“I can wait. I have a lot to settle in Udsek anyhow, now that my family is reduced to Gaiju and who knows how many reindeer. When you return, I’ll be easy to find. Besides, if the invasion is through Norway, they’ll need you here, won’t they?”
“They might, but I’m coming back anyhow, no matter what. After the war, my father will want to rush back to Norway, too. They’ll need him for postwar reconstruction, and they’ll be asking for chemists. So, you see, we’ll be together, you and I, if we can just wait.”
They both smiled at the pledge they’d made, and Maarit snickered. “How silly we are. This is the first time in days we’ve been alone in a warm place. Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”
“Because you haven’t stopped talking.” Kirsten tightened her grasp around Maarit’s waist and covered her mouth with a smile-kiss that tasted of coffee and stifled laughter. They had slept in an embrace many times, but they still had so much to learn about each other. Skinnarland’s cabin wasn’t the place to do it.
A gunshot outside the cabin startled them apart.
Alarmed, Kirsten bent toward the cabin’s one window, then exhaled relief. “Relax. It’s Skinnarland. Looks like he’s caught something for lunch.”
Maarit smiled, wan. “I’d have preferred a few more minutes with you, but lunch is good, too.”
Moments later, he strode through the door holding the carcass of a snow hare. “Meat, my dears. And I have some frozen potatoes to make you a stew before your trip north.”
So, it was decided. She’d never had a choice, so it was just as well she’d agreed.
Kirsten would have called Skinnarland a comrade, but not a friend, and the sharing of private feelings was simply not done. But they’d worked together a long time now, and while the three of them prepared the hare and potatoes and stoked the fire, a certain domestic tranquility settled over them.
“The circumstances are sad, of course, but at least you’ll be going home to family,” Skinnarland observed, peeling off the animal’s skin. “Families are important, and our kind of work tends to tear them apart.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Kirsten admitted. “I guess that happens to the men, too. Do any of them have wives and children?”
“They do. Haugland’s wife is in Sweden, and he hasn’t seen her in ages. Torstad, stuck in Britain, has been away from his wife and children since the war began. Me, I’m still single. I have…someone…but we won’t marry until after the war. What’s the point if you can’t be together?”
Maarit frowned. “Of course, our kind of work keeps us separated. But while you’re out in the field, or in prison, for that matter, knowing someone you love is waiting for you keeps you going. In wartime, above all, you need someone to anchor you, someone to give you a reason to endure, even if they’re far away. Otherwise, if we have no family, no…lovers, what are we fighting for?”
Kirsten studied her earnest expression and took it as a declaration of love.
Chapter Seventeen
After the long trek from the cabin to Lillehammer, and a few tense moments as they purchased rail tickets under the watch of quisling policemen, they boarded the train, set their skis on the overhead rack, and tried to remain inconspicuous for the remainder of the journey.
Trondheim, at the end of February, was frigid and overcast, a glum atmosphere in which everyone hunched deep in their coats, sullen and anonymous. The city streets were unsuitable for skiing, so they continued on foot to the Norwegian Institute of Technology. As directed by Tronstad, they located the service entrance. Upon knocking, they were met by an elderly man with snow-white hair and a well-trimmed beard. Father Christmas, Kirsten thought, and might have smiled at the idea if she weren’t so depressed.
“Hello. Welcome to Trondheim. I’m Iver.” He seized first Kirsten’s, then Maarit’s hand and shook each firmly. “We heard what you did at Vemork, so it is an honor to meet you.”
“Um, yes.” Kirsten wondered how the news had spread and noted that he made no mention of the ferry sinking at Lake Tinn. Something to be less proud of. But she was cold and had no interest in social niceties. “We understand you have some documents for us.”
He clasped his hands, a gesture that seemed almost jovial. “I do indeed. We’ll see to it that you have them in hand when you depart. Everything is arranged. You’ll be traveling on the Hitra. It’s far offshore now, but before dawn it will anchor near the village of Trolla, some five kilometers north of here. It has only one dock, and someone will be waiting for you there with a rowboat between four and five o’clock tomorrow morning. If you don’t make it on time, they’ll leave without you.”
“Between four and five,” Kirsten repeated, glancing at the afternoon sky. “Good. That gives us a few hours to rest. Can you accommodate us in the meantime?”
“Of course. Any number of our people would be happy to put you up for these few hours, but it’s probably best if we get you out of sight immediately. In fact, it’s safest if you pass the time here in the institute.”
“That’ll be fine. It’s not long.”
Her voice must have conveyed their fatigue, for he bent forward solicitously. “You’ve come a long way, and I’m sure you don’t want to stand around chatting. I’ll take you to a place where you can rest, even have a little sleep before leaving.”
He turned abruptly and guided them to the back of the institute’s main building. Stopping at one of the doors, he drew out a key and unlocked it, turning the light switch as they entered.
“I apologize for having to put you a storage room. We weren’t sure when you’d arrive, or how long you’d have to wait for the Hitra to come in. We’ve left a bit of food for you, along with some blankets.” He gestured toward the rear of the room. “Once again, I’m happy to meet you and hope all goes well with the departure. When you leave, simply pull the door closed, and it’ll lock by itself.” After two more vigorous handshakes, he was gone.
It was a dusty place, filled with stacks of chairs, empty bookshelves, and a wall of cardboard boxes. It smelled sour, like badly washed clothing that had dried too slowly. Atop one of the boxes lay several coarse mats, presumably used for packing. They served quite well as bedding over the concrete floor. The promised blankets were also there, along with a box of dried cheese, crisp bread, and a bottle of local beer. As a shelter, it was a variation on Birgit’s storeroom in Rjukan.
The cold supper did little to dispel the glumness, but after eating, they laid out the mats and blankets and rolled up their coats as pillows. As they had in so many back rooms, barns, goahtis, and snow caves, they lay in each other’s arms, always with Kirsten on the inside of the embrace.
They had slept this way for months, their intimacy evolving from practicality to something more tender and romantic. But always the cold, squalor, and discomfort had kept sexual desire inchoate. And yet it grew, at least for Kirsten, until it seemed to fill her, crouching inside her like another creature. Now, on the eve of their separation, it moaned to be released.
Kirsten twisted around to face Maarit and ran trembling fingertips along her cheek and lips. “Surely you know that I want you.”
Maarit closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the touch. “What does it mean, that you ‘want me’?”
“You know what I mean. You just want to make me say it.”
“Yes. Say it.” She blinked slowly, and her dark eyes seemed to smolder.
“I want more than kisses. I want to touch you and thrill you with my fingers, to make you crave more and beg me not to stop. I want you to belong to me and become excited when you think of me.”
“You could have told me sooner. I was always here, right next to you.”
“I just was waiting for a bath and a clean bed. I wanted it to be perfect, and thrilling, not something you simply agreed to, like with Niilas.”
Maarit kissed the tip of her nose. “It could never be like that. Ordinary. With you it’s like we’re outlaws.”
Kirsten laughed so
ftly into her neck. “That’s what we are. Fugitives, bandits. Living on the fringes, hiding in storerooms and on the vidda, with no bath in sight.” She kissed Maarit’s throat, sensing the pulse against her lips. Unhurried, she undid the belt around Maarit’s sweater, slipping her hands underneath the rough wool. She let her hands warm for a moment on the soft flesh, then inched farther along to caress Maarit’s breasts. Such wonderful breasts, which she had never seen. Firm and youthful, they seemed to swell against her hand as she brushed her fingers over them.
She tilted her head back, searching for Maarit’s mouth, found it, and pressed a long, soft kiss, exhaling a sound of longing. Maarit responded, and the kiss became a back-and-forth of lips and tongue and teeth, each movement increasing the ardor of the other.
Outlaws. Lawless creatures, without rules or expectations, witnesses or judge. Just the two of them in a vacuum, with no before or after, and nothing was illicit. She slid her hand downward inside Maarit’s trousers and felt her startle slightly, then surrender to the intimate touch. Her fingers, too, were bandits, which crept along the warm belly to do what wasn’t allowed or even spoken of, at the place that waited.
But the innocent place was already welcoming and wet to the outlaw touch.
“Yes, oh, yes,” Maarit breathed. “Don’t stop.”
Kirsten didn’t stop.
* * *
They had scarcely fallen asleep when loud knocking awakened them. As expected, it was Iver, who carried a leather briefcase that had obviously seen many years of service. “Everything that needs delivering is here. The people at the other end will know what to do with it.”
Kirsten accepted the briefcase, noting it was locked. “I’m to carry this to London, to Lief Tronstad?”
“To him or to Mr. Wilson. I’ve let you sleep as long as possible, but you really must leave now if you’re to cover the distance by ski in time. Thank you again for this service.” He shook their hands again with the same vigor as before and directed them toward the coastal road.
After wolfing down the last scraps of cheese and now-stale bread, they set out from the institute. Outside the town, where the snow was smooth, they buckled on their skis and made the five-kilometer hike northward along the coast to the village of Trolla. Arriving at the main dock, they checked their watches and determined it was shortly after four thirty.
To their disappointment, the glamorous sub-chaser that promised a speedy and luxurious trip across the North Sea wasn’t visible. The Hitra obviously still waited offshore in the darkness, for only a rowboat was present. One man sat in the boat, and a second approached them on the dock. He was short and burly, with more bulk than she was used to seeing on the men around her. He must have enjoyed better rations than the average Norwegian. With a wide beard and dense head of hair, he wasn’t someone she would ever want an altercation with.
“What are you looking for here at this hour?” he asked brusquely.
Kirsten gave the required response. “We were told fishermen went out at night, and we were hoping to buy some of the catch.”
He scratched his beard, clearly suspicious. “They said there’d only be one of you.”
“Yes. That’s me. My friend will be staying.” She turned to Maarit. “Here. Take the rest of our money. I meant to give it to you earlier.” She slid a handful of kroner from her pocket and dropped it into Maarit’s hand. Then she slipped out of her skis and kicked them aside.
Burly bearded man obviously decided all was correct and was already climbing down onto the rowboat. Now men both waited impatiently.
She embraced Maarit quickly. “Please don’t forget me,” she whispered in Maarit’s ear.
“Please come back to me,” Maarit whispered back.
Kirsten tightened her hold. “I will. In six months, I promise. If I’m alive, I’ll find a way back. I love you.” Then she turned abruptly and stepped onto the ladder to the rowboat.
* * *
Holding back tears, Maarit watched until the rowboat disappeared from sight. She trusted Kirsten’s declaration but was no fool. A war was on, and a hundred things could happen, starting from that very night, that could prevent her return. She shook her head. It was torture to think about them, so she picked up Kirsten’s discarded skis and began the trip back to Trondheim.
What to do next? Months lay ahead of her now, before Kirsten returned and they could plan together. Thoughts and half-formed ideas swirled in her mind.
Her whole future at Udsek was now in question. She had matters to settle with Gaiju and the others regarding the family herd, not to mention decisions to make about staying alone, unmarried, and essentially without family among the Sami. But with Kirsten gone, she felt a sudden vacuum around her and the craving to belong to someone, somewhere. If she remained with the Sami, she could call on old friends: the Tuovo family, Aibmu, and perhaps even the wandering Niilas. He was a good man.
But she could postpone those decisions. The reindeer were currently scattered over the Hardangervidda and wouldn’t begin to migrate until about April. They usually moved in a wide arc northwestward. Sometimes their trajectory brought them almost to the coast, but that wouldn’t be until June.
For now, she felt more driven by her desire to stay connected, however thinly, with Kirsten. That meant, simply, to remain with Milorg. She enjoyed a certain prestige now since Vemork.
“I damn well better,” she said out loud into the darkness as she skied. “They’d be crazy not to take me.” What was the institute man’s name again? Ah, right. Iver. She rehearsed in her mind what she’d say to him.
I know the terrain, the best routes to and from Trondheim, and if you need someone to guide people from the vidda—or from anywhere, for that matter—to the Shetland boat, no one could do it better than a Sami.
Skiing in the darkness, she relaxed slightly. She had a plan. Work with Milorg until spring and then return to the Sami. She recalled that Niilas made a living delivering reindeer meat to a dozen towns, including Trondheim. It would be no surprise if they ran into each other one day. That would be amusing. She wondered if he still had a soft spot for her.
Chapter Eighteen
As Maarit disappeared in the darkness on the dock behind her, Kirsten felt conflicting emotions. Most strongly, a residue of euphoria after a night of lovemaking and an immediate longing to return, followed by fear of what could happen to them in the long months of separation, and finally, resentment that she’d been summoned to Britain at all. She gripped the leather case that hung at her side. Any number of other agents could just as well have delivered the maps.
But her mother lay dying, and she had that duty to fulfill as well. Huddled in her coat against the wind and spray, she thought about Eleanor Wallace, who had remarried three years after the divorce. They’d been close enough through Kirsten’s childhood, especially during the first years after their return to Britain, but the arrival of a stepfather had broken the tie and made her resentful. A certain sullenness had replaced the easy affection of childhood. She felt a certain guilt at that memory, but perhaps she could rectify the negligence before it was too late.
The sight of the Hitra looming up in front of them interrupted her brooding, and her jaw dropped slightly. The craft was more than twice as long as the fishing boat she’d crossed in the year before.
“She’s a beauty, ain’t she,” the bearded one said. “Submarine chaser from the Americans. Navy gave it to us. Cruises at seventeen knots and can go as fast as twenty-two. It’ll really spoil you.”
She climbed aboard, and the seaman who met her led her to her compartment, which had, to her astonishment, a cubicle with a hot shower. Warm pipes along the bulkhead told her the vessel had central heating, and she shed her tattered coat to enjoy it.
A few moments later, the seaman returned with something bulky over his arm. “You might find one of these useful. Courtesy of the US Navy.” He held out a thick, fur-lined coat, and she slipped her arms into it. “A bit large,” she observed, “but I�
�ll take it. What luxury.”
“Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from. Come on down to the galley for supper. You’ll be amazed. We have an oil stove, refrigerator, water fountain, wine lockers, even an electric toaster.”
The last item reminded her of how hungry she was, and laying her new coat across the bunk, she followed him to the galley, a bit dazed. It was all so sudden. After a year of cold, pain, subsistence rations, and deprivation, she’d stepped into a world of comfort and hot meals.
If only Maarit could have come, too.
* * *
Scalloway, Shetland, seemed even less hospitable in March than the shores of Norway had been. A scattering of huts along the low, brownish hills showed no sign of life or beauty, for they lacked the dark-green patches of fir forests that alleviated the Norwegian winter. Only the remains of Scalloway Castle gave the landscape a touch of interest.
“Welcome back.” A uniformed man, a sergeant, she thought, met her as she stepped out onto the dock. They exchanged pleasantries, and he led her away from the harbor. “We understand that ISO is awaiting your report in London, so I’m to drive you directly to Sumburgh Airport.”
“Very good,” she said blandly, and followed him to his vehicle.
“I hope they took good care of you on the Hitra,” he said as he started the motor. “In the old days, people used to arrive starving, half-frozen, and exhausted from the crossover.”
“I was one of those people in the ‘old days,’ and I can tell you, it’s much better now. Thank you for asking. Scalloway Base has changed a bit as well.”
“Yes. We’re getting quite good at this sort of thing,” he said, and provided a lengthy description of the benefits of the new site over the original base at Lunna.
Kirsten nodded, encouraging his narrative so as not to have to talk herself, and in short order they arrived at the airport. An RAF plane waited, and once aboard, she allowed herself to doze. When she awoke, they were at RAF Croydon, London.
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