With an awful grinding noise, I juddered to a standstill. Hopelessly slack, my bike chain had been easy to prise off with the heel of my boot. I’d made absolutely sure no one saw me. It gave me exactly what I needed: the ideal excuse for stopping in the street. The Germans didn’t like people hanging around on street corners – or anywhere else for that matter. Even small groups pausing to chat were vigorously discouraged from doing so. If you wanted to loiter, you needed a damn good reason. And now I had one. Nobody would take a blind bit of notice. It was all part of my plan.
My objective was a tall brick building – the Wehrmacht’s Headquarters. I headed for a lamppost directly opposite the main entrance – the perfect vantage point – leaned my bike up against it and crouched down. I worked slowly, fiddling with the oily chain, lifting it and trying to flip it back on, but really I was only pretending. I knew that when the moment came, I’d have it done in seconds.
Through the spokes of the bike’s rear wheel, I kept my eyes fixed on the doorway. For late September the air was unseasonably warm, a light southerly breeze kicking crinkly brown leaves along the gutter. It was summer’s feeble last gasp. A swarm of midges whizzed insanely above my head. The street was alive, bustling with cars and trucks. An ageing motorcycle grumbled past and, without warning, backfired, startling everyone. It wasn’t just me living on the edge of my frayed nerves. You could almost smell the fear.
Countless people slipped in and out of the building, many in uniform, most in a hurry, all busy with the urgent business of Nazi occupation. High up – beyond spitting distance, that is – and to either side of the entrance, swastikas fluttered from angled poles cemented into the brickwork. Six months ago Norwegian flags had been flown there. But they’d been torn down. They were forbidden now, and I missed them. Two surly-looking guards in grey uniforms flanked the door, standing stiffly to attention, rifles at their side. I wanted to march right up to them and punch them. Not a good idea.
Hearing a noise, I glanced skywards. A small seaplane shot past at low altitude, skimming the rooftops, her single engine burbling and spluttering as if she had almost run out of fuel. I guessed she was an Arado 196, a spotter plane. The Germans had dozens of them. She was coming in to land.
Far off, the cathedral bells rang out, heralding midday. Right on cue, Colonel Heinrich Hauptmann emerged from the building. The two sentries clacked their heels and snapped perfect Nazi salutes. He ignored them. Instead, he paused briefly on the steps to stretch his arms and fill his lungs with fresh air. I guessed him to be in his late forties, a rather tubby, unfit man who looked as if stuffing his face with Bavarian sausages had been a hobby that had turned into an obsession. His wire-framed spectacles glinted in the sunlight. His oily hair was grey, short and receding. He glanced up at the sun and squinted. The buffoon had no idea I was watching him. Waiting for him. He smoothed back his hair and put on his cap, adjusting its rim with a slight tug. I almost felt sorry for him. After all, I was about to ruin his day.
Quickly I mended my bike, lifting the rear wheel and pushing the pedal round to make sure the chain was on properly. I stood up, grabbed hold of the handlebars and swung my leg over. Hauptmann looked up and down the street, and then straight across the road to where I was waiting, straddling my crossbar. Our eyes met. A slight look of curiosity settled on his face. At least, I thought it was curiosity. It was hard to tell. I suppose he was wondering why on earth I was so wrapped up on such a wonderful day, with my anorak hood raised and my scarf drawn tightly about my face. The world could only see my eyes, and they were eyes burning with intent. He looked away. Thankfully I was of no interest to him. Hah! His instincts had failed him miserably. He’d not detected the imminent danger.
Descending the small flight of stone steps, he struck off along the street with long, confident strides, his polished boots clicking on the pavement. I let him put a little distance between us, and then set off after him.
Cycling at barely more than a walking pace proved far trickier than I’d expected. I felt unsteady. My front wheel wobbled – or was it just my nerves? I lifted myself up out of the saddle and leaned forward over the handlebars. It seemed to do the trick.
The colonel, or Oberst, to give him his correct title, was in charge of our town. Being the most senior Wehrmacht officer, he enjoyed absolute power and wallowed in the abuse of it. Except when the Gestapo or Waffen SS stuck their noses into everyone’s business. Rumours abounded that the regular German army lived in about as much fear of them as we Norwegians did. In any event, I had chosen the colonel as my victim for several good reasons, and not just because of his high rank. The fact that he was as fat as a barrel and so couldn’t run very fast, if at all, was vital in ensuring my successful escape. He was also a creature of habit. And that meant I knew exactly where he was heading. He turned a corner. I stopped and waited.
I’d gone over the plan a hundred times in my head. He was making for a small, dusty, nicotine-stained café-bar a few blocks down, the one situated in a narrow side street and with half a dozen al fresco tables littering the pavement. It was a stone’s throw from the Lofoten bar, where Mother worked most evenings. Both lay in the oldest part of town, the medieval bit close to the shore of the fjord, where creaky wooden houses huddled together, and where cobblestones had not yet been replaced by asphalt. Hauptmann lunched there most days. Albert would serve him without delay. Albert, the café’s owner, was a man with fat cheeks and an even fatter backside; a man who produced an endless stream of chatter about the weather. Talking about the weather was safe, whereas most other topics could prove less so. Albert was a shrewd man.
Gently I pushed off from the kerbside again. Moments after Hauptmann had disappeared into the cobbled street, I ground to a halt by the corner and figured I’d give him a minute to settle before I struck. Already my pulse was racing, my breathing a little rushed, a little gasping. What was I doing? It was madness. Stop now before it’s too late, my voice of reason shouted inside me. The last thing you need is trouble, Finn. My mind spun and I felt momentarily giddy, as if I’d just stepped off a merry-go-round. I found myself gripping the handlebars so tightly I could see the bones of my knuckles through the stretched skin. My sweat felt cool on my forehead. I swallowed hard. No, I had to go through with it. I just had to. I pictured my escape route one last time – a sharp right, then left, then another right. Quickly I’d be gone. He’d never catch me. Nobody would. I really could do it – and get away.
Hauptmann headed straight for his favourite outside table. The oaf bellowed a sharp order in Norwegian to an elderly couple seated there – ‘Leave … at once!’ Of course, they needed little persuasion. They seized their coats and hurried off. He dragged back a chair and sat down heavily, removing his cap and placing it on the table. The café’s door swung open and Albert tumbled out. As always, he looked the part in his charcoal-coloured trousers and waistcoat, his starched, whiter-than-snow apron tied about his waist. He cleared the table, then presented Hauptmann’s paper to him, muttering what looked like an apology. I decided to wait until Albert disappeared back inside. Didn’t want him recognizing me. Not that he’d spill the beans. Albert wasn’t the sort.
Unbuttoning the bulging right-hand pocket of my anorak, I felt inside. My fingers flipped open the lid of the small tin and worked their way through the jungle of straw I’d used as packing. Gently I lifted the two eggs so they lay on top, within easy reach. Weapons to hand, I was all set. I took five deep breaths, gritted my teeth and began pedalling. Twenty feet separated me from my target.
Barely a breath from Hauptmann’s table, I stopped. He was engrossed in his paper. I was so close I could read the headlines on the front page and even some of the small print beneath. I seized the eggs from my pocket and gripped them one in each hand. I coughed – loudly. Startled, Hauptmann lowered his paper and looked me up and down as if I was something brown and stinking he’d accidentally trodden in. My heart tripped and missed a beat, but I had no time to waste. I struck, flinging
both eggs at him with all my might, each throw being accompanied by the words ‘Freedom to Norway!’ and ‘Go home, you Nazi pigs!’
The eggs splattered against his grey tunic. Best of all though, the smell was truly disgusting. These were no ordinary eggs. They were among half a dozen Anna had obtained on the black market. They were meant as a treat – Mother loved scrambled eggs. But when she broke the first of them into a pan, she screamed and hollered in fright as our kitchen filled with the hideous, sulphurous odour of rottenness – a stench that took days to get rid of, even after throwing the pan into our back yard, flinging open all the windows and flapping towels to create a breeze. We quickly discovered that the remaining eggs were rotten too, as they all floated in a pan of cold water. Anna had been duped and was furious. Mother wouldn’t stop pinching her nose, and said she never wanted to eat another egg as long as she lived.
Hauptmann froze. His expression turned to horror as the gut-wrenching smell reached his nostrils. His face reddened and then, his fury rising, turned plum. Best not hang around, I decided, although I’d have loved to have stayed and seen him explode. I kicked off and hammered on the pedals, accelerating fast. The cobblestones made my bike shudder, rattle and squeak, so much so I thought that at any moment the wheels might come off. I hadn’t gone far when I heard a shout in German, ‘Haltet den Jungen!’
Stop that boy! My German wasn’t bad. We were taught it in school alongside English and French. Had we been in the streets of a German town, like Berlin or Heidelberg, no doubt law-abiding citizens would have reached out and tried to grab me. Men would have blocked my way. But we weren’t in Hauptmann’s back yard. We were in mine. This was Norway. My country. And everyone – well, almost everyone – hated Hauptmann and his men. So, just as I’d hoped, people got out of my way, stepping neatly to one side as if I was Moses and they the parting of the Red Sea. I almost expected them to cheer. But they didn’t. They just got out of my way. Fine by me.
Approaching an alleyway to my right, I braked hard, dropped a boot onto the rough ground and skidded into a perfect turn. A car was parked close by. Its windscreen shattered and I heard a loud pop. It all happened so fast. The panic sirens went off in my head. I’d not expected to be shot at – it was just a prank, for God’s sake. A prank! Everyone dropped to the ground, young and old alike, bodies and bags sprawling everywhere, as if the street had been struck by some terrifying blast. I heard fitful screams and tearful cries. I flew into the alleyway and accelerated as fast as I dared. Everything became a blur and I couldn’t think straight. My whole body fizzed and tingled. I’d never felt so alive. My legs pumped the pedals round in ever-faster circles. Then I braked hard and took a left turn, just as I’d planned … On and on I hurtled. I hardly dared breathe, not until I was safe, not until I’d crossed the Bakke Bru, another bridge to the north of the Gamle Bybro.
A few miles out of town I risked looking over my shoulder and saw no one was following. ‘Yes!’ I yelled as loud as I could, and I punched the air with both hands at the same time, nearly falling off my bike when my front wheel caught the edge of a pothole. But not even a hurricane could have wiped the smile from my face. Of course, this wasn’t the end of it. It was just the beginning. I knew the Germans wouldn’t allow such an act to go unpunished. In fact, I was depending upon them to be relentless in their search for the culprit. Even as I made my escape, I imagined a furious Hauptmann issuing the order – Find that boy. Top priority. Bring him to me.
There were hundreds of children in town and we all had bikes. With my hood up, scarf across my face, my clothes utterly unremarkable, Hauptmann would only be able to give a vague description of me. It might have been harder than looking for a specific snowflake in a deep drift if it wasn’t for the genius of my plan: I was pretty sure there’d be one thing he would remember – the bicycle. It was bright yellow. That would narrow their search. I laughed. There was only one bright-yellow bike in our town and, yes, I was riding it. But it wasn’t mine. Mine was brown and rusty. This one belonged to a boy called Ned Grimmo. And I figured Ned was now in a whole heap of trouble. That’ll teach him, I thought. Perfect!
Chapter Two
The Woodshed
I HID THE bike in woods close to home until dusk, spending the afternoon watching planes take off and land on the fjord from my favourite vantage point, high up on a hillside. Then I returned the bike to its rightful owner, making sure I wasn’t spotted. I got home in time for tea. Mother was in the kitchen, on her knees, stooped over a large cast-iron tub full of suds. It was washday and she was rubbing the last of the soap into the collar of one of my shirts.
‘Finn, is that you?’ she called out.
I closed our front door and peeled my anorak off my shoulders. ‘Yes, Mother. What’s for tea?’
She briefly stopped what she was doing and looked up. ‘There’s some bread left and a little cheese. Get it yourself, will you? And leave some for your sister.’ She frowned at me. ‘You didn’t go out in that old anorak, did you? What will the neighbours think? And why aren’t you wearing your flying jacket, Finn? I thought you two were inseparable.’
‘Felt like a change,’ I lied. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to speak of my horror when, a week ago, I had opened the door to my school locker and seen that my precious jacket had gone. Stolen! In anger I’d punched the locker door so hard I dented it. It wasn’t just that I loved that jacket; I’d promised Father I’d look after it. I’d failed. As I opened the larder door, my heart sank further. The stale bread was so hard you could have built a house with it. And the cheese needed scraping to get rid of the mould – not that there was much to scrape. That’s how it was nowadays. Most things were in short supply, and you had to queue for hours to get your share. I put the bread and cheese on a plate, and delved in a drawer for a sharp knife. ‘Want some now, Mother, or will you have yours later?’ I asked.
‘You go ahead, dear. I’ve already eaten,’ she answered.
She was a poor liar. I knew she meant to go without. Again. I sat down at the table and watched her scrub and rinse, scrub and rinse, then wring what looked like every last drop of moisture from my shirts, pausing only to sigh and mop her brow with the rolled-up sleeve of her faded brown floral dress. I divided the bread and cheese into three equal portions and scoffed my share.
‘Anything happening in town?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Did you see Mr Olsen about coming to fix the roof?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, Finn! I asked you specifically.’ She twisted her head round and scowled at me.
‘Sorry,’ I said. In truth I’d completely forgotten. A recent storm had loosened a few tiles, a couple sliding off the roof in the middle of the night and crashing onto the ground, waking everyone, including the neighbours’ dogs. ‘I’ll go tomorrow.’
Wearily Mother rose to her feet, her knees cracking horribly mid rise. I winced. She brushed her ragged hair from her eyes. They were red, bloodshot eyes. She was having one of her black days. It was often like that – up and down, up and down. I’d long since learned that trying to comfort her was pretty useless. It had been like that ever since we received the terrible, earth-shattering news. Father was dead. Killed in action. Shot down in a dogfight with the Luftwaffe somewhere close to the English south coast.
‘Loki called round for you earlier,’ she said, stiffening up as if determined to rid herself of dark thoughts.
‘Any message?’
‘No. Said he’d catch you some other time.’ She began laying out the wet shirts over a wooden clotheshorse standing near the fireplace. ‘I worry about that boy,’ she added with a puzzled look. ‘Says the strangest things.’
‘Strange?’
‘Yes. When I told him you’d gone into town, he clapped his hands and grinned like a demented dog. He said it was a great day for our country. Don’t suppose you know what he meant?’ She threw me a glance.
‘No idea,’ I replied with an innocent s
hrug. Of course, I couldn’t explain. It was a secret. The prank had been Loki’s idea. Although I knew the rotten eggs would come in handy, I hadn’t figured out the perfect plan. But Loki’s good at that kind of thing, always full of the craziest schemes.
Heavy, clonking footsteps heralded the hurried descent of Anna from upstairs. She skipped into the kitchen, twirled on her toes and set about dancing the tango around the kitchen table with an imaginary partner in her arms. Eventually she stopped and, hands on hips, struck a provocative pose by the stove. ‘So how do I look?’ she asked. She threw back her head, puckered her lips and blew a kiss into the air. Mother took one look at her and shook her head in dismay. The dress, bright red and figure-hugging, was a scandal – it barely covered Anna’s knees, and Mother clearly disapproved. Undaunted, Anna turned her attention to me. ‘Well, Finn, dressed to kill, or what?’
In truth I was astonished. ‘Where did you get that dress?’ I asked, although no sooner had I uttered the question than the answer came to me. A gift from an admirer. A present from Dieter Braun. Oberleutnant Braun, to be precise. A German.
Anna was nineteen, a full four years older than me, and full of energy. She was beautiful too. At least, that’s what everyone said. Couldn’t see it myself though. After all, the outside world only got to see Anna once she’d brushed her hair and applied a little rouge and lipstick. They didn’t see the creased and crumpled Anna who’d just tumbled out of bed in the morning, all bleary-eyed and irritable, or the Anna who ate breakfast hunched over the table, making strange grinding noises with her teeth, or the Anna who’d sit picking her toenails. No, the world definitely didn’t know the real Anna, least of all Dieter Braun. He saw only what he wanted to see: a pretty smile and flowing hair. But as far as Anna was concerned, that was just perfect. Dieter was a brash, confident young man in his early twenties. I suppose that, being square-jawed and possessing thick golden hair, he might have been called handsome. I preferred loathsome. To be fair, though, his saving grace was that he was a reconnaissance pilot, flying daily patrols in this sector of Norway. It could have been heaps worse. He could have been SS or Gestapo.
Dogfight Page 2
