The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  “Father!” he called out in the empty house.

  No one replied.

  Nordstrum knew that sometimes after work his father would head off to the Ox and Wheel in town for a couple of beers and a game of checkers. He picked up a photo on the table: his parents in front of the Royal Palace in Oslo, before Nordstrum was even born. And there was also one of him and his sister, Kristin, with whom Nordstrum had shared a room until he was twelve. She had married a professor and was living in Trondheim now. There was the familiar smell of tobacco about, his father’s pipe left in its ashtray, a smell from his youth that brought his childhood back as soon as it met his nostrils, and made him visualize his father as if he was sitting in his chair with a book on his lap, or sanding down wood for a sled, his pipe clenched between his teeth. Nordstrum opened the Ibsen, placing the ashtray on the book’s spine to spread it wide. He placed something in it, something that would let his father know he had been here.

  Then, knowing the more time he spent here the more dangerous it became, he headed back out through the storage room and left.

  From across the street, he kept an eye out until it grew late and cold. His father had never wanted Nordstrum to go off and fight. He wanted him to come back to Rjukan, to the farm, and wait out the storm here. His old man wasn’t a political person in any way; he thought the whole thing would all blow over quickly. “A fuss about nothing,” he insisted at first. “What do we even have here but snow and ice? By winter, the bastards will all have numb fingers and leave.” By then, Nordstrum was in his second year in engineering school in Oslo. Watching the house, his mind drifted to Anna-Lisette, his fiancée, in her last year of economics, with a face like a picture of the Sognefjord in May but a will of steel. In Oslo, many of the students donned the blue and yellow colors of the king. Patriotism raged like wildfire. Many looked to Nordstrum, who was strong and could handle himself in a fight and so was regarded as a kind of leader. “What about you, Kurt?” his fellow students asked. “You’ll be joining up as well, won’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” he would reply. “Have you ever even shot a gun? Don’t be so quick to jump into uniform.”

  Then the German flagship Blucher was sunk in the Oslofjord, and what was merely a threat became a full-out war.

  Anna-Lisette went back to her home up north in Lillehammer. The Nazis weren’t anywhere near there yet. Nordstrum took her as far as he could on the train on his way to Narvik to fight.

  “Please be safe, Kurt.” She held him close. “And smart. You always put others before yourself. In a war, that’ll only get you killed.”

  “I promise,” Nordstrum said, making a little fun of her. “I will let the others do all the fighting for me.”

  “I mean it, Kurt,” she said reprovingly, in her red and green reindeer sweater, her blond hair in braids. The Nazis had run easily through Poland, France, and the Netherlands. No one knew what was ahead of them. A ring of worry pooled in her blue eyes.

  “Anna-Lisette, don’t be afraid.” Nordstrum brushed his hand against her cheek, more serious. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “It’s not just me,” she said. She sat next to him and kissed him, and pressed the baptism cross she wore around her neck into his hand. And then she was off the train at Lillehammer and he went on, leaning out between the cars and waving to her from the hand rail as it took him away, like some red-cheeked boy heading off to a soccer match, not to war. “I’ll be back for you!” he shouted, holding up her gift. They exchanged a few letters. By June she said the fighting was coming close to her; already there were Germans in the Gudbrandsdalen valley. It was August when he got word that a gruppenfuhrer’s car had been blown up on the road into town. Anna-Lisette was at the market when the German truck troop pulled up in the square. Soldiers jumped out, selecting townspeople at random. “You there! And you. Yes, miss, you.” Until they numbered forty. A proclamation was read aloud, then Anna-Lisette was put against a wall and shot, alongside thirty-nine of her townspeople. It was part of the new response to acts of sabotage against the Reich. And this time it was an act Nordstrum’s own unit had set up. He only found out what had happened much later.

  Now, back on the road from Rjukan, Nordstrum saw lights coming toward him and then weave to the other side of the road. His father’s truck—the coughing old Opel that somehow continued to run, for even in war, it defied imagination how something so beat up could still be moving. Nordstrum’s heart sped up. The truck slowed, and Nordstrum almost made a move to follow it. It turned through his father’s gate and bounced along the rutted, unpaved road to the house.

  From far away, Nordstrum watched the old man climb out. He looked older, of course, stooped a bit, maybe a bit wayward from the beer. In two years, he looked as if he’d aged ten. A man who once could ski thirty kilometers with barely a stop for water, and who could drop a reindeer from a hundred meters with a single shot. Nordstrum watched him collect some wood and load it into a kindling strap, push with his shoulder against the heavy wooden door to their house, which stuck for a moment as it always had, and head inside.

  The coast seemed clear. Nordstrum stepped out of the shadows of his hiding place, about to cross the street.

  But before he fully stepped into the light, a bolt of caution grabbed him and he ducked back against the wall.

  A car came alive from down the road near the church and crept toward him. The crest of the Quisling NS party on its door. It slowed as it came up to his father’s road, and then stopped. His father was upstairs now; a light was on in the house. The shades were open and you could see him making his way around, dropping off the collected wood at the hearth, kneeling, stoking the flame. Two men stepped out of the car. The streetlight showed them in dark suits, the uniform of the Quisling police.

  Nordstrum’s fists clenched into a ball.

  They waited for a while, looking down toward the house. One of them whispered something to the other. The heavier one headed down the street, his footsteps clacking on the stone. The other remained by the car. Nordstrum’s hand found the Browning in his belt. He could take them both, he knew. No doubt of it. But his father would be the first casualty. And after his meeting today with Einar and what lay ahead for them both, that would not be wise.

  So he remained huddled against the church. The one who had gone around the side came back and conferred a bit with his colleague watching the house. Nothing to report, they must have decided. They climbed back into their car and started the engine. Slowly, they passed the house, and, as if satisfied nothing was afoot, drove on.

  Only then did Nordstrum remove his hand from his gun.

  Inside, he saw a figure at the window. He was either watching the NS car—the old fox likely knew they were there—or, as he looked out, beyond them, to the street, something else.

  On the Ibsen that he’d laid open on his father’s table, Nordstrum had left his school ring.

  His father stood there, looking out, knowing exactly what it meant. As if he knew Nordstrum was still there. He made a brief wave with his hand; not so much a greeting, with any affection, merely enough to convey Move on, Kurt. It’s not safe here for you now.

  Not now.

  Then, with the slightest nod, he closed the shades.

  Who knew what lay ahead? Nordstrum would be gone in the morning. He didn’t know if he would ever see the old man again. War came with that risk. Truth was, he didn’t even know if he would survive the next days himself.

  He put up his collar and headed away from the wall, taking the long way back toward town, around the rectory, away from the road, through fields of snow. The biting wind knifed through his jacket. In his mind, Nordstrum felt the strangest sensation of being lifted up, a child again in his father’s arms, feeling the safety of his grip, then being put down into the large chair that was his father’s seat at the end of the table.

  “A true man goes on until he can go no further, Kurt,” he heard his father say proudly, “and then he goes twice as f
ar. Remember that.”

  And he had.

  4

  Two days later, in the town of Flekkefjord in southern Norway, the D/S Galtesund pulled away from the dock with three loud blasts of its horn.

  On the wharf, in this quiet fishing village where the war seemed yet to have visited, people waved as the coastal steamer drifted into the fjord and came around. For thirty-five years, the Galtesund, at 620 tons, had chugged along at a max of thirteen knots, with a single smokestack and a crew of twenty. Like an old dog that knew its way home, it slowly chugged its way up Norway’s western coast to Kristiansand, Bergen, Trondheim, and Tromso, all the way to Hammerfest in the north, if the ice was free, and then reversed its route and made the long slog back to Oslo. It was a kind of maritime bus, dropping off vital supplies, businessmen, and families, a lifeline along the coast. There were two classes onboard, and twelve small staterooms for any willing to make a longer trip of it. Not exactly the Queen Mary, even the captain knew. But it damn well got there.

  A few fishing vessels got out of its wake as it chugged up the narrow fjord.

  Stavanger, the next stop. Four hours.

  On the aft deck, Nordstrum, Einar, and Jens, along with two other men known to Einar, Odd and Lars, smoked in the freezing drizzle, waiting for the ship to clear the sight of land.

  They had on everyday workmen’s clothes, as if heading to their jobs at the boatyards of Bergen or the gunnite mines of Tromso. They carried heavy satchels, which to anyone’s eye would appear to be their tools, a common practice in Norway; tools were passed on from father to son. In reality, the bags contained two Bren submachine guns with ammunition clips, several handguns, and a handheld radio. Despite the Occupation, there were still large parts of Norway that went on as if the war had not touched them. And this was one. The boat was filled with happy families and regular folk just traveling up the coast. No sign of soldiers or police onboard. Just the crew.

  “So far so good.” Einar gave a nod to Nordstrum, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  Nordstrum flicked his cigarette into the water. “Let’s hope it continues.”

  An hour later, they had cleared the mouth of the fjord and were steaming up the coast at thirteen knots, barely in sight of land. Nordstrum had sized up the crew. A few young merchantmen just going about their jobs. Nothing to worry about. A few more were grizzled veterans. Family men. And the captain. Nordstrum watched him as they readied for sea. Smoking a pipe in his blue uniform with a gray beard and weathered blue eyes. Nordstrum pegged him as the type who would not roll over easily. Happily, they hadn’t seen sight of anyone military on board. If they had, they would have had to dispose of them. But you never knew; knew how far someone would go to protect the passengers. Or—be it with Quisling or the king—where their sympathies lie?

  An hour out of Stavanger, they chugged along, as much in the North Sea as along the southwest coast.

  It was time.

  The men looked to Nordstrum, who flicked another cigarette into the sea. “Let’s go, boys.”

  Jens opened his tool bag and hid a Bren under his peacoat. He slipped another to Lars, one of Einar’s men. Nordstrum took his Browning. They kicked the bags beneath a bench. Lars went to the third-class cafeteria, where the bulk of the passengers gathered. Nordstrum and Einar climbed to the foredeck and headed to the bridge. Jens and Odd slipped inside a poop door and headed to the engine room.

  On the bridge deck, Nordstrum and Einar took one last, quick glance at each other, then opened the side door and went in. The captain was drinking a coffee and looked up, surprised. The first mate was plotting the course. A third officer, who handled the radio, was scribbling at some kind of word puzzle.

  “We have a request, Captain,” Nordstrum said.

  “No passengers on the bridge.” The captain waved them off. The radioman quickly leaped up to bar their way. “We’re behind in time. We have a schedule to maintain.”

  “We understand you have a schedule. It’s just, I’m afraid you’re about to be delayed even further,” Nordstrum said.

  They removed their guns from underneath their jackets. Einar stepped back and pointed the Bren at all of them. Nordstrum announced, “In the name of the king, we’re seizing control of your ship.”

  “My ship…?” The captain put down his mug and stood up defiantly. “What do you mean, seizing control?”

  “I’m afraid we won’t be stopping at Stavanger any longer. We’re diverting. Navigator, please put in a new destination.”

  “New destination?” The captain glared back. “What in hell are you talking about? New destination where?”

  “A bit off your regular headings,” Nordstrum said. “Due west. Aberdeen.”

  “Aberdeen?” The captain’s eyes bolted wide. “Aberdeen’s in Scotland! Are you mad? That’s a two-day journey. We barely have enough fuel aboard to make Trondheim. Besides, when the Germans get wind of our course they’ll blow us out of the sea. Even if we could make twice our speed, we won’t make it halfway.”

  “May I use the radio then?” Einar asked the befuddled radioman, who glanced toward the captain.

  “Radio?” the captain said. “The frequencies are monitored by the Germans day and night. Isn’t that right, Svorson?”

  “It is, sir,” the seaman in headsets answered.

  “Well, let me have a try then. Who knows, my frequencies may bring better luck. We’ll have an escort as soon as we clear Norwegian waters.”

  “An escort? In the name of the king, you say…?”

  “You’re a patriot, aren’t you?” Nordstrum asked. “You’re not a Quisling?”

  “Quisling?” The captain’s bushy eyebrows rose. “I fought in the last war with the Danes against the Huns. I’m no collaborator. But king be damned”—he glared—“this is still piracy. If we’re caught, you’ll all be hanged. If we’re not blown apart first.”

  Nordstrum leveled his gun, a sign for the radioman to get up from his chair. “There’s no time to argue, Captain. It’s Knudson, right?”

  The captain nodded tentatively. “Aye. Knudson.”

  “Well, Captain Knudson, either take the wheel, or you can spend the rest of the journey in your quarters. With your crew locked in their mess.”

  “There’s a hundred and forty passengers on this ship to worry about, and keep safe.” He refused to budge.

  “And we intend no harm to any of them,” Nordstrum assured him. “Or the crew.” He picked up the intercom and went to hand it to him. “Change of course, Captain. Tell the engine room full speed ahead. Due west.”

  “They won’t accept it. I promise you.” He didn’t move.

  “And I think they will, sir. In fact, two of my men are down there persuading them right now.”

  Eyeing him defiantly, Knudson took the handset from Nordstrum and muttered under his breath, “You realize we’ll all be dead by nightfall.…” He pressed the intercom button and contacted the engine room. “Sven, this is the captain. You have a visitor down there?”

  “Aye, Captain. Two. And armed. What’s going on?”

  “They say we’re to go full speed ahead with a change of course.” The captain read them their new bearings, his hard, sea-gray eyes locked on Nordstrum, as if telling him This will end in disaster. You’ll see. The engineer in the engine room seemed to question him at first, then finally responded, “Did you say due west, Captain?”

  “Aye. West.” He spat. “And with all you have.” He put the handset back in its place.

  “I’m afraid, sir, the crew will have to be kept under lock,” Nordstrum said. “Other than what it takes to man the engine room, and those in food service, of course. For the comfort of the passengers. I’m sure you understand. Now take the wheel.” Nordstrum directed him to it.

  The captain didn’t move.

  “Take the wheel, sir.” Nordstrum pulled back the hammer on his gun. “Or you can be certain, I will.”

  Slowly, with a kind of gruff but helpless glance that read, I hope
to God you know what the hell you’re doing, Knudson put his hand around the ship’s wheel and spun it left. The Galtesund, with a loud start from its engines, made a sweeping turn away from the mainland.

  Maybe a few people on deck noticed the change.

  “One more thing,” Nordstrum said to the captain. “It will make the rest of the voyage far more relaxing on everyone’s part.…”

  “And what is that?”

  “I believe the ships’ weapons are in your quarters, kept under lock and key. I’m sure you’ll entrust the keys to my colleague, here. And now,” he handed the captain the handset, “if you would make an announcement to the passengers to let them know what is going on.”

  Knudson took the handset and gave Nordstrum a defiant glare. “They’re never going to let us leave, you know. That you can be certain of.”

  5

  The next day. German Coastal Command, Bergen, Norway.

  Artillery Major Klaus Freyn was relieving himself in his private bathroom at the Norwegian Air Defenses when he heard the knock on his office door. “A minute, please,” he called out, squeezing the last from his aching bladder. Whatever condition he’d been suffering from these past six weeks had not improved a bit with these useless antibiotics they had prescribed for him. This was the fifth time he’d had to go today, and it was only 2 P.M. He winced as pain knifed through his groin. “Just be patient. I’ll be right there.”

  As the officer in charge of the coastal command, Freyn’s job was to oversee the radar and coastal reconnaissance network on the North Sea sector, sweeping for enemy aircraft on potential bombing missions or the first signs of coastal assault—an impossible task, he knew, since the coastline of this frigid country was as irregular and unrelenting as his kidneys. His job was to identify any intrusion and scramble the Luftwaffe or a destroyer to repel the threat. Or, if the urgency was greater, alert German Military Control in Oslo. To this point, other than twice for a drill, in the year he had had this job Freyn had not had to make a single call.