To Sleep With Reindeer

by Justine Saracen

  * * *

  Kirsten worked throughout the summer and September, but increasingly, all her labors felt mechanical. Like everyone else, she followed the advances of the Allied troops as they were announced on the evening radio, but SOE, and the Allies in general, had little to say about Norway. It was no longer relevant. If the Norwegians were going to be liberated from the Germans, it would not be by the British and Americans.

  In September, Finland—which had been fighting in desultory fashion against the Soviets for over three years and thus vaguely allied with Germany—negotiated a peace, and the German Gebirgsjäger set about evacuating troops and supplies from Finland to northern Norway.

  On the third of October, word came that the Russians had crossed over into Norway, and British interest seemed to be renewed. The next day, the radio reported that British aircraft had bombed the U-boat bunker and docks in Bergen Harbor. No mention was made of how many Norwegians had been killed in the operation.

  But the Germans were in retreat in the north, and as they withdrew, they left a wasteland behind them. They set buildings ablaze and butchered people and their livestock, to leave nothing for the advancing Soviet troops. So much for the Norwegians being part of the chosen Aryan people.

  British interest in Norway was desultory. They again attempted to bomb the submarine pens west of Bergen. No account was given of any damage to the submarines, but Milorg radioed an immediate communication protesting the fifty-some civilian deaths. Stray bombs had apparently destroyed a school.

  In October, the Red Army liberated Kirkenes, in northern Norway, but they arrived to find its port destroyed and its houses and commercial buildings blown up or booby-trapped. No reports came in about the many Sami villages and settlements Kirsten knew were along the retreat route. But then the Soviets halted pursuit. To the Soviets, too, Norway had become irrelevant.

  At the last report, something inside Kirsten broke. She stood up from her desk and marched along the corridor and up to the third floor, to Leif Tronstad’s office.

  She knocked and heard, “Come in.” As she entered, he stood at the window, and he turned around.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Major, but I respectfully request to return to Norway. My assignment, to create a feigned invasion through Bergen, is now obsolete, so I see no reason to remain any longer. Let me rephrase that. I beg you to let me go back.”

  “Have you discussed this request with your father?”

  “No, sir. But we have different goals. His wife is here, and they can wait until the end of the war to help rebuild. I have reasons to be in Norway. Do you have any mission that would allow me to return? Anything?”

  “Interesting that you should make that request just now, though I suppose you’ve been listening to the same dreadful reports I have. What the Germans are doing in the north is quite appalling. Some of us want to protect Norway against that sort of barbarism.”

  “Yes, sir. That was my thought.”

  “Well, if you want to get back into the fight, you’re in luck. General Wilson and I have just been discussing Operation Sunshine.”

  “Yes, sir?” Her heart fluttered. He was going to offer her a way back.

  “It is an anti-demolition operation that will take place largely in the south. Specifically, it would aim to protect power stations, industrial buildings, and the like around Rjukan, Notodden, Kongsberg, and Nore. A few of your old comrades have already signed on—Jens Poulsson and Claus Helberg, who are here, and Einar Skinnarland, still in Norway. Would you like to come along?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. With all my heart.”

  “Do you know how to use a parachute?”

  “I do, sir. They taught me that back in training for Operation Freshman.” Mention of the failed mission brought a moment of embarrassed silence, but then Tronstad said, “Well, then, pack your kit, and prepare to be dropped by airplane over northern Norway.”

  “Yes, sir!” She saluted, unnecessarily, since she wasn’t in the military, and marched from the room. Suddenly she had new purpose and energy.

  * * *

  Five of them sat together in the modified Halifax BB 378 on their way over the North Sea: Kirsten, Leif Tronstad, Jens Poulsson, Claus Helberg, and a new man, Gunnar something.

  Tronstad bent toward Kirsten and shouted over the roar of the engines. “Here’s how it’ll go. We’ll be dropped over the Hardangervidda. Einar Skinnarland will join us after we’ve arrived as our radio operator, the same role he played in the Vemork operation. Jens Poulsson here is my second in command.” He indicated with his chin the man sitting across from him with an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth.

  “What about the materiél? Weaponry? Provisions?” Kirsten asked.

  Poulsson removed his pipe for a moment and joined the shouting match. “Allied airdrops. Can’t rely on local supplies. Germans burning everything.”

  Kirsten thought of Birgit and her fish soups. Would she ever see her again? “What’s the first step?”

  “Skinnarland’s cabin, to start. Link up with Milorg people. Now that the Germans are running, more Norwegians will volunteer.”

  She had other questions to ask: whether the British military was acting directly anywhere, whether there was any liaison with the Russians in the north, or if they were acting in a vacuum, but conversation by screaming was simply too strenuous. They could discuss details later, on the ground.

  * * *

  “We’re nearing the drop zone,” the navigator reported, and Kirsten did a final check of her parachute. They were roughly over the vicinity where her glider had crashed a year before, and the recollection brought a sudden ghost twinge to her once-injured foot. She brushed the ominous thought from her mind.

  At the pilot’s order, the bomb bay doors opened, and the team dropped out of the plane in close succession. November cold had covered the ground below with a thick coating of snow, which promised a soft touchdown. Their luck held, and so did the weather. No snow fell at that moment, the wind was minimal, and in the clear air, the pilot could see the lights Skinnarland had set out to signal the location of his cabin.

  The drop was timed to occur just before sunset, so that although the five of them would land some distance from one another, they could spot each other and the cylinder carrying their skis, weapons, and emergency provisions. If not, in the increasing darkness, they could signal with their torches.

  The plan worked perfectly, and two and a half hours later, the team was crowded together once again in the cabin. In the year since she’d seen him, Skinnarland had aged. His usually handsome square face was lined, his eyes circled in gray, and his beard wild. In fact, she found him more sympathetic as a weathered warrior than as a glamor boy.

  He passed around coffee. “Glad you all made it. I was getting bored here. So, talk to me about this defensive force you want to build.”

  Tronstad held his cup to his cheek for warmth. “Here’s the plan so far. We’ll divide into three sections. One will protect Nore Hydroelectric Power Station and surrounding substations. The second will cover Notodden and the power stations along the Tinn River. The third, which I’ll be directing, is responsible for the dam at Møsvatn, the factories around Rjukan, Vemork, and the ferries on Lake Tinn.”

  “All that for six people?”

  “Of course not. We’ll be coordinating with Milorg groups and recruiting contacts through them in all cases.”

  “What irony,” Kirsten said, shaking her head.

  “What do you mean?” Poulsson set aside his cup and lit his pipe.

  “I’ll be guarding Vemork and the Lake Tinn ferries. Last year, I was trying to destroy them.”

  Tronstad’s ironic expression showed he agreed. “Yeah. Strange how that works out. In any case, we start with recruiting. Once we have a sizeable force, SOE will drop weapons, ammunition, uniforms, and food. We’ll train, as necessary, and then most of our fighters will carry on with their normal work, waiting for a signal to engage. A smaller group will be battle-ready
and housed in cabins like this one, scattered all over the mountains.”

  “Sounds ambitious,” Kirsten said.

  “Ambitious, indeed. Let it never be said we were anything less.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Maarit sat in the vestry of Løkken Church in Meldal waiting for her pickup. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d be her twenty-fifth rescue that year, though that included the groups of two or three refugees collected together. This one, unlike most of the others, was British. She knew their first names, but nothing else, though she always assumed they were resistors or SOE agents who’d been called back for some reason.

  Løkken Church, served by a pastor with ties to Milorg, was a frequent meeting place, and he’d even left a bit of food for her in the vestry.

  Her rescue was called Will. Before headquarters had sent her out, they’d given her his name, the location of the meeting place, and the coordinates of the Shetland pickup boat, in this case at Hovde at the inland end of Vinjefjord. Will, they said, had managed to escape from Grini concentration camp, and that was a story she wanted to hear. But she’d been waiting for a day, and he hadn’t shown up. If he delayed much longer, the pickup boat would be forced to leave, and she’d have to hide him someplace—if he came at all.

  The vestry at least had a cushioned chair, but that was small comfort. It was October, the first snows had fallen, and the church was unheated. Worse, for fear that light would attract attention, she sat in darkness, which stirred old fears and anxieties around the subject that haunted her the most.

  Kirsten.

  No word or sign, after nine months, and she’d promised to return in six, at the most. Maarit rubbed her forehead, as if to relieve the dread. The end of the war was in sight, but she had made her plans for life after the war, murky as they were, with the assumption that Kirsten would return. Now her mind swirled with conflicting drives, questions, longings. What would it mean if Kirsten didn’t reappear? That she was lost at sea? Or simply had second thoughts and decided to stay in Britain? In that case, wouldn’t it be better to return to Udsek?

  Even after the loss of almost her entire family, she felt drawn to the Sami and knew they would accept her unconditionally. When she’d shown up after her mother’s death, Jova had made her a new gakti, and Alof had led her to the corral and shown her the reindeer she would inherit. They should have been Karrol’s, but he was gone, and the community had closed, lovingly, around her as the last of the family.

  She also knew the goahti and the herding life was too small for her ambitions. She had seen too much, done too much, was too much drawn to city life. Yet she was unwelcome among the Norwegians who had forced her out of her medical studies and back to the vidda.

  Another voice she hadn’t heard in years, that of her father, reminded her that he’d given his life for Norway and she was as much his child as her mother’s. Both parents had died courageously, her mother trying to rescue her son and her father trying to save Norway, and she owed it to them to stand her ground. But what ground was that?

  She felt a wave of love and loyalty to them both and recalled the joik she had sung for her mother and brother with Kirsten at her side.

  Kirsten. Who’d changed everything. But where the hell was she?

  Nine months.

  Male voices in the church sanctuary made her snap to attention. Two voices? She’d been told to expect only one. Alarmed, she stood up just as the men entered the vestry. One was obviously wounded, for he leaned against the other man and dropped heavily onto the chair she’d been sitting in.

  “Which one of you is Will?” she asked.

  “That’s him.” The healthy man nodded toward the wounded one. “I’m Lars.”

  Maarit bent toward Will, gripping his shoulder. “What happened?”

  “A wolf, apparently,” Lars answered for him. “He showed up at my door yesterday with his leg ripped open. I offered to call for a doctor, but he said he couldn’t take the risk, so I patched him up as well as possible. Then he asked me to help him get here.”

  Maarit didn’t like either development, a wounded man and a stranger. Could the latter be trusted? How much did he know?

  “What did you say, exactly?” she asked Will.

  Will hesitated. “I…uh…I told him two wolves attacked me while I was sleeping in the woods. I managed to shoot them, but only after they ripped open my leg. I needed help, so I went to the nearest village and knocked on the first door. Fortunately, Lars answered and took me in and bandaged me up. He saved my life.”

  Maarit spoke slowly in a low voice. “What…did…you…tell…him?”

  Will winced. “The truth. I had no choice.” He whimpered. “What else was I supposed to do? I told him I had to get to Løkken Church in Meldal, and quickly, because someone was going to get me on board a boat to Scotland. He brought me here. I wouldn’t have made it without him.”

  Lars raised a hand, dismissively. “Don’t worry. The information is safe with me. I’m on your side and can help you take him to your boat.”

  His assurances did little to alleviate her suspicions. Lars might be patriotic, but she couldn’t be sure. That he’d bandaged the fugitive rather than report him was a good sign, but in that case, only one man’s life was at stake. If Lars was a quisling and traveled the rest of the way with them to Hovde, he could denounce her and the crew, and cripple the whole Shetland transport operation.

  Forcing a smile of gratitude, she faced Will’s rescuer. “Thank you for all you’ve done, Lars. But I’ll carry on from here. You’re free to go home now.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lars leaned solicitously toward the wounded man and laid a hand on his back. “He’s very weak. You’ll be much better off with a strong man to help out. How far are you going, anyhow? North or south? Do we have to get him all the way to the coast or just somewhere along the fjord?”

  She shook off his questions. “Just help me get him on his feet. If we can get him as far as Vinjeøra, you can leave us.”

  “Vinjeøra. Is that where he’s being picked up? Is that where they’re always picked up? Who’s doing it? Norwegians? British? I’d like to meet those heroes.”

  “You don’t need to know any of those things.”

  He stiffened. “You insult me. I’ve helped your man all this way and risked my life for him. What are you afraid of, that I’ll denounce you? The resistance knows me. I’ve helped them a lot.”

  Them. Strange way to refer to fellow patriots.

  “Who have you worked with? The person in charge around here is Kjell Langstrøm, and he never mentioned you.” She invented the name. No one was in charge of the Meldal area, and there was no such person as Kjell Langstrøm.

  “Of course he hasn’t. He’s a good friend and knows he’d endanger me. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t call on me when he needs a favor.”

  She drew her revolver from inside her coat and pointed it at him. “Kjell Langstrøm doesn’t exist.”

  “What’s going on?” Will stood up, unsteady, then started to back away from them. Lars lurched toward him and grasped him around the neck from behind. With the wounded man as a shield, he drew his own gun from somewhere inside his jacket.

  “You stupid woman. We could have had a nice friendly trip to your pickup location. I’d have made a little telephone call to have you intercepted and would have gotten a nice reward. No one would have been hurt. I’m not a murderer, just a man looking after his interests.”

  Maarit stood paralyzed with uncertainty, still pointing her gun. How to back down from this, keep it from ending in someone’s death, maybe her own?

  “I’ll make you a counteroffer.”

  Lars snorted. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I have about two hundred kroner in my pocket. Just leave us and walk away, and you can have it. It’s not much but will make your trip worthwhile. And, after the war, you won’t be accused of collaborating with the Germans.”

  He laughed. “I’ll take my chances
with that, and I’ll take your two hundred kroner, too.”

  At that moment, Will seemed to have lost patience with the whole standoff and pivoted around, apparently trying to throw his captor off balance. Lars fired, striking Maarit in the shoulder. As she fell back, stunned, she heard a second gunshot and saw Will crumple onto the floor.

  As if shocked himself, Lars stood for a moment, dazed, his gun still pointing at the man at his feet. Maarit felt the air around her start to buzz and drain of color, and with her last moment of consciousness, she fired at him. Then she blacked out.

  She came to, though she couldn’t tell how long she’d been out. Her entire right side hurt, and even the slightest motion caused waves of white-hot lava to radiate from her shoulder. She heard moaning and turned her head. Lying on his side, Will seemed to gaze at her through half-opened eyes.

  “Will? Can you hear me?”

  “Can’t feel anything,” he said weakly. “Don’t think I’ll make it this time. Tell my wife I love her.”

  “Sure you will,” she replied, hearing her own hoarse voice. “Someone will come and get us. I know it. Just hang on.”

  “What a waste,” a third voice said. Obviously, Lars was also still alive, slumped up against a wall. Like her, he still held his gun, though now, with nothing left to negotiate, both their weapons were useless.

  “Now look at what you’ve done,” Lars said, his voice strained. “Your stupid, false patriotism has gotten us all killed.”

  Maarit tried to turn toward him, but movement was too painful, so she spoke into the air. “No. It was your greed. You could have had a little money in your pocket, and we’d all be able to go home. But you wanted more.”

  Lars snickered. “What are you fighting for, anyhow? It’s between the Germans and the Brits. I don’t care who rules Norway. Why do you?”

  “But you chose the German side. Bloody coward. Now you’re going to…” Will took a shallow breath and then fell silent.