She had seen Steffen only once since the night she had awakened to find him in her room. In the company of Gunnar, whom she saw frequently, they had met briefly in the cellar. Steffen had had time only to hand her the package she was to take to Oslo, a delivery Gunnar usually made. Neither she nor Astrid had had any word since. All Gunnar said was that the “Englishman” had important work in hand. She could guess what it was. A new and intensive wave of sabotage actions had hit the occupation forces, hindering the production and shipping of materials essential to the Nazi war machine in its defence of Germany against the advancing Allies. Ships in Oslo harbour, including a notorious prison ship, had been blown up as had fuel and ammunition dumps, railways and bridges and selected factories. She thought Steffen had made a point of seeing her for those few minutes, not knowing when he would get the chance again.
The hard truth of the Allied advance continued to hammer through. Late in July came the news of a group of German generals’ attempt to assassinate Hitler. She had met one of them, a distinguished grey-haired man of the old German tradition. Axel took an almost fiendish pleasure in the foiling of this attempt on the life of the Führer, taking it as proof of the unreliability of the army in comparison with the unquestioned loyalty of his own S.S. security force.
“If I had been there, I’d have hanged the lot on the spot,” he declared on the Friday morning when he strutted through Johanna’s office, already in conversation with Tom whom he had met on the stairs. The generals had recently been condemned to that method of execution, their request to be shot as soldiers refused. The whole affair had a sobering effect on the officers whom Johanna knew. She suspected that two or three less avidly Nazi than the majority had more sympathy with the rebels than they would ever admit.
Judging the moment to be right to make coffee, Johanna put the cups on a tray and when it was ready took it in to Tom’s office. Axel had his leather folder on the desk and although it was open he was referring to a top paper without showing it to Tom, who was swinging to and fro in his swivel chair, listening intently. They stopped talking when she entered, Axel taking the cup she had poured for him with a nod of thanks. She left the door just on the latch when she returned to her own office, but the remarks they made were only concluding ones, holding no substance of interest, and she gave up straining her ears from the vicinity of her desk.
Her curiosity persisted. She decided to fetch the tray. The door, still as she had left it, pushed open as she entered. Axel and Tom were by the window, looking out at some military activity in the street below. On the desk by the chair where he had been sitting was Axel’s folder, half zipped up again, but with the top paper projecting from it. Her action was almost a reflex one. She simply took a corner of the paper and whipped it out, at the same time stepping back out of the office. Outside the open door she held her breath, expecting a shout. They had not noticed anything, and were still talking about what was happening outside. She snatched a glance at the paper. It looked interesting. Then, looking around for a hiding place, she slipped it behind a picture on the wall.
Now she returned again to the doorway of Tom’s office, reaching out to grip the door handle as if she had just opened it. “May I remove the tray?”
They both turned. Tom answered her. “Yes, of course.”
She collected everything and carried it out. Axel came after her. “I’m going to Major Ryen’s this weekend. Shall you be there this time?”
She paused in the middle of her office floor and faced him. “Yes, I’m driving out with him this evening after work.” It was not something she was looking forward to, but Tom had asked her particularly. A Quisling Nazi party leader was to be a weekend guest, and with Tom’s hopes rising towards a political future, he wanted the man to have the best of service and attention. The replacement housekeeper was not as efficient as Karen had been. Axel looked pleased.
“Good. I have a photograph to bring along that my wife sent me. She is wearing the silver fox coat. I’d like to show it to you.”
“I’ll be interested to see it.”
He smiled and turned back into Tom’s office. She was still taut with suspense. As he emerged with the folder under his arm, he saluted her cheerily. The paper had not been missed. With luck he would not discover where it had been “mislaid.”
In her lunch-break she went to a public telephone booth and her short, blandly worded message covered an announcement of a matter of utmost urgency. She had the paper folded into her secret pocket when she went from the building at the end of the working day. Unable to wait for Gunnar, she left the paper under the cellar stone and was ready at the gate when Tom arrived in his car to pick her up.
“The weather promises to be good,” he said in an attempt at conversation.
“I hope for a swim tomorrow,” she gave back in reply.
He no longer found it easy to talk to her, nor she to him. It was as if he pretended to himself that he had never discovered a wounded man in his storeroom, and yet his attitude towards her had changed. His fondness for her had waned. It was as if he had come to hate her, whether he realised it or not, for having exposed him to the kind of dangers he had gone out of his way to avoid. The sacrifice he had made of his self-respect and his patriotism had almost come to nothing through what he regarded as her foolhardy action. Now more than ever his allegiance to his German masters was all-important to him. He did not like the turn the war had taken, but he was convinced that Norway would remain under German control and that the Germans would hold their own borders even if everything else went from them under the advance of the Allied tanks.
The weekend was as dreary as Johanna had expected it to be. The quisling party leader was pompous and objectionable, and it made her despair to see how obsequious Tom was to him. Axel, whose company she always chose to avoid, took an instant dislike to Tom’s guest of honour and tacked on to her, going for a swim with her and then inviting her for a row in the boat, which she declined. The photograph of his wife had been a surprise. She was not the hefty German frau that Johanna had expected from her measurements. Instead she was plump and pretty with a smile shy with pride over the fur coat, which suited her. It was probably the first nice present she had ever received from Axel.
The weekend was moving towards its close when the housekeeper informed Johanna that Frøken Larsen wished to speak to her on the telephone. Johanna was filled with misgivings. Astrid never telephoned her at Tom’s house. She took the receiver. “Hello, Astrid.”
“You must get tomorrow off from work. I’m not well.”
“What’s the matter? Have you had the doctor?” Johanna was concerned.
“Yes. It’s a chill. He’s coming again tomorrow. I must stay in bed. Farvel.”
Johanna replaced the receiver thinking that Astrid had sounded quite strange. She went back to the verandah where she had been sitting with Tom and his guests and at the first opportunity told him about the call. Tom was immediately annoyed. Monday was always busy. He granted her the time off with reluctance. Gone was the good humour towards her that he would have shown in the past.
When he dropped her at the gate she ran up the path and into the house. Halfway up the stairs she was surprised to see Astrid looking over the baluster and not seeming in the least ill in spite of being in night clothes.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she announced at once. “I took the precaution of getting undressed for bed in case anyone came with you to see how I was. Steffen was here. He says you must meet him in the cellar at four o’clock tomorrow morning. Wear your office clothes and sensible shoes in case you have to run.” She raised both hands to ward off enquiry. “Don’t ask me what it’s about, because I don’t know. I’ve simply done my part as requested.”
Johanna set her alarm clock but woke before it rang, excitement priming her. At five minutes before four she went down to the cellar. Steffen was waiting for her. They wrapped their arms about each other, relishing the sheer physical pleasure of being together.
>
“Hey,” he said, drawing his head back, “how are you?”
“All the better for seeing you. Why am I here at this unearthly hour?”
He frowned seriously. “In brief, that paper you took for us revealed the latest Quisling move to get Norwegians into service at the Russian Front and the consequences that await them. There’s no time to tell you everything now. It’s enough to say I’ve never read anything more inhuman. Gunnar is waiting for us with a farm truck. I’ll tell you the rest later.” His hand took hers. “I have to ask you if you’re willing to play a risky part in today’s events?”
“You don’t have to. Let’s go.”
He took her out by the tunnel entrance of the cellar. She had never been along that route before and was amazed to find that it wound like a snake. When they emerged into the rosy daylight, he had to hold back a thick bush that hid the entrance completely. They were deep in the forest. He led her to a lane where the farm truck was waiting, Gunnar at the wheel. Steffen helped her into the back where she was concealed behind boxes of vegetables. He could talk to her by holding back the dividing canvas behind the driver’s seat as they drove along.
“As you know, shortly everyone in the country has to register again for new ration cards. That German document told us that only those who apply personally will receive a card, which automatically cuts out those in hiding. Keeping those thousands fed in their widely scattered camps is difficult enough as it is, and without use of their ration cards it would be impossible to get enough food to them. The Germans are hoping to force them out of hiding by starvation. We’re out today to help ourselves to a sufficient number of ration cards on delivery from the printers. The Home Front in Oslo is hijacking a larger load at the same time. Nobody is going to starve after this venture, I promise you.”
She raised her eyebrows admiringly. “You’ve been busy over the weekend, haven’t you? It’s a good scheme. Simple and effective. Where do I come in?”
“During the morning the packaged boxes of cards that we’re after will be delivered to a small depot. You’ll be in the office to sign for them. We shall have removed the girl who is normally there, and she’ll be tied up somewhere until we’re safely away. The same applies to the caretaker, who would normally help with the unloading. You’ll see Gunnar and me taking over that task. The whole operation shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. Then Gunnar will leave with the goods reloaded in this truck, and you and I will depart in a van that will be waiting for us.”
“What if other people come in to the office in the meantime?”
“That’s up to you. You’ll have to bluff your way through somehow. It shouldn’t be difficult. We’ll be there in plenty of time for you to look through the files and get a grasp of what goes on there. It’s mostly signing in and out. It will be simple stuff compared with the work you’ve been used to.” He lowered his voice. “We’re approaching the ferry now. Sorry you have to make the fjord crossing out of sight.”
The canvas screen dropped back into place. She heard the German guard ask for papers and another came to the back of the truck to check the load. Being slim, she occupied a narrow space behind one of the crates and there would be nothing to suggest to an outside observer that anyone was concealed there. One of the Germans must have signalled the truck through. It rolled forward and there was a noisy clatter as it went up the ramp and onto the ferry.
Gunnar got out to stretch his legs as the ferry started to move. Steffen remained in the driving cab, his arms resting on the back of the seat to be near her. The crossing took twenty-five minutes. Then Gunnar returned to the driver’s seat and they went clattering off the ferry onto a country road.
Their destination was a small town that was typical in its layout, with woodland taking over the outskirts to shield ugly workshops and commercial properties. Next to the depot to which they had come was a dairy building where several farm trucks were parked. Gunnar drew up in line with them. It was perfect cover for the vehicle, which would appear to be part of normal activity around the dairy. Parked deeper and more inconspicuously under the trees was the van in which she and Steffen would leave again. They alighted, Gunnar going first to make sure they would be unobserved. Due to the still early hour there were few people about. They reached the rear of the depot, a sturdy wooden structure in need of a coat of paint as were so many buildings since such materials had become scarce during the Occupation. Steffen opened the door silently from a ring of master keys.
Upon entering, Johanna noted it was a depot of some security. There were stout doors with padlocks. It was from here that the new ration cards would be issued in bulk to district civic officials, who would in turn distribute them to those registering at their own centres. She waited in silence just inside the door as Steffen and Gunnar surprised the caretaker. There was a scuffling sound before he was bound and gagged and put behind a locked door. Steffen took her through to the office at the front of the building. It led off a small entrance hall illuminated by a glass panel in the street door. He left her there to look around and it was not long before she felt she could have taken over the simple work there in full capacity. Steffen locked up the office again when it was time for her to go into hiding, and she waited in the caretaker’s vacated quarters while the two men kept watch.
The office girl arrived on time at eight-thirty, but did not enter for a nerve-racking ten minutes while she chatted and giggled outside with a couple of soldiers on normal patrol. They departed when she let herself in. She sang to herself as she busied herself hanging up her jacket and tidying her appearance before a mirror. Her eyes went wide in her reflection as Gunnar clapped a hand over her mouth and carried her bodily out of the office and into one of the strongholds. Johanna went to take the girl’s place behind the counter-desk. She lifted the telephone receiver off the hook to avoid any incoming calls. Then there was nothing to do except wait. Quite a number of people went past the building as the town came to life. A postman brought in a parcel and some mail. “Where’s Christina today then?” he inquired.
“She’s having some time off.”
After that there were no further interruptions. The expected truck slowed down outside at midmorning and drew round to the rear of the building. She saw that there was an armed soldier sitting beside the driver to oversee the goods into safe storage. Ration cards were valuable commodities, far more so at the present time than the soldier could ever suspect. Knowing she would have to check the delivery and put her signature to the receipt forms, she left the office to go through the building to where the unloading was taking place. The soldier was leaning against the doorjamb, watching idly as Gunnar trundled the first batch through on a trolley. Outside, the driver, a thickset fellow with a ruddy face and straw-coloured hair, was in the back of the truck, swinging the packages down to Steffen, who was stacking a second trolley. As the last package changed hands, the driver leaped down from the truck and refastened the back. Then he came strolling into the building, mopping his sweaty brow and neck with a dark blue handkerchief, in time to see Johanna padlock the door where the packages had been placed. For the second time that day she was asked the same question.
“Here! Where’s Christina? Who are you?”
Johanna experienced a qualm. Neither Steffen nor Gunnar had expected the driver to know the office girl, since he had come from Trondheim. Obviously Christina was a girl who had made her mark on him during his delivery of ration cards the preceding year. She made the same reply as she had made to the postman, looking bored by it, and took the clipboard from him with the papers she had to sign, using a signature she had invented for herself at the bottom of each sheet. “There you are,” she said, handing the clipboard back to him. “I’ll tell Christina you asked about her.”
The man looked as if he might have said something more. The moment of hesitation passed. “Yes, do that. Bjorn is the name. She’ll know me all right.” He stuck his pencil back behind his ear and went back to clamber up into the truck, the so
ldier following to get in by the far door. As he drew away, he glanced back in his side mirror as if seeking some clue to the mystery of Christina’s absence. “That was odd,” he remarked as much to himself as to his companion, drawing out onto the main road for the return journey north.
“What was?”
“Christina not being in the office. I spoke to her on the phone last week and said I’d be here today. She said nothing about having time off.”
“Your girlfriend, is she?”
“No. She’s my sister-in-law. My wife’s going to be really disappointed that I didn’t see her.” There was a lapse of time while he watched the road ahead, the heat shimmering up from the dusty surface. Traffic was sparse. His thoughts churned over. At his side the soldier settled more comfortably with his head back and eyes closed, helmet under the seat since there was nothing more to guard. Then the driver spoke out again, giving the wheel a thump with his fist, “I tell you there was something fishy going on at the depot today. Those fellows who unloaded were strangers to me. Where had they come from? Why wasn’t the caretaker giving a hand? I’ve been to that place three times this year and the caretaker is always there.”
The soldier had begun to listen sharply, relinquishing his original idea of a doze. “What could be wrong, do you think?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to turn back and find out.” He began to strain his neck, looking for a place where he could turn.
The soldier sat forward. “Keep going. There’s an army pillbox a little way ahead. I’ll make a report there. Maybe that trio were black marketeers after those ration cards.”
This Shining Land Page 35
