Karen’s hair grew to a length about which she was no longer self-conscious. She had no wish for it to be as long as before, never wanting to be reminded of the day she had seen it slipping in strands like silver-gilt snakes to the hay-strewn floor of the hut. At last she felt able to visit her home. Her village was near enough for her to row there in one of the boats in good weather, for she had rowed since childhood, a normal attribute for those who grew up at the fjord’s edge, just as it was to swim and fish. Going by boat cut out several kilometres by the road, which followed a sharp inlet where a fishing hamlet was located. There were many such communities in this area and her own village reaped its livelihood as much from the sea as from the surrounding farmland. It had a central gravelled street running up from a cove where fishing boats were moored, a few shops standing at some distance from each other, orchards and gardens and habitations in between. Her married sister, Marthe, and her husband, Raold, lived above their bakery and the bakehouse, the grass at the rear reaching down to end in rocks and boulders at the fjord’s edge. Karen had lived with them since losing her parents in the winter of 1935. Being childless, they had made her their child and much as she loved them, she found that their protectiveness stifled her liberty, which was why she had left eventually to work at Ryen Farm. She would not have expected to be rejected by her sister if she had come home with a branded head, certain that Marthe would forgive her anything, but she had not known how Raold, a staunch patriot, would receive her. On the day she returned to their doorstep, she arrived by way of the row-boat, tying it up on the rocks below their property and stepping from there up onto the grass. She went almost shyly in the direction of the bakehouse door. Marthe happened to be in there with Raold, saw her coming and ran to meet her.
“You’re home!”
They laughed and cried together. Raold, a reserved, serious man, had shaken her hand gladly, covering it with flour. She need not have worried. Gina had sent them a long letter telling them the whole story and advising that they wait until Karen made the first move to return home. They welcomed her like a prodigal daughter.
Later that day Raold offered her the old job she had had with him previously behind the counter in his bakery. She had half expected the offer although present sales could not possibly warrant her assistance to Marthe in the serving, for rationing had cut his previously thriving business to the bone. The real reason was given as she anticipated.
“There’s been talk for a long time about Tom Ryen and the Nazi company he keeps,” he said, his thin, bony face extremely grave. “I don’t like the thought of your being at that house of his with the carryings-on that take place there.” Considerably older than his wife, he felt a keen and undiminished responsibility towards his young sister-in-law.
Marthe, emotional and outgoing, comfortably built as if shaped by nature for a dozen children that she had never had, added her persuasion to try and entice Karen back under their roof. “Come home for good. It upsets me not to see you. Your letters would have puzzled me if Gina Ryen had not told us what was wrong.”
Before Karen could make any answer, Raold spoke again. “However, I must be fair with you and put you in possession of the facts of what living with us again would mean to you.” It was one of his principles always to be fair with those he dealt with. Until the Germans were stopped from buying food in civilian shops by their own command, there being little enough left over for the population in any case, he had never, in fairness, given them short weight or stale goods. His own table had no more bread than he allowed his customers on their ration cards. “I do what I can to aid those taking a more active part in the eventual liberation of our country. Do you follow me?”
“I do.” She thought it was typical of him to do what he considered to be his duty without thought for personal safety. In spite of his being dogmatic in attitude and high-handed in his direction of domestic matters, she had always liked him for his honesty. Marthe, although she appeared docile, had her own way of managing affairs. She slipped extra rolls into customers’ baskets and always had a loaf in reserve that he knew nothing about, giving slices to those who needed it or putting some on his plate to keep him better fed when she could be sure he would not raise questions.
“With the cover of the islands and skerries around here near the mouth of the fjord,” Raold continued, “our village is often a first port of call and sometimes a departure point for small boats that come in from across the North Sea. You would not be involved in any of it. On nights when I say I’ll be working alone in the bakehouse, you’ll go to bed as Marthe does and pull the quilt over your ears. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, except that I’ll remain where I am at Tom Ryen’s house and come to see you often on visits as I have done today.”
Nothing more that they could say was able to make her relent her decision not to accept their kindly and well-meant offer. She had grown to like her new life. The weekends were hard work, as was the preparation necessary beforehand, particularly when a large party was to be held, and it frequently took a couple of days to get the house in order again afterwards. It was the quietness of being on her own in between times that was full of balm. There were moments when she thought fancifully that the atmosphere of the old house, where the lives of previous generations had been absorbed into the walls, was in itself filled with a healing power. In spite of the riotous influx at some weekends, it was a convent-like retreat for her, and in it she aimed to sublimate the love and loving desires she had felt for Erik. The emotional shock of Carl’s usage of her, followed immediately by the shame of her branding, had ended completely her trust in a future with Erik. All that was left to her now was to hope that one day she would feel clean again.
Johanna needed some new shoes. It was not for a whim of fashion but a simple and basic need for something to cover her feet out of doors. Leather in any shape or form had vanished completely from the shops. Shoes were repaired with compressed paper, which did not last long. Everybody was turning to wooden-soled shoes with uppers of thick paper or preserved fish skins when their old footwear finally fell apart. Shoe shops did not get supplies of these very often, and when stocks came in people lined up immediately all along the street to await their turn to purchase. On her way to the office one morning Johanna, a purse of dyed red fish skin under her arm, a smart crocodile look to its texture, spotted one of these queues and joined the end of it. She would be late for work for the first time, but Tom would not be difficult about it when he heard the reason.
The line moved slowly. Word went back down the queue that in addition to shoes there were summer sandals made of plaited paper string, and purses of the same material. A ripple of excitement went through the female section of the line. Johanna had been waiting nearly an hour when a German major she knew came along. Upon seeing her he stopped and saluted, smart in his well-cut uniform with shining jackboots and the iron cross at the meeting of his high collar.
“Guten Morgen, Fräulein Ryen. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for shoes.”
“Waiting? We can’t have that. Come with me.”
“No,” she protested firmly, keeping to her place in the line. Hostile glances were already digging into her like knives. The friendly atmosphere that had previously prevailed would be turning against her now. People would believe they had a collaborator in their midst. To her anger and dismay the officer refused to accept her answer.
“Major Ryen would never forgive me if I allowed you to remain here for hours on end. Shall I send those in front of you back to the end of this lengthy line-up or will you accompany me into the shop?”
She knew he would do as he had said. In fact he had taken a pace or two towards the head of the queue as if prepared to give the order there and then. Hastily she stepped out of the line. “I’m late for work already. I’ll take a turn another day.”
It was no use. He shepherded her into the shop and waited while she tried on what was available in her size, the designs
all the same, the only difference being in a choice of black or brown. It was one pair per customer. The major would have commandeered more for her if he had suspected that she had hoped for a pair of sandals as well. As she carried the shoes out of the shop in the crook of her arm, no wrapping paper being available any more, there came some low booing from further back in the line. It was a humiliating experience, made more so by the major’s escorting her all the way to the office. This was one of the times when she felt it would never be possible to settle her personal score against the arrogance of the enemy.
At Tom’s large parties there was never really a chance for Johanna to glean anything of interest to her secret work. The officers came to get drunk, to have sex with the women provided for them or whom they had brought along as partners, and to forget for a while everything to do with discipline and army work. She always booked a band, who sweated it out until the company was too drunk or otherwise engaged to dance any more. With Karen’s aid she saw that food and drink remained in ample supply, removed smashed glasses before the shards were ground in to cause permanent damage, tried to ensure that those about to vomit got outside or reached the bathroom in time, and generally kept guard over the well-being of the house against its present offenders, ready for the time when they would be gone and forgotten in the better and more peaceful years for which she yearned.
The office continued to be more rewarding in the items she came across. Johanna went straight from there on the day she was to meet Gunnar to hand over a paper she had copied and secluded in a folded newspaper, which she had bought in readiness that morning. The headlines were of a raid by Allied planes on a target near Oslo, the loss of civilian life emphasised in harrowing detail. She knew the destruction of the target was of vital importance to the Allied cause, but she also knew the Milorg of the Resistance was bitterly against these air raids, which were on the increase. Too many innocent lives were lost, and there was often the complete destruction of machinery and facilities essential to an economic recovery when the war was finally over. Sabotage, in spite of the reprisals, saved unnecessary damage and spared far more lives.
Instead of Gunnar at the sheltered corner table of the café she found to her joy that Steffen was waiting for her. It had been a long time since their last meeting and she hurried across to sit down with him, placing her purse and the newspaper on the spare chair. By the brilliance of his smiling eyes directed on her she could tell that his excitement was equal to hers. His mundane opening remarks served to emphasise the current leaping and dancing invisibly between them.
“Nice day.”
“Agreed. I had expected Gunnar.”
“Instead you have received this pleasant surprise.”
Her mouth slipped into reciprocal amusement, her eyes dancing. “You said it, not I.”
“Would you like something to eat? I have coupons.” He kept himself supplied with coupons and anything else he needed. In his pockets he had half a dozen cards that provided means of sustenance to match those stamped passes that would facilitate escape in a tight corner.
She was hungry; “Yes, I would.” After studying the menu, which listed only a few items for those prepared to sacrifice ordinary rations for equal portions with restaurant coupons, she gave him some advice. “Avoid the fish sausage. That’s a culinary abomination that has been created out of sheer necessity from fish, oats and black bread. Astrid serves it sometimes when there’s literally nothing else to be had. She fries it in cod liver oil.”
“My God!” Words failed him as he imagined the taste.
“She does something with the oil first. There’s a way of steaming it to get the really objectionable taste away. And I’d never belittle it. When there’s only that to fry with, it also represents hours in a food queue.” Johanna’s glance returned to the menu. “Remember when there used to be meat in butchers’ shops and on menus? It’s vanished everywhere. Just like milk. If I didn’t go home to the farm sometimes and see it being taken away via the dairy to the German barracks, I’d think all the cows had dried up.” She made her choice. “I’m going to have boiled cod.”
“I’ll have the same.”
They both knew they were taking a chance on its being fresh, as with any other fish dish on the menu. The best of the sea catch went to the occupation forces. When Steffen gave the order to the waitress, Johanna produced a raw potato from Astrid’s kitchen garden to hand over to her. It was only by handing in a raw potato that customers were served a cooked one in exchange. As with meat, dairy products and fish, the potato crop went to feed the enemy in control, and it was the same with carrots and other vegetables, commercial growers being forbidden to place their products elsewhere. Only the rubbish reached the shops. Civilians also grew their own or bought on the black market if desperate enough and able to pay the exorbitant black market prices. If not, they went without. The days when Norway had one of the highest standards of living in the world had become a dream of the past. Hunger had become part of everyday living.
When the cooked potato came steaming on her plate, Johanna was humourously jubilant. “We’re in luck! Not only is this cod quite fresh, but this potato is larger than the one I handed in.”
“Hurrah,” he joked, laughing with her. Meticulously she divided it in half and shared it with him.
They ate with wooden utensils, locally made. It had come to that in most cafés and restaurants as normal cutlery had been hoarded, broken, mislaid or filched by soldiers who had lost their own army issue. The tablecloths were of paper, for the small soap ration made laundry on a large scale difficult. In any case, after three years of Occupation worn-out tablecloths were impossible to replace.
“I stayed in an Oslo hotel recently,” Steffen told her after remarking that when the war was over he was never going to eat fish again. “The bedsheets were paper. I woke up in the morning with ribbons of paper everywhere.”
“You must be a restless sleeper.”
He gave her a straightforward look. “It depends.”
She ignored his remark. “What were you doing in Oslo?”
“Working in a certain good cause.”
“That reminds me.” She took up the newspaper and passed it across to him. “As arranged, here’s something for you to read.”
“I’ll look forward to studying it.” He slipped it vertically into the pocket of his jacket.
“Maybe it’s of interest, maybe not.” She made a sideways rocking movement with her hand. “I never know.”
“You’re not meant to. You do your job and we’ll do ours. That brings me to something that is on the cards for you. Does Tom ever go to Oslo?”
“Not often. Once in three or four months perhaps. Why?”
“We could do with a regular courier. One with legitimate business in the city. It was hoped you might be able to persuade him to take you along—in the capacity of your work, I hasten to add—if he travelled there fairly often.”
“No dice, I’m afraid.”
“It’s a link that’s not needed yet awhile, so keep your eyes and ears open. You never know. It’s possible something will come up if he gets a promotion or changes his routine.”
“I’ll remember.”
He stared with a broadening grin at her fast emptying plate. “When did you last eat?”
She was unabashed. “I told you I was hungry.”
“Half starved is more like it.”
“That’s the price of being young and healthy on inadequate rations. It’s only when I’m home on the farm or at Tom’s for the weekend that I get sufficient food. I always take some back for Astrid, although she has a small appetite.” She laid her wooden fork down across her plate. “Why do wooden utensils seem to need a troll’s mouth to accommodate them? The Vikings made spoons of polished horn. That must have been much better.”
“I’ll make you one next time I meet a reindeer.”
She laughed softly, her eyes merry. “That’s a promise.”
His eyes were full of love. �
��I want to marry you, Jo.”
Startled, she drew back slowly in her chair. “Don’t say that.”
“I mean it. For the first time in my life I want to put a wedding ring on a woman’s finger and it can’t be done. At least, not here in our own country where officially I don’t exist. Come back to England with me the next time I go. We can be married in London.”
Spreading her hand down one side of her face, she shielded her expression from anyone glancing across at their secluded corner table and spoke in a fierce whisper. “We’re not supposed to make ourselves conspicuous and you put something like that to me with the chance of a dozen or more people looking on!”
His expression remained unconcerned. “You forget I’m facing a mirror. I’m watching the door and the rest of the place all the time. Nobody is interested in us. What do you say?”
“When we first made love it was a commitment to each other, even if we did lose ourselves for a while along the way. Marriage is something that has to wait until life is normal again. Nothing has changed for us yet.”
“Yes it has, now that I’ve asked you to come to London with me.”
She shook her head vigorously. “In the early days of the Occupation I would have gone with you from Oslo if it had been possible. As I mentioned before, maybe I’ve done nothing of real importance in my underground work so far, but the chance remains that I’ll come across something vital at some time, whether I ever know the outcome or not. There isn’t anything I could do in exile that would make me feel that much of use in the cause of freedom.” Moving back her chair in readiness to leave, she had a chuckle in her throat. “Thanks for suggesting marriage. I had begun to think you’d never ask!”
This Shining Land Page 29
