by Kris Tualla
A way down the dirt path and walking toward the camp was a motley group of soldiers guarded by brown-uniformed Germans on horseback.
“Who are they?” Teigen whispered.
“Russians,” someone answered behind him. “You can spot the Red Army by the tall boots and the puffed-out pant legs.”
“And the hats,” another man said. “You can tell by the hats.”
No one else spoke as the group of about two dozen men, many bleeding and awkwardly bandaged, was marched inside the camp’s fence. They regarded the teachers with blurry, baffled expressions as they passed by them.
Jans leaned toward Teigen and whispered, “We’re obviously not soldiers. No wonder they’re confused. Guess they don’t know we’re famous.”
Teigen looked down at his pale friend. He tried to convince Jans to stay with the medics until he was stronger, but once Jans read the note from the Kirkenes man he refused to remain in bed any longer. Teigen had been berating himself ever since.
Damn it.
Why did I show it to him?
“Teachers!” their guard barked. “Move on!”
The intentionally slow march began. The men filed out of the gate in twos or threes, and then retraced the soggy steps of the Russian soldiers toward town.
Teigen had seen his messenger beside the road for the last two evenings, always standing in the same spot. Teigen met the man’s gaze and gave him a small nod both times. He was rewarded with a smile and a salute while the group moved by him.
At least he’s smart enough to hold the salute and not single me out.
Teigen told everyone who had read the note that the saluting man was the one who wrote it. Though he wouldn’t risk it himself, some of the teachers saluted him back.
The sharp crack of rifle fire exploded behind them. The surprised teachers halted their progress and looked back at the camp. Another shot was fired. And then another. Six in all.
“Was ist los?” Teigen asked their startled guards. “What is happening?”
The men closest to him exchanged confirming glances. Then one offered, “Die Russen sind tot.”
“The Russians are dead,” Teigen translated, adding, “Or six of them are.”
“They won’t shoot us—will they?” Halsten asked.
“No.” Teigen continued loudly in German so the guards would hear him, trusting the other interpreters to do their job and translate for the men around him. “We will not be shot because we are teachers, not soldiers. We are merely prisoners who do our work everyday and do not cause trouble.”
Teigen caught the eye of the closest German guard.
He nodded, though he didn’t smile. “Move on!”
*****
Teigen remained with Jans for the first half of their twelve-hour shift. He lent his larger frame to their shared tasks, trying to take the brunt of the load off of Jans’ weakened body.
Teigen waved pallets of crates into position as the dock cranes lowered their heavy burdens precariously into place.
He helped steady and guide the nets filled with bundles from the ships’ holds to rest safely on the dock.
And he gave Jans instructions to count crates and bundles and log the numbers with the Nazis tasked with overseeing the work, rather than keep his friend in possible harm’s way.
But when the accident happened, there was no way for Teigen to prevent it.
The barrels had been sloppily tied. Filled with thirty gallons of oil, each metal barrel weighed about two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, and over their rocking journey through the Norwegian Sea those ties had loosened.
At least, that was the Nazis’ conclusion after the fact.
Jans was standing on the pier with a handful of other teachers, waiting for the pallet of nine barrels to reach solid ground when something shifted.
It was unclear whether the shift was caused by a sudden wave knocking against the ship, or maybe a strong gust of wind on the breezy day, or the crane might have moved too quickly.
None of that mattered now. All that mattered was that the pallet tipped and the barrels broke their bindings about six feet above the dock. With a sickening clang of metal they tumbled to the concrete pier, falling in all directions.
Teigen bolted down the dock, shoving men aside in his panic.
“Jans!” he shouted. “Jans! Are you hurt?”
The teachers were running after the barrels, stopping some of them from rolling into the water. One man was bellowing in pain as several teachers pulled him from under a barrel.
As soon as Teigen saw Jans, he knew. Still conscious, Jan looked at Teigen and lifted one wobbling arm to try and push the barrel off his chest.
Three men leapt to the task and lifted the oil barrel from Jans’ body.
“Medic!” someone shouted.
Teigen fell to his knees beside his friend and grabbed the waving hand. “Help’s coming, Jans. Stay with me.”
“I think… my ribs… can’t breathe…” he rasped.
“That’s all it is, Jans,” Teigen lied; his friend’s hips were smashed nearly flat. “Just be calm. They’re taking you to the civilian hospital, not the camp.”
“Yeah?” Jans’ eyelids fluttered. “Goo…”
Teigen squeezed his friend’s hands. “Jans?”
The brown eyes that opened and met his were unfocused. “Kill… the… bastards…”
Jans did not breathe again.
Chapter
Eleven
July 23, 1942
Oslo, Norway
“I’ll say this much,” Dahl handed Selby the Nazi-controlled newspaper. “The teachers in Norway are a tough bunch. Who would’ve thought it?”
Selby scanned the headlines, unaccountably irritated by Dahl’s attitude. “They’re men, aren’t they? Norwegian men?”
“Yes, but—”
“And through their vocation they shape every man and woman in the country,” she continued before lifting her eyes to Dahl’s. “Teachers, by definition, set examples.”
Dahl attempted to make a joke. “You know the saying, Selby. Those who can, do. Those who can’t—”
“Teach others how.” Her tone was sharper than she intended. But ever since they received word that a teacher had died in an accident at the labor camp Selby ached to know if it was ‘her’ teacher.
That was how she thought of him now. Her own brave warrior, fighting their oppressors on the ground just as she did.
Resistance was resistance, whether officially a member of their army or just a singular man remaining loyal to his country and his people.
“The teachers who were not arrested are still defying Quisling’s demands,” Dahl offered.
“This paper claims that Nazi officers are going to shoot ten of the remaining imprisoned teachers in retaliation.” Selby’s finger slid over the printed page. “But down here it says one in every ten.”
Selby lifted wide eyes to Dahl. “Can we do anything about that?”
He shook his head. “We can’t even determine if it’s true, or an empty threat to terrorize the families. Look at page two.”
Selby turned the page. “Teachers to be sent far north to destroy Russian landmines?”
Dahl shrugged. “It’s the same everywhere. I know someone who works at the Minister’s office… or I know people at the office of the German headquarters… All that these rumors have in common is the claim that something drastic’s going to happen to the prisoners if the other teachers don’t stop their protests.”
“Will they stop?” Selby refolded the paper and sank into the chair opposite Dahl in the dressing room. “I mean, those eighteen men who escaped Grini actually were shot…”
“Escaping prisoners are fair game in war,” Dahl said sadly. “But I don’t think Quisling can risk shooting peaceful teachers, no matter what his justification.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Selby sighed and looked at her reflection. Someone she was not accustomed to seeing stared back at her. “Are the
payment packets ready?”
“Bennett finished them about an hour ago.” Dahl pointed at a drawer in the chest behind him. “In there.”
Selby stood and crossed to the chest. She opened the drawer and stuffed the six pockets inside her leather vest with the pay packets. She read each name as she did so.
“Still the same eight families, then.”
“Yep.” Dahl reached for her hand. “Be careful, Sel.”
“Always.” She flashed a brief smile and snuggled a leather cap over her hair. “See you in a couple hours, then.”
*****
Walking through the twilit streets of Oslo after curfew was both peaceful and incredibly dangerous. Dressed in dark, simple clothing, Selby walked quickly with her head down. Her soft-soled calfskin shoes didn’t make any sound on the pavement.
Resistance workers had recently been stopped by German soldiers watching the arrested teachers’ homes and the money packets were confiscated, which made delivering the replaced salaries more complicated. Now that the nights were darkening, delivering in the wee hours attracted less notice.
Since the Troupe arrived in Oslo six weeks ago, Selby had been delivering weekly pay packets to families whose husbands and fathers were either in Kirkenes or locked inside Grini Prison. Selby was familiar with the back streets and alleys of Oslo by now and had mapped out a surreptitious route to the homes.
The prostitutes she occasionally encountered were her best allies in the task, warning her of approaching Nazis as she prowled across the city from house to house. They knew Selby was delivering money from the Resistance to families of the incarcerated teachers, supporting them while their men were locked away, and they respected her for it.
And Selby respected them, in a way. After playing her role as sweetheart to a variety of Nazi officers up the coast of Norway she couldn’t honestly point fingers at those women who made a living with their bodies.
I’m a Nazi whore, too.
She chuckled silently.
I just don’t get paid for it.
Selby was approaching the last house on her route. This one was a little different from the others on her list because the woman who asked for assistance was only engaged to the arrested teacher. But Elsa Borg was pregnant with Teigen Hansen’s child and living with her parents for now, so the payments were being made.
Besides, it wasn’t Selby’s decision who was paid, only to deliver the money. Once both the missing teacher and the pregnancy were confirmed, the requested salaries were replaced.
Elsa was required to answer the door because Selby was not allowed to give anyone else the packet. Her pale blonde hair was twisted in a braid disheveled by sleep. She yawned widely and held out one smooth-palmed hand.
Selby laid the envelope in Elsa’s hand without saying a word.
“Thanks.” Elsa moved behind the door and closed it. She threw the lock before Selby even turned around.
Shelby made a face at the solid door and the haughty woman behind it. She didn’t care much for Elsa Borg.
Heading back to the theater Selby had to detour around a pair of Nazi soldiers who were roaring drunk and looking for trouble. She crouched behind a phalanx of trash cans when they crossed the alley that she detoured through, and waited until their slurring voices were at a decent distance before resuming her journey.
Dahl was waiting for her inside the theater’s dressing room. “Everything go well?”
Selby nodded as she walked past him to the dressing screen where she changed back into her regular clothes. “Do you know anything about Elsa Borg?”
“No. Should I?” was the puzzled reply.
Shelby didn’t answer at first. What would she say—that the woman was an ungrateful snot? “No. I was just curious.”
“She’s one of your deliveries, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.” Selby pulled a dress over her head. “She’s just odd, is all.”
“War makes people odd,” Dahl replied in a voice expanded by a deep yawn. “You ready?”
“Yes.” Selby stepped out from behind the screen and stretched. “Today’s rehearsals killed me. I’m ready for bed.”
Dahl’s smile was hopeful as usual. “Don’t tease me like that.”
Selby backhanded his arm and didn’t return the smile. “Let’s go.”
They walked to the hotel in silence.
August 29, 1942
Kirkenes, Norway
Although it was still August the weather was becoming colder. It seemed that whatever arctic summer existed had already come and gone. Life in the labor camp over the last months had alternated between humid, mosquito-filled droughts, and rousing deluges that turned the world into a muddy bog.
Teigen would have complained to Jans, but Jans wasn’t there anymore. And talking to his friend’s unmarked grave in a corner of the camp only made him feel worse.
Four-hundred and ninety-nine of them were still left. The other man injured in the accident broke a leg and both arms, and though he hadn’t returned to wor, he survived.
A week after Jans died Teigen wrote a letter to Jans’ family. He also wrote a letter to his own family assuring them he was well. He folded the two papers together and addressed them to his parents, asking them to pass the message on to Jans’ school.
From there someone should know about his family, Teigen wrote.
While walking to the docks the next morning he took the chance and pretended to stumble, falling against his faithful saluting supporter and pressing the folded paper against the man’s chest.
That man grabbed and pocketed the tightly-folded letter without the Nazi guards seeing it. On his way home that same evening the man caught Teigen’s eye, smiled, and nodded.
Teigen pressed his lips together in a slight smile and rested a fist over his heart in gratitude.
This morning the men in Shift A were held back from their work on the road. A German doctor had unexpectedly appeared in the camp, probably because the ranks of the ill and injured had swelled to nearly a third of the prisoners.
“He is going to examine all of the men here,” Hauptman Mueller explained to the interpreters. “We are willing to send some of your ranks home as they are unfit to work. Those inferior prisoners require too much of our time and resources, and shall be removed.”
In spite of his demeaning words, the message came through loud and clear: a good number of them were going home.
“We’ll make recommendations for which men should be sent home to their families, because we’re their leaders,” Falko said at their hastily-called meeting a quarter hour later. “Compile a list of your sickest men. We’ll decide from that which names to put forward.”
When Shift B returned from the docks twelve hours later, Teigen began his list. First, he walked through the medical tent and wrote down all of those names. There were eleven from the sub-group of twenty-four men he was responsible for. He added two more names—those of the two oldest teachers, both nearing sixty.
The next day, Shift B stayed back to be examined. Then Shifts C and D. At the end of the four days, Falko, Teigen, and two other interpreters met with Hauptman Mueller and the German doctor whose name Teigen never knew.
Falko handed the doctor a list of one-hundred-and-fifty names. “These are our recommendations for the teachers who should be released and taken home.”
Mueller glowered and opened his mouth to bluster something unpleasant by the look of him, but the doctor put up a hand to stop him.
The doctor handed the list back to Falko. “Please read the names and I will consult my notes.”
Teigen glanced at the other shift leaders. This was either going to go very well, or very badly. That same opinion was broadcast on the other men’s faces.
Falko cleared his throat and gripped the edge of his paper. “Arne Arnaldsen.”
The doctor looked at his list and made a mark. “Yes. Next.”
Falko didn’t look up. “Tomas Birkeland.”
More perusing of the list. Anot
her mark. “Yes.”
“Dag Bjornsen.”
Marked. “Yes.”
In the end, the doctor and the group leaders had chosen one hundred and thirty two men in common. The remaining eighteen men which the Norwegians had selected were those who were fifty-five years of age or older. The doctor declined three of them because they were in such good health—relatively speaking—and added three men from his own list that Teigen didn’t know.
He stood suddenly and faced Mueller. “I will send these one hundred and fifty names to headquarters immediately. Have the prisoners ready for transport one week from today.”
He whirled in his heel and stomped from the room, leaving a stunned group of four ecstatic men and one seething SS officer staring at each other.
September 4, 1942
Kirkenes, Norway
Falko was waiting for Teigen when his shift returned after midnight. “We have a problem.”
He grabbed Teigen’s arm. “The German bastards just demanded that before the men leave tomorrow they sign a declaration stating that they’re willing to resume their positions in the schools as members of the new Nazi teachers’ organization.”
Teigen stopped like he hit a wall. “What?”
Falko yanked his arm. “Come on. The other half of us talked before they left for their shifts. Now the rest of us need to come to an agreement.”
The hut was crowded with angry men; seldom a good situation. The Nazi bastards were cursed thoroughly as the betrayal of their words was dissected by every man there.
“Can I see the declaration?” Teigen asked. He read it silently as Falko opened the discussion.
“I have had a meeting with the other two shifts,” Falko began. “And we have crafted a compromise which we feel we can live with.”
One man spread his arms and shushed the others.
“What is that?” he asked when they quieted.
Falko’s voice remained level and calm. “We find ourselves at war with our own government. Do you all agree?”
