The Klipfish Code

by Mary Casanova

  With her heel, Marit carved a large V in the road.

  Chapter Twelve

  Miss Halversen's Stand

  January 1942

  On the first school day in January, Marit watched through a stained glass window as a German officer approached on his black horse. He tied his mount to the gate, then eased open the entry door and slipped into the church. No one else noticed. Marit nudged Hanna, who sat beside her in the pew. "Look!"

  His was like all the other uniforms, swaths of gray-green with moving limbs. Marit did her best to ignore them. But she remembered this one. He was the same one who had grabbed Mama's letter and put it in her hand at the general store.

  Boots clicked across the floor—six paces—then stopped. The officer passed his walking stick back and forth from hand to hand. From the back of the church, he watched Miss Halversen as she taught. Her sweaters and skirts curved softly over her tall frame. In the past months, her gray lisle stockings were increasingly ridden with snags. Everything, it seemed, was in shrinking supply or completely gone from store shelves.

  After that, the officer started to show up nearly every day, sometimes on horseback, sometimes riding in the side wagon of a motorcycle, at other times in a vehicle, but always just minutes before lunch. Lately, when he visited, Miss Halversen had started to behave oddly. She dropped her pencil. Her hands trembled. She stopped in the middle of the lesson, told them to take out paper, and gave them an assignment. Then she would sit stiff-spined in the front pew beside her pile of textbooks and face the cross above the altar. The officer used to leave when she turned her back to him, but now, more often, he lingered to speak with her during the students' break.

  One day, Hanna sat down next to Marit and cupped her hand to her ear. "Maybe he's in love with her."

  Just then, Miss Halversen stopped speaking, crossed her arms over her buttoned sweater, and looked at them. "Marit? Hanna? Do you have something you'd like to share with the class?"

  Heat surged to Marit's face. This was the first time her aunt had scolded her like any other student. Along with Hanna, she shook her head and studied the open book in her lap.

  In late January, they decided to spy. After lunch, when all the students trailed outside and only the teachers stayed in, they found their chance. The officer hovered in the foyer as students left, and when he was completely focused on Miss Halversen, they crept up the stairs to the empty balcony and ducked down. Marit felt giddy, tucked behind the banister with Hanna. They exchanged smiles. She hadn't done anything this daring in a long time. Her heart pattered as she peered over the top.

  "Miss Halversen," the officer said striding up the aisle, his black riding boots gleaming and a small package tucked under his arm. "You look lovely today." His Norwegian was broken. "I must speak with you. Alone."

  At the front of the church, Miss Halversen turned hesitantly toward him. Mrs. Hammer and Mr. Moe sat together on the opposite side, going through their lunch tins. Heads together, they appeared lost in their own conversation, though Marit was certain they were listening, too.

  "I have told you, Herr Schmitz, I will not be alone with you."

  "Very well," he said, and glanced over his shoulder at the other two teachers, then up toward where Marit and Hanna were hiding. "I would prefer discretion, but if you insist, then let everyone hear, including your two students spying from the balcony."

  Marit was aghast at being discovered. She ducked down farther, shoulder to shoulder with Hanna, and froze.

  She was sure her heart had stopped beating. What would he do to them? What would Miss Halversen say? She hadn't thought of getting caught. Neither she nor Hanna moved. They weren't going to stand up unless they were asked to. Maybe they could slip back down the stairs and outside before Miss Halversen saw them. But could they get past the Nazi officer?

  Miss Halversen stood firm. "May I eat my lunch in peace, please?" Her voice strained with an anger Marit had seen only once at school, and that was when she'd caught Edvarg, the eighth-grader, with his hand in the cupboard. She'd shouted at him for stealing, but when Edvarg said he needed aspirin for his sick mother, she marched back to the cupboard and dropped something into his hand. "Here, leave a little early," she told him. "I hope they help. Next time, ask."

  Below them, the officer removed his cap, his short, honey-colored hair combed back in waves. "There's an officers' party tonight. Perhaps you'd care to accompany me?"

  Miss Halversen shook her head.

  "Other girls and women, up and down the coast," the officer said, "they've taken German boyfriends. I assure you, it will be all right." He paused, and then continued. "Perhaps a party is the wrong thing. A movie in Ålesund, would that suit you better? I could arrange it. Please." He stepped closer to her, as if to take her hand, but she backed up, out of reach.

  "Very well." From under his arm he produced a shiny gold package. "I had to go through some effort to get these, but thought you might enjoy them." He lifted the box's lid, displaying its contents.

  "Chocolates?" Miss Halversen's tone was one of disbelief. She looked at the box and then at him. A tremor crossed her face.

  Marit's mouth watered. She hadn't tasted chocolate since her last visit with Mama to the milk shop in Isfjorden. Nearly two years! If only Miss Halversen would share the chocolates with her class after the officer left. Or better yet, bring them home to share.

  "Everyone is sacrificing," her aunt said angrily. "Even milk is increasingly in short supply. You Nazis take everything and leave us nothing. And in the past weeks, many of the children are complaining of hunger." Her voice was quiet but powerful, as if she were holding back an ocean of injustice. "Do you know what it's like to teach when their bellies are rumbling for food? And you bring me chocolates?"

  She knocked the box from the officer's outstretched hand. Chocolates scattered at his feet. Mrs. Hammer and Mr. Moe gasped, and a disquieting hush fell over the church.

  Marit covered her mouth.

  As if stunned, the officer didn't move. Then, almost in slow motion, he took two steps back. He snapped his officer's cap on his head and straightened his jacket. When he spoke, his voice was sharp. "You could be arrested for such talk," he warned. "I was trying to court you. I could have forced you, but I didn't. I'm doing you a favor."

  Miss Halversen stood tall.

  The officer turned away. His heels hit sharply across the floor, echoing stonily through the church building, and the door shut hard behind him.

  As soon as he was gone, Mr. Moe hurried to Miss Halversen. "I can't believe you knocked the gift from his hand! You're so brave, Ingeborg."

  "Or impossibly stupid," muttered Mrs. Hammer, her arms crossed squarely. "He'll make us pay for this, you can count on it."

  Miss Halversen dropped to the pew and bowed her head in her hands. Her shoulders rose and fell with silent sobs. If she hadn't been spying, Marit would have rushed down and put her arms around her.

  Hanna nudged her in the side and motioned toward the stairs. Stealthily, Marit crept down the stairs after her. Once outside, they ducked snowballs, passed snow forts, and wandered through the gravestones without talking. A chill far colder than the winter air settled deep in Marit's bones. With her mitten, she swept the windblown snow off the headstones, as if learning the dates of every birth and death was more interesting than talking with Hanna about what had just happened to Miss Halversen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Unspoken Thoughts

  On February 1, 1942, Marit celebrated her twelfth birthday. Hanna came over for dinner and gave Marit a pair of multicolored wool mittens. "I knit them out of yarn from old socks."

  The thumbs were a little lumpy, but to Marit they were the best gift in the world. "They're beautiful! Tusen takk!"

  Lars gave her a tiny wooden gnome roughly carved out of wood. It wore a tall pointed hat—that much Marit could make out—and had two feet.

  "Lars, for being only eight years old—"

  "Almost nine. Only two months
away," he reminded her. "April second, remember?"

  "Right. Almost nine. You're an excellent carver!"

  That night, as Lars drifted to sleep, she lay awake in the complete darkness of her bedroom. Another year had passed. Did her parents think of her and wish they could be with her on her twelfth birthday? If they were alive, she knew they would. Mama used to make lefse, Marit's favorite, and sprinkle the rolled potato pancakes with butter and cinnamon. After every birthday dinner, Papa always took out his Hardanger fiddle. With it rested under his chin, he'd tap his foot along with "Two Mountain Trolls" until she and Mama and Lars started dancing on the wood floor.

  Months had passed since Mama and Papa's last letter. They had sent a letter every three months. Marit suspected they would write more often if they could, but that they didn't want to attract any extra attention that would in any way connect their efforts in Isfjorden with their children on the island. If one family member was found helping with the Resistance, the whole family was usually killed.

  Still, they were due for a letter soon. As each third month arrived, the wait for their letter became unbearable, her worries torture. If Olaf's parents could side with the Nazis, then there had to be others, too. What if her parents had been reported by a neighbor for helping the Resistance? If arrested, they would face torture, reeducation camps, or death. She wanted to believe that Norwegians were quietly winning the war through underground methods. But were they? With each passing day, ordinary people seemed to lose more of their freedoms.

  She whispered again to herself, "Mama and Papa are fine." Teardrops fell from the corners of her eyes and into her ears. She didn't bother to wipe them away.

  ***

  Later that month, icy winds turned to gales as Marit walked with Aunt Ingeborg and Lars to church, their heads bent into the wind. Bestefar, who usually didn't miss a service, was away fishing for a few days.

  Pastor Ecklund stood before his congregation. His usually blotchy red face was as pale as a peeled potato. He clung to the edges of his simple podium, as if to hold himself upright. His normally long-winded sermon ended abruptly. For a long moment he was silent, and when he started again, his voice carried determination.

  "My dear friends, this will be my last service here. Bishops and pastors across Norway have decided to resign their posts, and I am resigning as well, as a matter of conscience. We will not be under the Nazis' authority—only God's. And I cannot in good faith lead you if I must bear a Nazi yoke."

  A rush of whispering swept through the church, but Pastor Ecklund raised his hand, bringing quiet again.

  "To agree to partner with the Nazis would mean to be puppets in their service. They would approve or disapprove of sermons. They would command us how and what to teach. And I know it would not be a message of God's love, forgiveness, and goodwill toward others. It would be to further their cause of racism, fear, and intimidation. Services here will henceforth be led by Nazi-appointed pastors. I will, therefore, not meet in this building," he said. "Rather, I invite you all to join with me in worshiping in the privacy of our homes."

  ***

  Over the next week, snow fell and blew into drifts around the church building. During breaks at school, Marit and Hanna often took shelter from the wind in a snow fort they'd carved from a deep drift. The half roof and short walls glowed an icy blue and protected their secrets.

  Marit clapped her birthday mittens together to warm herself. The sun barely traveled above the horizon, casting long shadows from the gravestones across the snow. From her squatting position, she rose to stretch. The wind, damp from the sea and stiff with cold, slapped her cheeks. She ducked back down, but not before spotting Olaf wandering toward their shelter, his stocking-capped head tucked between his shoulders.

  "Olaf. He's coming this way. Do you think he wants to talk to us?"

  Hanna shrugged and rubbed her mittened hands together.

  In seconds, he was standing there. Wind teased the tufts of sandy hair jutting from his cap. He shifted from boot to boot, his gray eyes downcast.

  "Marit, I must talk with you."

  She looked at Hanna, whose eyes were determined, reminding Marit of their unspoken decision. Marit wished things were different. They rose in unison from behind their snow wall and walked away.

  "I feel bad for him," Marit said under her breath. "Terrible—but we have no choice."

  "I know," Hanna replied. "We have to."

  That afternoon, before Miss Halversen excused them for the rest of the day, she stood in front of all the students. First, she called toward the balcony, then to the younger students. "I'm speaking for all of the teachers here at Godøy School," she began, a history book clasped against her yellow sweater. "We want you to know that teachers across Norway have been ordered to teach students Nazi propaganda." She paused, as if to make sure they had heard.

  Marit couldn't imagine it. Miss Halversen was supposed to teach them how to be Nazis?

  "Teachers across Norway are united. We have sent in countless letters refusing to instruct our students in Nazi thinking. And do you know what Nazi philosophy is?" She didn't wait for an answer. "It means believing that you are of a superior race—an Aryan race—superior to anyone who is of Jewish ancestry, superior to anyone who is handicapped or different in any way. It means teaching you to identify and pick out those who don't fit in. It means that you are to follow orders and obey and not to ever, ever think for yourselves. We cannot and will not obey this request by the Nazi authorities. To do so goes against our training and conscience as teachers. We're Norwegians. We believe in the God-given worth of every individual. We believe in freedoms for everyone."

  The students, like still treetops before an ominous storm, didn't move.

  She inhaled sharply, then continued. "We don't know what will happen next. And so, I wanted to warn you. If anything should happen to teachers, should any of us suddenly disappear or be replaced, you will know the real reason. For now, teachers across Norway stand together."

  Teachers disappearing or replaced. Marit's mind teetered at the edge of a possibility she hadn't considered. Would the Nazis stop at nothing? Marit drew a V in her notebook and followed the lines with her pencil—over and over until the paper ripped.

  She was sick with worry for her goodhearted aunt.

  ***

  That night, Aunt Ingeborg added corrections to a stack of papers. With school under way, she didn't have as much free time to knit or sew. Bestefar's disapproval must have stopped her from working on the bunad. Or maybe when she considered the risk of getting caught, she decided the bunad wasn't worth the price of Gestapo punishment.

  Seated by the wood stove, like a tailor with an oversize needle, Bestefar pushed a metal fid through strands of thick rope, creating a loop for a mooring line. "For the teachers to openly defy the Nazis," he said, "it will cost many lives. The Nazis do not tolerate disobedience." He flashed Aunt Ingeborg a look of grave concern.

  Her reply was resolute silence.

  "But Bestefar," Marit said, taken aback by his response. "Don't you understand how brave the teachers are?"

  He looked at her, but his blue irises were as unreadable as the sea, and his lips were closed maddeningly tight.

  Of course he didn't understand! And now in his tightmouthed way, he wouldn't say another word on the subject. She found her rucksack and settled at the table to do her homework. As she opened her mathematics book, the numbers on the page blurred. Her thoughts wandered, but slowly came into alarming focus.

  In the past year, Bestefar had worked increasingly long nights. Once, he had been at sea for over a week. While he was gone, Aunt Ingeborg spent more time than ever embroidering the bunad, and often her eyes were red from fatigue.

  "When will Bestefar return?" Lars asked after six days of their grandfather's absence.

  Aunt Ingeborg cast her gaze beyond them. "Fishermen. They have minds of their own." That was all she would say on the subject.

  Increasingly, though Marit hate
d to even think it to herself, Bestefar seemed less and less a jøssing—and more and more a quisling.

  ***

  In mid-February, as welcome as the winter sun climbing above the eastern peaks, another letter finally arrived—three and a half months since the last one. Bestefar read it aloud. Like the previous letters, this one was written in Mama's hand, but signed Mr. and Mrs. Siversen.

  Dear Ingeborg and Leif,

  Months have passed and our hearts break with missing you, our most precious friends. You're lucky to have the company of grandchildren to help you on your farm. We hope they're a blessing to you.

  Our work continues. Very difficult, but making progress. We trust the Lord to help us and everyone these days. Difficult times, yet the mountains are as beautiful as ever.

  Hope your fishing is successful, despite the dangerous activities at sea these days.

  Hearty Greetings!

  Mr. and Mrs. Siversen

  It wasn't much, but Marit clung to the words of the letter, repeating them over and over to herself until she had memorized them. Every night, Marit repeated the letter to herself before asking the Lord to keep Mama and Papa safe. And every morning, on her walk to the church for school, she recited the letter in her head, trying to stretch the meaning of each sentence, trying to hear Mama's voice in every word.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Distant Dreams

  "Marit," Aunt Ingeborg called upstairs, "before you get dressed, try this on."

  Lars was already up and feeding the chickens. But this morning, Marit was in slow motion. She didn't feel like getting dressed. Despite the recent letter, she didn't want to be helpful. Every chore was set against a hopeless, gray backdrop of never seeing her parents again, of a world where war never ends. In her nightgown, Marit peered from the top of the stairs.