earlier work was done. Gradually the nicotine film was wiped away from the wall murals and sp
lendidly decorated ceilings, and every stain removed from the ancient floors. One weekend, armed with some special paints she had unearthed from a store cupboard, Johanna herself obliterated the cigarette burns in the old painted furniture with painstaking care, following the twirls of leaves and roses with the fine tip of a brush. She was doing it out of love for the house and its beautiful, time-aged furnishings, not for Tom. Such things were part of the heritage that was freedom to her.

  Her restoration work was left in abeyance on the weekend she went home to see Rolf. He was among the last of the imprisoned teachers to be released and she had already spoken to him on the telephone. Tom, who had come to expect her to be with him every weekend for the time being, was magnanimous about her absence. “I’ll give you a bottle of champagne for the family celebration,” he said generously.

  Her eyes told him he had blundered. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be accepted, Tom.”

  He shrugged uncomfortably, still able to feel a twinge of humiliation at being rejected by his own kin. “I wish Rolf well, anyway. I don’t bear grudges.”

  To Karen the homecoming of Erik’s brother was particularly poignant. He was thin, having lost a great deal of weight, even though rations for the teachers had improved during their wait for transport home, and prison conditions had eased, making life bearable if still far from pleasant. Seeing him again after such a long absence, she caught expressions across his eyes and in his broad smiles that reminded her searingly of Erik. The fact that Rolf was leaner in the face heightened a likeness she had never noticed before, and her eyes were ever on him for the will-o’-the-wisp resemblance that came and went elusively.

  She was happy to witness the reunion between him and his sister. It was as if they had reverted to childhood, hugging each other and laughing and teasing. Her opinion had always been that all three Ryen offspring had inherited the warmth in their nature from Edvard. His good humour had been restored since he had begun carrying out a few light tasks, and he was full of talk about all he would do on the farm when spring came again. There was none of that liveliness in Gina’s make-up, although she was smiling one of her shy smiles at the general exuberance.

  “What happens now, Rolf?” Johanna asked him when the initial excitement was over and they were gathered around the coffee table.

  “I’ve been offered a school in Ålesund. I start after the Christmas holiday.”

  “Then I’ll be seeing something of you.”

  “You certainly will.”

  In the midst of the exchange of talk, Gina, refilling coffee cups, happened to see from the window that Carl Müller was approaching the house. When he noticed her, he came patiently to a standstill to await Karen’s coming. Gina turned and gave the girl a nod and a look that had become the only communication necessary between them to announce that he was there again. Obediently Karen went from the room, quietly and unobtrusively. Both she and Gina tried to keep the frequency of the visits away from Edvard, who was alternately enraged and saddened by the liaison which he could neither understand nor accept. He did not miss the closing of the door behind her, his powers of observation restored with his improving health.

  “That Nazi is here again, isn’t he? It strikes me increasingly that there’s more to her keeping company with him than meets the eye. She’s not in love with him. Even I can see that.”

  Gina moved quickly to press a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t start imagining things. Remember what I’ve always said. We’ll overlook everything for the unselfish way she nursed you through your illness and for being responsible for saving your life.”

  Johanna, who had already taken a chance to talk to Rolf about the matter, spoke to her brother in a mutter. “He’s bound to guess sooner or later.”

  “Maybe he should have been told as soon as he was well enough. Surely Karen could have persuaded him not to take any action.”

  “That’s been my opinion ever since I knew the truth.”

  In the hallway, Karen put on her coat and pulled a knitted hat down over her head as she went outside. The valley itself was still green in spite of its now being deep into December, a trick played by the Gulf Stream, defying the snow flurries that attempted to take hold. It was different on the heights where the winter snows had come to stay, lying like ermine cloaks down through the forests. Carl was wearing his helmet, which she hated, and was fully kitted out with his rifle, his greatcoat making him look twice as broad. One look at his face showed her that something was wrong. “What’s happened?” she asked as she reached him, her eyes alarmed.

  “I’ve been posted. I go today.”

  She stared at him, letting the marvellous news sink into her. Her nightmare was ending. He was going away and with luck she would never see him again. She had a great urge to shriek out her relief, to dance like a madwoman, to throw back her head and laugh until the valley echoed with her happiness. To hide her reaction she was forced to cover her face with her hands. He misunderstood.

  “Don’t be upset, Karen. I’m being moved somewhere else on the coast. There’s some alert on. I think it’s due to this invasion we’re expecting any day. We’ll keep the British out, there’s no fear of their landing. Do you know what we call your country? ‘Fortress Norway.’ How’s that for a guarantee of defence?”

  She lowered her hands, having regained her composure. “So you’ve come to say goodbye.”

  “I’m afraid so. Walk with me. No, not down the valley today where everyone can see us. Let’s go in the other direction where we can be alone. We’ve a lot of talking to do in a short time. You know I’m not one for letter-writing, but I would like to hear from you sometimes.”

  She listened and said nothing, strolling at his side. He would wait in vain for letters from her. Surely he must realise there had been tyranny in his keeping her under compulsory obligation to him. He had compelled her company and through it she had had to be amiable towards him and to his friends. She had suffered his kisses and his squeezing hands. Only with difficulty had she kept his touch from her flesh, her own natural modesty a resolute barrier that had helped to keep him at bay. Now all that misery was practically over. As the lane dwindled to a mere path between the trees, she felt blissfully buoyant as if her feet were not touching the damp, lush ground.

  “These past months have been good ones for me,” he continued, holding back overhanging branches for her. His eyes were searching the forest on either side of the path. “I can’t tell you what it meant to me to find you again after all those years. What the—!” A hare had burst out of the undergrowth to cross their path and automatically he switched into a defensive stance, instantly slipping back the safety catch of his rifle.

  “Don’t shoot!” she cried. The hare was white, its coat turned to winter colouring ahead of the snows, making it an easy target as it bounded away.

  He laughed, lowering his rifle and shouldering it again. “For you I’ll let it go, even though it came out of those ferns like a bullet from an ambush.” His arm went around her as they walked on. “It’s a reflex action to be constantly alert.”

  “There is nothing for you to fear here. There’s usually nobody around in this quiet spot.”

  “That’s what I thought until the hare appeared.” His fingers caressed her arm through her sleeve. “I’m going to miss you. It was a lucky day for me when I was sent to Ryen Farm.” Ahead he glimpsed what he had been looking out for. “That brings me to what I want to talk about.”

  “Yes?” In her euphoric state she was smiling contentedly, reiterating to herself the miraculous fact that he would soon be gone. Ahead was a small wooden hut.

  “An army clerk looked up the hostage file for me, and according to the entry Edvard Ryen is deceased as far as the military is concerned.” He had slowed her to a standstill and she turned within his encircling arm, her face blooming into sanguine joy.

  “Do you mean there’s nothing more to worry about?”

  He laughed quietly at her excitement. “Nothing at all. That’s
the army for you. If the files say he’s a goner, that’s how it is. Nobody is going to query it.”

  She shut her eyes blissfully and shook her head at the happiness within her. “I don’t know how to thank you for telling me this. I’ll always be grateful.”

  “How grateful?”

  She saw how he was looking at her, his slewed gaze holding a contained glitter that she did not at first comprehend. “I’ve told you,” she said nervously, “you’ve proved that what you have always said about friendship towards me is true.”

  “That’s right. Now it’s your turn to show an equal strength of friendship towards me.” Keeping his gaze steadily on her, he lifted his chin-strap and removed his helmet. Casually he turned to the hut by which they were now standing and put it inside with his rifle. It was a place where spare hay was stored. Now she shook her head for an entirely different reason, fear of him seeping into the marrow of her bones, her eyes dilating, her lips tremulous. He drew her to him gently when she would have backed away, using his hold over her for the last time.

  “You wouldn’t want me to report to my commanding officer before I leave that there’s an error in the files, would you?”

  Her throat became tight and dry. She could not find voice to speak out of the abyss of despair into which she was sinking. To resist him was to lose everything for which she had striven, worked and endured over many months. His inexorable expression showed her there was no escape. The whisper broke from her pale lips.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  As he guided her into the hut he knew it was not as he had wanted it to be between them. He had known from the day of first going to Ryen Farm that Edvard Ryen had been eliminated as a hostage. The medical officer had stamped and signed the necessary papers upon their return to headquarters and handed them to him to see into the files. He had known that the matter was closed. Afterwards it had never once been his intention to give the old farmer away. There was death enough in war without dragging it in to no purpose. He did not know if he would be killed himself when the Allied invasion came. That was why he had to love Karen just once before he left her and there was no longer any time to wait and hope. He had come to think of her as the sweetest girl he had ever known.