The Saboteur

by Andrew Gross

  “No matter to that. Are you NS…?” Ronneberg grilled him. The Nasjonal Samling party. Quisling.

  The hunter eyed them with circumspection, factoring in the sight of their camouflaged weapons and military uniforms peeking out from under their snowsuits. The idea that they could be free Norwegians in military uniforms carrying heavy weaponry surely never occurred to him. “Sure. NS. I’ve been known to be in favor of them.” The man nodded with a bit of an obsequious grin.

  “And if we asked around down in Uvdal,” Ronneberg said, “would people there bear that out?”

  “Back there…? I have so many enemies in town, they’d probably say I hate the Nazis just to cause me some trouble.” The hunter laughed and looked at each of them. “But I don’t.”

  “And why so many enemies?” Nordstrum pressed him.

  “Because in times like these you do what you have to do; I’m sure men like you understand. The deer, they don’t just come up and bite you on the ass. You don’t expect me to just give them away.”

  “A profiteer, then?” Nordstrum said. He probably sold what he caught for five times what it was worth.

  “And what of the king?” Ronneberg continued to question him.

  He pulled open his ski suit and divulged his British uniform underneath, not German or NS. “No sympathies for him then?”

  “King Haikon!” The man’s eyes doubled in size. “Good God, you’re all true Norwegians then?” he said with a laugh. “How the hell was I to know?” A grin cracked through his heavy beard. “Norwegians bearing arms, on the vidda, blessed God! Yes, I’m a devoted supporter of the king. Ask anyone there, they’ll tell you where my sympathies lie. I had no idea who you were.”

  “You seem to be supporting anyone. Let’s see what’s in your pockets then,” Ronneberg said.

  They searched him. They found an identity card verifying his name, about three thousand kroner in cash, and a black notebook with a lot of scribbled names. “You keep lists on people?”

  “My customers,” the hunter said. “You can check them. Everyone knows me. Kristian Kristiansen. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you I’m a man of my word.”

  “Other than your enemies,” Hans Storhaug said with a snort.

  “Well, maybe I overstated that just a little…” The man grinned a bit guiltily.

  NS or patriot, he was a profiteer, and didn’t know quite how to answer. Or if he was in any trouble, trying to judge the reaction of the group, trying to laugh it off, but still, with worried, flitting eyes.

  “Watch him, Eric,” Ronneberg said to Gutterson. “If he makes a wrong move, you know what to do.”

  “Aye, Lieutenant,” the Yank said, motioning with his gun. “Come on, pull out some water. You can sit over here.”

  The rest huddled a few yards out of earshot. Each knew what they’d been ordered to do. Ronneberg looked around for the feel of the group. “So…?”

  “I don’t like it,” Storhaug said. “There are Germans in Uvdal. If we let him go and he opens his mouth back there, we’ll have two divisions up here after us.”

  “That may be, but Norwegians don’t kill Norwegians,” Nordstrum said. “Unless they’ve betrayed their homeland. And there’s no proof he has.”

  “He said he was NS,” Jens said.

  Olf Pedersen nodded. “Yes, he did.”

  “He would have said anything to save his skin,” Nordstrum argued. “He had no idea who we were. What would you have said?” He looked at Storhaug. “He likely thought we were Quisling.”

  “It’s not just about the politics.” Storhaug took a swig of water and spit it out. “If we let him go and he runs his mouth off over a beer at the local pub, who guarantees who that person will tell? Or if the Germans offer him a wad of money for something he claims to know? He’s already admitted he’s a profiteer. You think he’d turn down a payday out of any allegiance to the king?”

  “How about if I keep an eye on him?” Nordstrum said to Ronneberg. “We can take him along to Grouse and then tie him up there in the cabin. When we get back we can set him free.”

  “There’s no guarantee we will get back.” Storhaug kept at it. “All that you’ll do for him then is drag him along a long way to make him freeze to death or starve.”

  Nordstrum nodded, though his instincts insisted the man was who he said he was. But there was a case for disposing of him as well. And no doubt Wilson and Tronstad would have argued for it without hesitation.

  He looked toward Jens.

  “I’m afraid I’m with Hans on this one, Kurt.” His friend shrugged guiltily. “It’s simply too much of a risk.”

  “Me as well,” Olf Pedersen said. “You may be right, Kurt, he’s just an average guy trying to make the best of it in a war. But if you’re wrong and he does like Hans says…? What if we’re facing German half-tracks up here in a day? How would you feel then about letting him go?”

  Stromsheim looked at Nordstrum and nodded. “Me too, I’m afraid.”

  Nordstrum saw it was a losing cause. And maybe they were right. They looked back down the hill. The hunter just stood there, chatting with Gutterson, puffing on a cigarette, but at the same time, intermittently glancing up at them with unease.

  “So, it’s decided then,” Ronneberg said, capping his canteen.

  “I’ll make it easy on you.” Storhaug exhaled. “Since I was the one who argued for it.” He pulled his tommy off his back.

  “At least make it quick,” Ronneberg said, shaking his head.

  With a nod, Storhaug headed back down the rise. “I see the two of you seem to have become fast friends…,” he said amiably.

  “Our families are from the same region,” Gutterson said. “The Sognefjord.”

  “Is that right? Come, we need to check out what’s in your packs,” Storhaug said, a hand on the man’s back. “So you say you’re a supporter of the king, are you…?”

  “Absolutely,” the hunter said and went with him, looking back at them once, not sure if he should be worried or relieved.

  “Then that’s too bad then.” Storhaug stopped and pulled back the bolt on his Thompson. “I’m sorry, friend.”

  “Listen—” The hunter put up his palms. “Just hear me out—” Storhaug let off a short burst, sending the man backward into a drift, his arms spread wide.

  Then he went up and stepped over him. The man’s eyes were wide, his deerskin coat pelted with black, wet dots. He put one more burst in his chest, just to be sure.

  Gutterson stared at him, his eyes lit with anger. “He was just a trapper. He was no more a threat than me.”

  “Had to be done,” Storhaug said. “Sorry, lad.” He slung his tommy back over his shoulder. He put a hand on Nordstrum’s shoulder. “Sometimes you’re a bit too honorable for your own good, Kurt. That’ll come back to bite you in the end.”

  “We should bury him,” Ronneberg said.

  “Of course.” Nordstrum nodded. “Who’ll help?”

  “I will,” Gutterson offered.

  “I guess I should too.” Storhaug shrugged. “Considering.”

  “And if any of you know anything, it might be right to say a few words,” Ronneberg called after them. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at that kind of thing.”

  “I know a few words,” Gutterson said. “I’m Lutheran.”

  They dragged the hunter’s body over to a tall drift and swept fresh snow over him. Come spring, when it melted, someone would find him. Hopefully before he became a target for wolves. But for now, as time was short, it was all they could do. It took a while to fully cover his boots. In a couple of minutes the large man had completely disappeared. They decided against putting his rifle in the snow as a marker and buried it with him.

  The group settled over him and they all pushed back their hoods.

  “Heavenly Father,” Gutterson started in English, “receive this soul and forgive him for his sins.…”

  Jens said, “That’s all?”

  “I guess I didn’t go so often.” G
utterson shrugged.

  In war, Nordstrum said to himself, sometimes things you wouldn’t do in life were unavoidable. Things that one day you might look back upon with regret. In the end, it was all best left unsaid. What did it really matter for Kristian Kristiansen? NS or patriot, all he’d been was an unlucky man who had skied the wrong path.

  It was God’s job to do the judging.

  “At least one good thing,” Nordstrum said. “We can make good use of the sled.”

  They loaded several packs of their supplies on the hunter’s sled and then headed back to rejoin the men.

  “We ought to move out now.” Ronneberg pointed toward the sun. “We’ve lost a lot of time.”

  They strapped their packs back on and each skied by, Gutterson and Storhaug dragging the hunter’s sled. There was no sign of blood. No sign he’d even been there, Kristian Kristiansen, other than the lonely herringbone pattern of his tracks in the snow, which the seven skied quickly over.

  29

  It was still a couple of hours’ trek over the Songvaln to Lake Maure. The sun had started to wane. Tired and winded, they came upon the flat-roofed cabin Kristiansen had mentioned that he’d stayed in the night before.

  Early the next morning, they were off again at first light. Nordstrum thought the lake was still a two-hour trek, but much of it downhill. And the morning was clear.

  They skied in a line, each gliding in each other’s tracks at five-yard intervals when a buzzing was heard overhead. “Everyone get down!” Ronneberg yelled. “The sleds.”

  Pedersen and Jens scrambled to drape a white tarp over all the cargo, then they dove headfirst into the snow.

  Coming into view from over a peak was a Storch Fokker, a German reconnaissance plane. It came in and circled the valley, its twin propellers buzzing. Only three or four hundred feet above them, they could clearly see the black cross on the fuselage and the machine guns on its wings. They pressed themselves into the snow. If they were spotted, the Germans could tear them to shreds with those guns, or at a minimum, alert the enemy to their presence. After a quick circle, finding nothing of interest, the plane seemed to move on. They all stood up and watched it disappear.

  “There’s always the chance they saw our tracks,” Nordstrum said. The good news was that they’d all been careful to ski in the leader’s tracks, so even if they were spotted, it would only appear to be a single skier, not a party of them.

  They took turns dragging the sleds, which now weighed a couple of hundred pounds each, with the additional supplies. Nordstrum didn’t know the exact location of the cabin where the Grouse party was holed up, only the general region. They didn’t even know for certain that their friends would even be there, or how they had managed in the storm. Only that that had been the site of SOE’s last communication with them. Things had a way of changing rapidly out here. The day became bright and crisp, and progress was good. Along the way, they spotted animal tracks and droppings, signs that reindeer were in the area.

  Kristian Kristiansen had followed his nose in the wrong direction and it had cost him his life.

  Nordstrum now had a feel for where he was and took the lead. Who knew what condition they would find their countrymen in? Or what sort of food they’d been able to find? The sight of reindeer near was a positive sign, but four months … Four months was a long time, even for the hardiest of men. You never knew what sort of—

  Suddenly he spotted something far out in the snow. Ronneberg skied up. “What is it, Kurt?”

  Nordstrum pointed out toward the valley. “We have more company.”

  Several hundred yards ahead a figure on skis was coming up a frozen lake. Twenty yards behind was another skier. From this distance, even with their binoculars, they were no more than moving specks.

  “You think there’s a chance it’s a German patrol?” Ronneberg asked.

  “There’s always a chance. What if that plane spotted our tracks?”

  “Better not take a chance. Everyone, take cover!” Ronneberg waved to the men. They all crouched down and scanned over the valley from behind some boulders.

  “They might also be our guys,” Nordstrum said. “We can’t be that far away.”

  “You know them best, Kurt. I don’t want them to see the rest of us. Why don’t you go ahead and check. And take a gun. Eric, you and Storhaug take a position near those rocks down there. If you’re in any trouble, Kurt, remove your hood as a sign. You won’t have to worry about them after that.”

  Nordstrum slid out of his pack and grabbed a Colt pistol, which he put inside his suit.

  “Remember, lose the hood and we’ll open fire on them,” Ronneberg said. “And don’t take any risks.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nordstrum said.

  He skied down a ways and focused in on the two men through his binoculars. They were still about three hundred yards away—with no idea anyone had spotted them. They were not even skiing toward him but actually away from him across the lake.

  As they came in range, Nordstrum focused on the figure in front. He had a long beard and wore a flat cap on his head. But he wore no uniform Nordstrum could see. Hunters, most likely. Like Kristiansen. The proximity of deer would bring more hunters out, which wasn’t good for maintaining their secrecy. Or … He peered in more closely. Could it be Arne Kjelstrup? Or Claus Helberg? It didn’t look like it to him. But there was simply no way to tell.

  Nordstrum thought it best to take no chances and come up on them from behind. Who knew how someone confronted might react? He maneuvered himself to a spot where the sun was behind him as they trekked across the lake. By now, the second man had caught up with his partner. But they looked so haggard and unkempt, with their long, straggly hair coming out of their hats and beards, they appeared more like beggars than anyone he knew.

  Yet he saw they carried rifles.

  Finally Nordstrum maneuvered himself into position. If they wanted to take a shot at him, they’d have to do so directly into the sun. He took a final glance up the slope, at Gutterson and Storhaug. Then he silently began to ski up to the two, who still had no idea he was there. He got within thirty yards and put his hand around the Colt in his suit. He knew that Storhaug and the Yank had their rifles trained on them in case there was the slightest trouble, awaiting his signal.

  “Arne? Claus…?” Nordstrum called.

  The two turned around, their hands instinctively reaching for their guns as well.

  Nordstrum was about to go to his knees and pull out his. Then he couldn’t believe what he saw. Underneath the straggly beard and the gaunt, sunken cheekbones was a face he had known for ten years. “Jesus, Claus? It’s Kurt.”

  He threw his arms in the air and waved to his men up on the hill. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! It’s Kurt!” he yelled again to his two countrymen.

  “Nordstrum?” Helberg finally lowered his rifle and uttered in disbelief, “My God, Kurt, you’re alive!” They each took off and skied toward each other, jubilantly, and hurled their arms around each other.

  “Jesus,” Arne Kjelstrup looked at him, “where the hell have you been? We were sure you hadn’t survived the storm.”

  “Storm…?” Nordstrum said deadpan. “What storm? Did you have weather here?” Then he broke into a wide grin. “That was the mother of all storms, wasn’t it? We were lucky to have found a hut. But look at you both! God, it’s good to see you.”

  The rest of the Gunnerside contingent left their packs and skied down to the lake, whooping with joy.

  “You folks didn’t happen to bring along any food, did you?” Kjelstrup asked. It looked like he hadn’t had a good meal in weeks.

  “Food?” Nordstrum shrugged. “Hmm, no, no one mentioned. Are you short?” Then he laughed. “Of course we have food. A sled full of it! Jesus, what the hell have you been surviving on?”

  “We’ll tell you, but you won’t believe it,” Claus Helberg said. “We’re just happy you’re here.”

  The rest of the team arrived. Everyone hugged and
cheered, slapping each other on the back. They’d found them. Amid the Germans and the worst storm any had ever seen, they’d found their friends. Alive.

  Now it was time to get on with why they were all here.

  30

  Dieter Lund motioned the old man into a chair across from his desk at the Nasjonal Samling party office in Rjukan. “Pere Nordstrum … Please, sit down. Over here will be fine. You can wait outside,” he said to the Hirden sergeant who had brought him in.

  His police office was on the second floor of the old Hanseatic trade building on King Gustav Street, the basement once a place where grain and cattle were stored, now converted to jail cells, which were amply filled. Lund had put his best uniform on, starched and pressed, with shiny metal buttons polished and fastened to the top.

  He stood up. “I am very sorry for the manner in which we had you come in.”

  Nordstrum’s father was a thin, weathered man, in his late fifties only, but a lifetime of heavy work and bitter winters had stooped his back and made him appear much older. He was bald on top with bushy, gray hair on the sides, thin, rough lips, and calloused fingers. Narrow, suspicious eyes. Still, Lund observed, he had the look of a man who could still handle himself in a tussle or in the outdoors if necessary.

  “Go ahead, I assure you it’s all right.” Lund gestured to the chair. “I just wanted to have a little chat. May I offer you some coffee?”

  “For yourself, maybe. None for me.” The elder Nordstrum followed Lund as he got up and stood over a tray on the right side of his desk and poured himself a cup.

  “Please, don’t stand on politics. It’s so rare these days to find the real thing. So much of it is watered down. I’d be honored if I could share a cup.”

  “I said not for me.” Nordstrum’s father waved it off again. “Just tell me, why am I here?”

  “Why you are here…? Of course, we shall talk about this. But first—” Lund took a long sip of the coffee, savoring the smell. “To the new Norway…”

  “I don’t have time for the new Norway. I have a farm to manage. I must insist, Captain, on what grounds have you brought me here?”