To Sleep With Reindeer

by Justine Saracen

  * * *

  As Kirsten entered the SOE Norwegian Section office, Lief Tronstad, Jack Wilson, and Jomar Brun all stood up. “Welcome back, dear.” Brun embraced her lightly. She shook hands with the others, and Tronstad directed her toward a chair. “Please take a seat. We’re looking forward to your filling us in on events.”

  “First of all, here are your maps.” She handed over the leather sack that had hung over her shoulder most of the way. “I hope this means you’re planning the invasion through Norway.”

  Wilson crossed his legs and looked very British as he lit the cigarette jutting from a dark wooden holder. “We’ll talk about that later, but first tell us about Operation Hydro.”

  She shrugged, concealing her regrets. “There’s not much to tell that you don’t already know. Skinnarland, Haugland, and Sørlie did their jobs perfectly. They put together the timer and plastic explosive and planted it under the bow. For some reason departure was delayed, but the crew made up for the lost time, and we were almost mid-lake when it blew. So, all went according to plan.”

  Wilson nodded approval, then added coolly, “As we understand it, you were on board the Hydro at that moment. Why was that?”

  Kirsten met his glance. “Because it turned out that a person I knew was one of the passengers, and I wanted to save her after the bomb detonated.”

  He blew out smoke through his nose. “That was reckless and a violation of protocol, as you must have known. Did you succeed?”

  “No. She drowned, along with her three-year-old son.” She paused, undecided whether additional information was necessary. “But we saved her infant and the oldest child.”

  “Very touching. But your humanitarian urges endangered the whole operation. If you’d been caught, you would have jeopardized all your colleagues as well.” Wilson paused and looked toward Tronstad for support.

  But Tronstad was more conciliatory. “Nonetheless, the mission was a success, and as we informed you, the King has issued commendations for you and your comrades. The loss of life was regrettable, but as we understand it, there have been no reprisals. It does appear that the Germans have ended their heavy-water production, which was the whole point.”

  Jomar sighed. “A pity though. We Norwegians set up the installation, years ago, to separate out deuterium and had no idea it could be used to develop a weapon. But now the technology exists, so perhaps after the war, we can use it for civilian purposes.”

  Kirsten was keen to change the subject. “Can we talk about the invasion of Norway? I understand that invasion plans are top secret. I’d only like to know if my delivery of the maps means it’s a real possibility.”

  Tronstad shook his head. “There’s no plan, though Churchill has been pushing his Operation Jupiter since May of 1942. He insists that grabbing Norwegian airfields would keep open the sea route to Russia and open a second front. He has a fantasy of our squadrons advancing southward, as he said, ‘to unroll the map of Nazi-controlled Europe.’”

  “But no one was convinced,” Jomar added. “And the plan variations became more and more outlandish.”

  “Outlandish? What do you mean?” Kirsten’s disappointment was mixed with curiosity.

  “I mean that someone even suggested using a giant aircraft carrier made of ice that could carry planes to provide air cover. Don’t laugh. They concocted a product called pykrete, a mix of ice and wood pulp. Of course, nothing came of it.”

  Kirsten tried to imagine a war vessel made of ice. She shook her head and returned to the point. “So, the invasion-in-Norway idea was scrapped.”

  “Essentially, yes. But the Allied leaders want to implement part of it as a diversion and create the impression that our troops in Scotland are preparing to invade Norway, while they build up forces for an actual invasion through France.”

  Kirsten glanced down at the battered briefcase she had been guarding so carefully. “You didn’t need the maps after all? Or were you hoping they’d be intercepted?”

  “Oh, no. The maps are still quite valuable. They will be marked with spots showing Milorg bases and other significant locations. Someone needed to deliver them.”

  “I see. What now?”

  Wilson inserted another cigarette into his handsome holder. “Now, you’re going on furlough.”

  “Furlough? Because of my breaking the rules on Operation Hydro?”

  He lit the cigarette with a Zippo lighter, which he then clicked shut with a flourish and slid back into his shirt pocket. “You’ve been in the thick of it for too long.” He took a puff and breathed out smoke as he spoke. “Battle fatigue and all that. So we’re taking you out for a while.” Wilson crossed his legs in the other direction and turned toward Tronstad, ending the discussion.

  “You’re taking me out? I respectfully object.”

  Brun stepped toward her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t object, Kirsten. You’ve made heroic contributions. You were involved in three operations, one of which was a disaster, then spent time in a German jail before succeeding in a major sabotage. It’s way beyond what anyone would have expected of you. Consider the furlough a reward. You’ll want to spend time with your mother, anyhow. She needs you now, more than we do.”

  Kirsten suddenly felt tired, defeated. Her own father had played the final and strongest card. “Yes, of course. A furlough of a few weeks.”

  “Or months. But don’t worry. The war won’t go away while you’re absent.” With that, he gently guided her to the door.

  * * *

  The London Hospital in Whitechapel, with a series of archways surmounted by a row of pilasters, had the tired dignity of an architectural style from an earlier century. Its sooty, gray-brown main entrance was depressing, however, as Kirsten passed through it knowing she was about to begin a death watch.

  She strode along the corridor, noting that the wards were all full. Undernourished people were slow to recover from sickness or air-raid wounds, and some, no doubt, had no home to return to anyhow.

  Eleanor Wallace was in a smaller room of six beds, no doubt due to her approaching death. Glancing around at the other five beds, Kirsten concluded that those patients, too, were moribund. The room smelled of bleach.

  She drew up a stool that stood by her mother’s bed and sat down, horrified. The emaciated woman lying in front of her was barely recognizable.

  At the touch of Kirsten’s hand, Eleanor awakened and turned her head. She seemed bewildered for a moment, and when she finally spoke, her speech was slurred. “Oh, it’s you. How nice,” she managed to say. “I was wondering if you’d make it.”

  The white of her eyes was faintly yellow with jaundice, typical of advanced pancreatic cancer. “Yes, here I am. How do you feel?”

  “The way I look, I suppose. Bloody fucking awful.” She licked dry lips after the effort of speaking. “Hurts like hell, too, but they give me morphine. Where’ve you been?”

  Kirsten entwined her fingers into her mother’s. “You know. On duty. The war.”

  “So Jomar’s got you into his intrigue.”

  “Let’s not talk about my father. You divorced him ages ago, and it’s not worth getting annoyed about. But yes, I’ve just come in from Norway.”

  Eleanor took a breath. “I lost track. First Oslo University, then you worked at Jomar’s plant, and then he showed up here. Said you were fine, but that’s all. No way to contact you.”

  “A lot has happened in the last year, and I wasn’t always reachable. How’s Harry?” she asked, changing the subject to Eleanor’s second husband. “Has he been to visit?”

  “On duty in Italy. A colonel now, so awfully busy. So far, no sign of him. Awfully busy. The war…”

  The sonofabitch. Kirsten had never much liked Harold Wallace, from the time they married when Kirsten was fifteen. She found him controlling and a bit of a martinet but didn’t begrudge her mother her happiness. Even that didn’t last long. After a few years, he grew detached and was obviously more interested in his military career than
his wife. Now she was dying, and he had apparently not even bothered to request a few days of emergency leave. The bastard.

  Eleanor squeezed her hand weakly. “What have you been doing? Nothing dangerous, I hope.”

  “Oh, Mother. It’s just as dangerous being in London with all the raids. I was tromping through a lot of snow, helping people.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember the winters in Rjukan. Worst decision I ever made was to marry a Norwegian. You look just like him, you know. Except for your hair.” She reached up to touch a strand of Kirsten’s red-blond hair, then seemed to remember her first question. “Where were you, exactly?”

  “All over. The Hardangervidda, then Rjukan, then near Oslo, and finally northward to Trondheim. A busy year.”

  “The Hardangervidda. Oh, my. In winter! Appalling place.”

  “Well, challenging. But part of the time I stayed with some Sami. Very nice people.”

  “Sami? Those primitives who sleep in dirt houses and live with reindeer? Blimey.”

  “Mother, they saved my life. I was injured and almost died in the snow. They found me and took care of me. Besides, their houses are made with wood and turf, not dirt, and much more comfortable than you think.”

  “If you say so.” Eleanor’s head dropped back on her pillow, and she closed her eyes, drawing an end to the conversation.

  A nurse approached the bed. “This is as much talking as she’s done in days, but I think you’ve worn her out. Perhaps you can come back again tomorrow?”

  * * *

  Housing was scarce in war-torn London, but Harry Wallace, upper class and an officer in His Majesty’s Army, had enough money to keep a decent apartment in Brixton on one of the few streets that hadn’t suffered air-raid damage. His absence kept him from having anything to say about his stepdaughter moving into it. She had no more luggage than she’d carried with her in a single rucksack on the crossing to Shetland, but a search of her mother’s closet had unearthed a cardboard box of her own clothing. Obviously, someone had packed them after her departure from Britain, at the age of twenty-five. She was now thirty-four, but the deprivations of Norway had kept her thin, and most of the articles still fit. She also had her mother’s various jumpers to borrow, so she had to purchase only underwear and woolen stockings.

  In the evenings, she listened to war reports on the radio and wrote letters to Maarit. She couldn’t send them, but they gave her a sense of Maarit’s presence, and she might present them altogether when they were finally reunited.

  The following day, and each day thereafter, she arrived at the hospital at ten and took her place on the bedside stool. Eleanor’s cancer had spread to her lungs, and her obvious deterioration was rapid. After a week, she did little more than sleep, though she rallied for a few moments of consciousness each time Kirsten kissed her and took her hand.

  At the end of April, Kirsten knew she had only days left, and Eleanor seemed to know it, too. They both seemed to intuit the time was past for small talk and half-truths, of talking around subjects.

  Eleanor seemed to force her eyes open and to focus them on her. She took a breath and wheezed out a question. “Are you happy, darling?”

  “Not while I’m losing you, no. But if you mean in general, yes. I think so.”

  “Not lonely?” Breath. “No man…in your life?”

  “Mother. You must have noticed. I’ve never had a man in my life.”

  “What, then?” Breath. “Need…someone.” Breath. “Hate to think of you alone.”

  “I’m not alone, Mother. I met someone in Norway. We both wear these.” She reached inside her shirt for her fox amulet, drew it over her head, and laid it in her mother’s hand.

  Eleanor closed her fingers around it weakly “Um. What’s…his name?”

  “Her name. It’s a woman. She’s named Maarit. She was the one who saved me when I collapsed in the snow on the Hardanger. Well, she and her family.” Eleanor’s eyes widened, suggesting a brief surge of lucidity, and her face radiated genuine interest. She seemed present as she had not been for many days, and filled with emotion, Kirsten wanted to tell her everything before she lost her again. A floodgate opened, and she poured out every detail she could recall.

  “The reindeer found me first, but then she came with her family, and they dug me out.” She was rambling. “I was injured, and I couldn’t walk, so they put me on a sled, where I ended up sleeping with a reindeer calf. Cutest thing. White. I named her Lykke, for happiness and luck. That’s what this is all about.” She tapped the amulet. “Anyhow, I stayed with the reindeer herd until I was better, and then Maarit and I both traveled back to Rjukan.”

  Eleanor was still holding a soft smile, so Kirsten didn’t stop talking. She had so much to tell, and she wanted to fill her mother with lovely images. She wanted to describe the salty coffee, sleeping by a fire every night, joiking, and the sphere of white mist the circling herd sent up in the corral. Most of all, she wanted to talk about being in love.

  “We worked together in the resistance, and it was so good to have her with me. After the war, or maybe even before, I’ll go back to her. She has reindeer, but she’s studying to become a doctor, which the Sami need. So, you see, I’m not lonely at all.”

  Eleanor’s open eyes closed to a squint, as she seemed to focus on only one word of the entire tale.

  “Sami? She’s a Sami?”

  “Half Sami. And so smart, and capable, and beautiful. I know you’d love her.”

  “Sami?” Eleanor repeated, barely audibly. “Blimey,” she muttered, then quietly passed from life.

  * * *

  Without a funeral service, and in the presence of both her first and her second husband, Eleanor Wallace was cremated on April 2, 1944. The next day, Kirsten reported back to Wilson and Tronstad, requesting to return to Norway.

  “Sorry, Kirsten. We need you here for the moment. All SOE forces are focused on Operation Overlord, which has the highest priority.”

  “You’re calling it Overlord? So, the plans for the invasion are in.”

  “Yes, and of course it’s critical to keep the Germans guessing where it will be. What part of France or even Norway. That’s where you come in.”

  “Yes. I’m listening.”

  Wilson lit a cigarette, which he always seemed to do for dramatic effect and to command full attention. He exhaled smoke slowly, forcing her to wait for more explanation. “Using the maps you brought us, as well as your knowledge of the coastal areas, we’ll work with you to create false projections of deployment of men and materials. The German commanders aren’t stupid, and they may have locals working with them anyhow. They’re sure to detect impossible scenarios, so we need to create realistic possible ones. Then, after consultation with the war department, we’ll draw up phony plans for ship embarkations, troop deployments, airdrops, all that sort of thing. You’ll be the one to compose the cables in Norwegian, which our code people will then encrypt and radio to certain recipients who will know they’re fake.”

  “Why encrypt them if you want the enemy to detect them?”

  “The Germans are aware we’d never radio anything as important as invasion information in open Norwegian. But we’ll use one of our old code systems, which we know they’ve broken,” Tronstad explained.

  “Are you sure I can’t do any of this from the Norwegian side?”

  Wilson’s tone revealed he was losing his patience. “Out of the question. You’re here, and this is where you’re needed.” He tapped off the long ash of his cigarette as a sort of punctuation. “What’s your decision?”

  She cringed inwardly at the thought that she would miss the “return in six months” she had promised and had no way to contact Maarit to explain. But the alternative was to do nothing and still be blocked from return.

  “Yes. I could do that.”

  * * *

  A month passed, and judging by the movement of German forces into Norway, Operation Jupiter Deception had succeeded. Meanwhile, plans for an actual invasi
on somewhere in France developed apace. The Allied leaders declined to announce a date of departure, but southern England filled with Americans, Australians, Canadians.

  British civilians now found their cities awash with fighting men, British and Commonwealth, as well as American, and growing anticipation filled the drizzly, late-winter air. War materiél—jeeps, troop trucks, and armored vehicles—moved through the streets. Even small airplanes were towed from their factories or from docks where they’d arrived from America.

  Kirsten worked as many hours as she was physically able, having nothing to go home to, and home itself was a single room her stepfather grudgingly granted her in his Brixton apartment. Even he was mostly absent, for which she was grateful.

  Her social life consisted of an occasional after-work tea with colleagues and one depressing visit to a bar. She would not be cajoled into dancing with any of the Tommies or GIs, and seeing them with their “girls” only worsened her loneliness.

  She longed to send a message to Maarit, but even if she were permitted to, and had any idea where to send it, what could she write? That the Allies were coming? Not to Norway, by the way, but somewhere in France?

  At the beginning of June it was evident to all that mobilization was imminent. The entire nation seemed to be drumming its fingers. When the troops were confined to their ships, everyone knew it was a matter of days. People bet on what day would be D-day, and the odds were for June fourth.

  But a rainstorm arrived on the fourth and continued until the fifth, and all bets were off.

  Then, just before dawn, Kirsten awoke to the sound of a tidal wave. She opened her window and peered upward to see scattered formations of planes of all varieties. She knew what she saw was only a tiny part of the wave of aircraft setting out at that moment over the Channel.

  She splashed water on her face, dressed, and reported for work. The invasion had begun.