The Klipfish Code

by Mary Casanova

  The Nazi soldiers stepped toward her. The one who earlier had aimed at the seal pup took the blanket and smiled. "Eiderdown!" he exclaimed. Then he continued in rough Norwegian. "For us?"

  Marit nodded, and then lowered her eyes.

  "The Gestapo," he said, and pointed toward the farmhouse.

  What? What could he mean?

  "They're gone now," he said. "It's safe. You can come back for your boat in the morning."

  She almost felt she could trust him.

  He lifted the blanket again and smiled. "Tusen takk." She was turning to leave when he held up his hand in command.

  A panic filled her. Had he figured out her scheme? Did he know that she was trying to create a distraction? She studied his face and tried to read his meaning.

  He removed his glove, reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out two chocolate hearts—the kind Papa used to buy her at the milk shop in Isfjorden—and patted them into the palm of her mitten. She stared at them, not sure how to respond. He chuckled as he turned away.

  Again, Marit forced herself to walk casually—rather than sprint—back along the wall to the shore. As she looked back, her German soldier had rounded the lighthouse, the dyne wrapped around his shoulders. Another soldier said something in German, and they laughed. Perhaps they thought the dyne was a real gift, that she was in love with them; or that she was feeling guilty about not having turned it in earlier; or that she was thanking him for warning her about rowing farther. Or perhaps they laughed at the simple mind of a Norwegian girl giving up something so valuable.

  With Tekopp in his arms, Lars waited beside the boat, thankfully now empty. Darkness nearly swallowed it whole. Marit pulled the boat higher onto the shore, tied the bowline around a boulder, and hoped it would hold when the tide rose. The lighthouse sat eerily dark, permanently turned off now so that Allied ships and planes could not see the island.

  Clouds hung low and covered the evening sky, eclipsing moonlight and starlight. Tekopp meowed, and Lars put him down and let him run free. As they crunched over snow patches in the pasture, Marit kept watching for the wounded soldier. She reached into her pocket.

  "Here," she said, handing Lars a chocolate. She popped the other chocolate in her mouth, startled by its unexpected sweetness. Marit reached for Lars's mittened hand and kept walking. "You did a good job," she said.

  He squeezed her hand. "Takk."

  "But Marit, why did he sneak away?" he whispered.

  "I don't know."

  "Vikings fight—they're not afraid of anything. Not even the Nazis."

  "No more talk," she said. "Remember. It's our secret."

  Tekopp pounced on anything that moved as they crossed the field. The injured soldier was nowhere in sight. Her stomach rolled with nausea as she thought of the risks she'd just taken, of what she might have set in motion. She put one foot in front of the other and kept walking. In spite of Gestapo orders to darken every window, a sliver of light escaped from the farmhouse—enough to guide them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In Hiding

  When they slipped into the farmhouse, Bestefar had not yet returned. Without the dyne to cover them, Marit and Lars slept with sweaters on over their pajamas and two pairs of wool socks each. In the middle of the night, Lars tapped Marit on her shoulder. "Marit?"

  "Ja?"

  "I'm freezing."

  The damp chill of March had crept into their bed, clung with icy fingers, and refused to let go. Marit hadn't slept either. "Me, too," she said. "Follow me."

  Quietly, they slipped downstairs and put on their jakkes, mittens, and hats. She debated about putting on her boots and going out to the barn to see if the soldier had made it there, but she didn't dare open the door, which creaked worse than an old mast in the wind. She'd have to wait until morning. Tiptoeing, they climbed back upstairs and curled up, back to back.

  "Marit," Lars whispered in her ear.

  She cupped her hand over his ear in return. "Ja?"

  "Where's the Viking?"

  "I hope he made it to the loft. I'll check in the morning."

  "Let's check now."

  She had to admit, that was exactly what she wanted to do. But if she waited until just after dawn, Bestefar would be gone. "Better to wait. And remember—"

  "I know, you've told me a thousand times. Not a word."

  "That's right. You know, you're pretty smart, Lars."

  "I know. That's what Bestefar tells me."

  Before the sun rose, Marit was in the kitchen, pulling on her boots to milk Big Olga.

  "You're an early riser today," Bestefar said, startling her. He stepped from his adjoining bedroom, pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders. Ashen half-moons lay beneath his hollowed eyes. He was growing thinner, and the arrest of Aunt Ingeborg—his daughter—appeared to be wearing on him. "Already dressed and ready for chores, I see."

  "Ja," she replied and headed out.

  Big Olga stomped her foot when Marit entered; she was clearly not in the mood to wait. Marit would milk her first, and then search for the soldier. She listened for sounds of movement above her or from the corners of the barn but heard nothing.

  In the warmth of the barn, surrounded by the comforting smells of manure and animal sweat, Marit sat on the wooden stool beside Big Olga. Tied in her stanchion, the cow chewed hay and stood still for Marit as she worked. Ting, ting, ting. The foamy milk hit the side of the metal bucket. Aunt Ingeborg had taught her how to milk when she was quite little. As the milk rose in the bucket, steam gathered around Marit's bare hands. The barn cat strolled in, a new batch of barn kittens racing ahead of her. Marit angled one of Big Olga's teats and shot a small stream in their direction. They pawed and licked at the air, catching a bit of the milk on their tongues. Such generosity. War made sharing even a few drops of milk an extravagance.

  When Marit finished, Big Olga craned her neck and looked back at her with grateful brown eyes. Marit poured the fresh milk into the milk can, then patted Big Olga's neck before turning her out with the other cows.

  The German soldiers had started weighing the milk on a scale when they came to collect their "donation." And Marit knew she shouldn't remove even a cupful of what they expected. But today she would take a chance. With a wooden ladle, she scooped out some milk, and then put the cover back on the pail. She would add an equal amount of water to the container later, and hope that the soldiers couldn't tell the difference. Stealing from the Germans. It felt good.

  Carefully keeping the ladle upright, she scaled the ladder one-handed to the loft, praying that the soldier had found his way there. She pulled herself to the loft floor and scanned expectantly. He was nowhere to be seen. The cats, in hot pursuit of the scent of fresh milk, scaled the ladder after her and began purring and winding their way in and out of Marit's legs.

  "Sorry," she said. "Not for you this time."

  A mound in the corner rustled with movement. Fully buried beneath the straw, the soldier lifted his head, his skin colorless and his hair tangled with straw.

  "God morgen," she said, trying to sound like Mama on the icy mornings when Marit hadn't wanted to get out of a warm bed. She knelt next to him with the ladle of fresh milk and pushed away the eager barn cats.

  He eyed the milk hungrily and reached for it, his hands trembling so hard Marit thought he might spill every drop.

  "Here," she said, "let me." She brought the milk to his chalky lips. Greedily, he gulped the milk down. Then he dropped back into the straw. "And water," he said. "I'm so thirsty."

  "Ja," she said. "I'll get some."

  Rather than bring water from the hand pump in the kitchen, which was risky, Marit scooped a bucket of water from the animals' trough outside. A thin covering of ice was already melting in the early rays. Though snow stayed for a long time on the mountain, the island's farmlands rarely froze over, and the snow usually melted within days of falling.

  The soldier drank three ladles of water before he said, "Enough."

  "Th
at's good," she said, trying to sound cheery. "Before long, I'll bring you something to eat, too."

  "Takk," he said, and burrowed beneath the straw again without another word.

  When Marit entered the kitchen, Bestefar was busy ladling porridge from the cast-iron pot into bowls. "Marit," he said, his voice serious. "I just went upstairs to wake Lars, and your dyne is missing. Missing!"

  Marit's heart dropped. She had hoped to come up with an excuse for its disappearance, but she was too late. Pinpricks shot through her. Could Bestefar read the guilt on her face? "I know. I should have told you."

  Lars sat at the table, spoon in hand. Marit stared at him, hoping to remind him that he wasn't to say a word about the soldier—or Viking.

  "And that's why you came downstairs fully dressed this morning?"

  She nodded.

  "And you and Lars slept in your hats and jakkes?"

  That part was true, too. "Ja," she said quietly.

  "They're worse than lice!" he growled.

  Marit wasn't sure what he was talking about. She remembered how much Aunt Ingeborg hated lice, how she had treated and combed the heads of two school kids to help them get rid of the pests. But that was last fall—months ago. What was Bestefar talking about?

  "Yesterday," he said, "when I returned briefly from fishing, soldiers were here at the house. You two were gone. They told me, 'Enemies on the island' as they jabbed pitchforks in the hay, tapped on walls, and even searched upstairs. And then they stole your dyne! Wasn't it enough to requisition all our blankets last fall? They say they need everything for their soldiers fighting throughout Europe and Russia. We held back only one. Only one! How do they expect children to stay warm? They are heartless!"

  Marit breathed out relief. Her deception was covered by the Nazis themselves. Let them take the blame.

  After breakfast, just as Aunt Ingeborg would have done, Marit and Lars washed clothes and sheets on the washboard and hung them on the line to freeze-dry in the breeze. When a quiet moment came and Bestefar was gone, she sneaked out with Lars to the barn.

  They'd both saved a bit of their breakfast porridge and a little cheese for the soldier.

  "How come you're so young," Lars asked the soldier as he ate the food with his hands, "when you've lived so long? Are you really a Viking that the sea monsters hurt?"

  The soldier looked at him quizzically.

  Marit nodded encouragingly.

  "It's a secret," he said, his hands trembling. A deep crimson brightened his cheeks. Marit touched her hand to his forehead, as Mama had done to her so many times, and felt the soldier's fever travel through her fingers.

  "You're burning up. You must rest."

  He finished the small bit of food, and then lay back again.

  "What's your name?"

  "Henrik."

  "We'll let you rest then, Henrik." She started to her feet as Lars climbed down the ladder.

  "Wait." The soldier's face was guarded.

  Marit couldn't see his face; he was hidden so completely. Only his arm stretched through the straw, a metal compass dangling in his hand. "I can't make it. You must take this to the fishing village—north side of the island. I was to have landed there."

  The village he spoke of boasted the largest lighthouse on Godøy and was not an easy jaunt down the road. It would take a full day of hiking to get there and back—or a boat ride halfway around the island.

  "But why?"

  "No—no questions. The less you know, the better."

  She remembered Papa telling her the same thing. She reached for the compass, and as soon as she lifted it from his hand, his arm flopped down beside him, as if he'd been holding a great weight. He lay there, his arm in full view. Marit covered it with straw again and leaned closer.

  "Who ... who do I take this to at the fishing village?"

  "First house in the village," the soldier said, struggling for air between phrases. "Farthest house from the lighthouse. Ask for Astrid. Say, 'Do you have any klipfish for sale?'"

  "Klipfish?"

  "Ja."

  Then she repeated his instructions back to him.

  "Good," he said. "And when she asks you how many, you say, 'A bucketful.' And make sure you show her an empty bucket. Can you remember this?"

  "Astrid and klipfish," she repeated. "And I must bring an empty bucket."

  "Ja, that's good. Go ... please," Henrik whispered from beneath the straw, "before it's too late."

  And then he was silent, completely hidden and completely still. Marit left him and joined Lars below. She held the compass in her hand. Lars scooted closer. "What's that for, Marit?"

  "For telling direction. North, south, east, or west." She didn't want to involve Lars in this, but she would look more suspicious acting on her own. And she would risk a scolding and too many questions from Bestefar if she left Lars behind. It was early in the day. If she took off with Lars, they would appear as two bored kids trying to fill their unexpected days off with something to do. With school temporarily shut down, this would seem believable.

  Marit paused, reminding herself of the risk, another choice filled with unthinkable consequences. She'd heard stories about the Gestapo: the woman who had her fingernails pulled out, the fisherman from Ålesund taken away for questioning and returned with cigarette burns across his body, the numerous bodies found floating in the sea ... Norwegians ... and no one knew what terrible things they'd suffered before drowning.

  Compass in hand, her palms slippery with sweat, she examined the silver object and the simple carving of a ship on its cover. She flipped open the lid, expecting to find a note, a piece of paper, something secretive. But it looked like an ordinary compass. She turned toward Godøy Mountain and the needle pointed north. It worked like an ordinary compass. What could possibly be so important about it that this man, Henrik, would travel the sea, have his boat shot out from under him, lose his companions, and entrust her with it? There had to be more to it.

  Marit forced a smile and feigned enthusiasm. "Lars," she whispered, "are you ready for another adventure?"

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Bucket of Klipfish

  Though the hike over the island's peak to the fishing village on the other side was daunting, Marit thought she could make it. She was less certain about Lars, especially if they ran into snow at the top. And she doubted he'd be strong enough to hike back again. Unlike Papa, she certainly wasn't going to carry him over her shoulder if he got too tired. That left only one other choice. They would row to the island's north side.

  Marit packed a chunk of cheese, two slices of coarse bread, and a jar of water. Over their jakkes, they pulled on dark, canvas raincoats. Marit sniffed. "Uff da!" Bestefar had bought the raincoats for them in Ålesund, but they were not soaked in regular linseed oil, which had disappeared; these raincoats reeked of cod liver oil. Putrid smelling—but better than nothing in such weather.

  A light drizzle misted the air. Shades of deep gray blanketed the sky above the sea and pasture. They hiked toward the lighthouse shore where the rowboat waited, nudged higher onshore from tidal currents.

  "Help me push," Marit said, throwing her weight against the bow.

  Lars's face reddened as they edged the boat slowly over the kelp-covered rocks. From the corner of her eye, Marit saw a German soldier trot across the breakwater toward them, gun over his shoulder.

  The compass around her neck turned weighty as an anchor.

  "Hei! God morgen!" he called with a wave.

  Marit froze.

  In a few long strides, the soldier was at the boat's side, pushing alongside her. Marit looked at him questioningly, and he smiled in return. It was the soldier she'd given the dyne to yesterday. She could not understand his motivation, but inside, she breathed a prayer of gratitude.

  Within seconds, the boat eased into the water. Fast as rabbits into their burrow, she and Lars slipped into the safety of the rowboat. Lars sat in the bow so he could look ahead; Marit sat in the middle seat, fac
ing their wake as she rowed. With a wave, she thanked the soldier, and then pulling quickly on the oars, glided away from shore.

  She'd come to feel completely at ease in the rowboat, the oars familiar in her hands—the only thing left in life over which she had control. The task of rowing to the north side of the island would not be easy. She pulled hard, stroke by stroke, and they rounded the lighthouse and peninsula and skimmed over boulders that lay dangerously close to the surface.

  "Keep a lookout for sea monsters," Marit called, just in case the soldiers could hear. "We're off on another adventure!"

  Lars gazed at Ålesund to the east. Marit hoped that Bestefar's trawler was nowhere in sight. He would be furious to see them go beyond the lighthouse boundary, and he'd stop them.

  To blend in and be less visible from the water, Marit kept the rowboat close to shore. If she strayed too far, they could end up wrestling ocean currents. Fortunately, morning waters were fairly calm. The rowboat crested over the tops of small waves and pulsed them toward the northeastern point of the island. The shoreline drifted by quickly. They passed farms, a single red boathouse, the wooded shoreline where she'd found Henrik, and another pasture where sheep grazed on patches of last year's grasses. Snows had begun to melt.

  Drizzle drenched her face, but Marit didn't mind. Perhaps this mission would be easy to accomplish after all. With a breeze at their stern, they glided easily. She understood the risk, but to be doing something to help the Resistance was exhilarating. For two years she had not been able to do anything to help fight the Nazis. Just a week ago, she'd stood mute and helpless as Nazis hauled her aunt away. Finally, she was doing something.