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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
The international bestselling godfather of Nordic Noir takes on one of the most horrific periods of modern history, in a stunning standalone thriller … NUMBER ONE BESTSELLER **SHORTLISTED FOR THE PETRONA AWARD FOR BEST SCANDINAVIAN CRIME NOVEL** **LONGLISTED FOR THE CWA INTERNATIONAL DAGGER**` ____________________ 'The Courier is a stylish stand-alone thriller from the godfather of Scandi noir … Ola Dahl ratchets up the tension from the first pages and never lets go' The Times 'Absorbing, heart-rending and perfectly plotted. Kjell Ola Dahl's The Courier passes seamlessly from the present to the dark past of WWII. Fabulous!' Denzil Meyrick 'Cleverly braiding together past and present, the who and why of murder and betrayal are unpicked. The detail is impressive' Daily Mail ____________________ In 1942, Jewish courier Ester is betrayed, narrowly avoiding arrest by the Gestapo. In a great haste, she escapes to Sweden, saving herself. Her family in Oslo, however, is deported to Auschwitz. In Stockholm, Ester meets the resistance hero, Gerhard Falkum, who has left his little daughter and fled both the Germans and allegations that he murdered his wife, Åse, who helped Ester get to Sweden. Their burgeoning relationship ends abruptly when Falkum dies in a fire. And yet, twenty-five years later, Falkum shows up in Oslo. He wants to reconnect with his daughter. But where has he been, and what is the real reason for his return? Ester stumbles across information that forces her to look closely at her past, and to revisit her war-time training to stay alive… Written with Dahl's trademark characterization and elegant plotting, The Courier sees the hugely respected godfather of Nordic Noir at his best, as he takes on one of the most horrific periods of modern history, in an exceptional, shocking thriller. ____________________ 'A dark but richly described backdrop and a relentless, underlying tension drive this sad story to its bittersweet conclusion. Fans of Nordic noir will be satisfied' Publishers Weekly 'Skilfully juggling three Oslo timelines — in 1942, 1967 and 2015 — Dahl starts his story with Germany's occupation of Norway and the work of those who tried to resist, then brings his characters forward to a post-war unravelling of what really happened in those dangerous days — and the traumatic rewriting of personal stories' The Times 'A fascinating, intricate, provocative read, set in motion by events in 1942, and brilliantly highlighting human need and emotions … 'The Courier' sent a shiver coursing through me, it is a truly eloquent and rewarding tale, and oh that ending!' LoveReading 'Written with Dahl's trademark characterisation and clever plotting, The Courier sees one of Norway's most critically acclaimed authors at his best … This stunning and compelling wartime thriller is reminiscent of the writing of John Le Carré and William Boyd' New Books Magazine 'Kjell Ola Dahl's novels are superb. If you haven't read one, you need to – right now' William Ryan 'The kind of masterful, detailed plotting that Dahl is known for … the power of The Courier is how Dahl has given a complex, human face to such an inhuman tragedy' Crime Fiction Lover
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Seitenzahl: 531
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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THE COURIER
KJELL OLA DAHL
Translated by Don Bartlett
Revenge is a faithless servant
Contents
Oslo, August 2015
Turid switches off the radio. She revels in the silence and places her hand on the tablecloth where the morning sun shining through the window has formed a square. It is hot. She likes the feel of it. Robert has left the newspapers on the table. She pulls the Aftenposten over. Leafs through. News, travel, articles about new TV series.
Her eye is caught by an article on what you can pick up at auctions. At first she focuses on the photo, then she skims the text: ‘You can still find treasures at Norwegian auctions. The unique bracelet pictured is valued at more than a hundred thousand kroner.’ She looks at the photo again. Turid sits up, removes her glasses, cleans them on her sleeve and puts them back on. ‘Auctioneer Guri Holter makes no secret of the fact that her firm is proud to be able to display this attraction. The piece of jewellery is expected to exceed the estimate. “We’ve already received some serious offers,” Holter says.’
This is crazy, Turid thinks. Price is one thing, but putting it up for sale?
It is forty-eight years since she last saw her bracelet. She had been wearing it on her wrist then.
Turid gets up from the kitchen chair. She looks at the wall clock over the stove. It is ten o’clock. She faces the window and looks outside. She can see Robert’s back, bent over the flowerbed in front of the laburnum by the fence. She is upset, but doesn’t want to tell Robert, not yet. She goes upstairs and into her old study. She makes for the filing cabinet squeezed against the wall beside the desk. Robert always complains that she never throws anything away. Hmm, Turid says to herself. Let’s see if this quirk of mine can come in handy. It takes her only a few minutes to find the document she is after.
She sends herself a critical glance in the mirror. She can’t go out looking like this.
Half an hour later she meets Robert in the doorway. She had hoped to avoid him; when he works in the garden he generally uses the veranda door. But today, for some reason, he has chosen to walk around the house to come in. His gardening gloves are filthy with soil and he wipes his face with his forearm. ‘Are you off out?’
‘A little trip to town,’ she says.
‘Have you been texted some offers again?’
She nods with a smile. ‘Christmas presents, Robert. Sale on woollen undies.’
Resigned, he shakes his head and goes inside.
Turid walks to the metro station, angry with herself because she so often decides to lie to Robert in such situations. But he wouldn’t have accepted a short explanation. He would have started to ask questions. She has no answers and so wants to avoid the questions.
When she sees a couple of familiar faces in the crowd waiting on the platform she realises she still wants to be alone. She crosses the rails and heads towards the single taxi at the rank nearby. She opens the rear door and gets in. The driver folds the newspaper he has been reading and looks at her questioningly in the mirror. ‘Tollboden offices please,’ she says, taking out her phone where she has the address. ‘In fact, it’s in Tollbugate.’
Guri Holter turns out to be a woman between forty and fifty. She is wearing a grey woollen dress – which is a bit tight, considering how many kilos she is carrying around her stomach – and a pink, faux-silk shawl. Obviously chosen to add colour, Turid thinks, and considers it a poor decision. Pink is too insistent. The shawl lies on her shoulders and screams out that she is covering her double chin and wrinkled neck. Her hair is cut into a fringe but is bristly on top. Probably the latest fashion, Turid thinks. Guri Holter looks modern to the nth degree. The rings on her fingers are adorned with large, amorphous gems. Works of art. Then she sees that Guri Holter has long nails, filed round, varnished in the same shade of pink as her shawl. Guri, it seems, is the punctilious type, with an eye for detail, Turid concludes.
The immense hall in Tollboden has a high ceiling, so every sound echoes. Doors slam. Turid’s heels click-clack on the floor as though she were a freshly shod horse on its way across cobblestones. A pneumatic drill is making a racket outside the open window. As if thinking the same, Guri Holter closes the window and with her back to Turid asks how she can help.
Turid explains that she has come about the bracelet pictured in the Aftenposten.
Guri Holter says she can tender an offer on the phone or via the internet.
Turid shakes her head. ‘The bracelet was stolen. This is theft. You can’t sell items belonging to someone else.’
Now Guri has nothing to say. She looks at her with a serious, quizzical expression.
Turid opens her handbag and passes her the papers.
But Guri Holter refuses to take them. She looks back up at Turid. ‘I don’t understand. What are you suggesting?’
‘This is a police report. I reported the jewellery stolen at the end of the 1960s. I had no real hope of ever getting it back, but I reported the theft, thinking that a situation like this might arise.’ Turid shakes the papers to encourage the woman to take them. ‘There’s a detailed description in these documents from back then. Also of the engravings.’
Guri Holter casts a glance over the papers again, still without taking them. Looks up. She deliberates. ‘I don’t know enough about this,’ she says. ‘If you want us to withdraw this item from the auction, I think you’d better contact the police.’ Again she deliberates. ‘Or a lawyer.’
Turid eyes her wearily. Considering whether to tell her or not, whether to embarrass Guri Holter by telling her she is a lawyer. Retired, it is true to say, but nevertheless. Turid decides to remain silent. Instead she wonders what the smartest thing to do would be – beyond what she has already done. Report the incident? Next step: demand the bracelet back? Not right here, though. That would be too hysterical. Let Guri Holter do a bit of investigation first.
‘Yes,’ Guri Holter says. ‘Perhaps a lawyer is best. I don’t know what the police can do really in this sort of case. In fact, I’ve never been involved in a situation like this before. And you claim the jewellery’s yours? Did you buy it?’
Turid shakes her head. ‘It’s an heirloom. One of the very few things I was left by my mother.’
Turid has nothing else of any value to add. She knows only that she wants to get to the bottom of this. And she wants to stop the sale. The two women stand staring at each other.
At length it is Guri Holter who speaks up. ‘I think the best option for you is to contact a lawyer. I’ll take up the matter with management, and we’ll get in touch with you in the next day or so.’
Turid looks at this woman and has the same feeling she has when she goes to her GP and tells him about her dizzy spells. The doctor doesn’t believe her. The doctor interrupts her. This woman doesn’t believe her. Guri Holter interrupts her. Guri Holter wants her out of the room, out of the office, out of this dreadful building. Turid passes the papers to her again.
Guri Holter holds up her hands in defence. ‘I don’t know if…’
‘Take them, if you want my name and address.’
Guri Holter takes the papers and Turid turns without another word. She thinks of her mother and all the injustice that has never been redressed. As she carefully descends the staircase, step by step, she knows she has made up her mind. This time she is going to win. For her mother’s sake.
Outside, she stands squinting into the bright light. Strolls down to the renovated Oslo East station, which is now home to shops, restaurants and bars, enters and finds a free table. She calls up the contacts list on her phone. There is only one person she knows who can make things happen in a case such as this. She rings Hans Grabbe and can hear from his answer that he is driving.
He shouts and his voice sounds euphorically happy. Turid realises it is Friday. Presumably Hans is on his way to his beach chalet in Tjøme.
‘Jewellery? Can’t you get someone in the office to deal with this, Turid?’
Turid won’t take no for an answer, however. She insists she wants Hans to take the case. ‘This is about my mother.’
Hans whinnies. ‘Which one of your mothers, Turid?’
‘My biological mother, Hans. The one who was murdered.’
Oslo, October 1942
1
Her front wheel is stuck in the tram rail. She wiggles the handlebars, but it is too late. She is going to fall. The wheel continues to follow the rail, her bicycle tips to the side, and she jumps off, runs a few steps so as not to lose balance, slips and almost lands on her backside, but manages to stay on her feet as her bike clatters onto the cobblestones. What a fool I must look, she thinks. The silence behind her tells her everyone is watching, all the passengers waiting at the tram stop. Ester brushes down her clothes without taking any notice, without looking at them.
Then a hand lifts her bicycle. A green sleeve. A uniform. A soldier. A gun barrel points over his shoulder, straight at her. Ester’s attention is drawn to the round hole in the barrel. He speaks, but she doesn’t catch a word of what he says. At last he stands up. The barrel points upwards. She takes her bike and says thank you, first in Norwegian, then in German and finally in English. Apparently the last causes some merriment. In German he says: ‘Can’t you see that I’m German?’ He laughs. Odd laughter. His wide mouth produces brief squeaking noises, like a bike wheel rubbing. He looks pleasant enough. Innocent, she thinks. Bit stupid. If only he knew who he was wasting his gallant manners on.
She places her left foot on the pedal, pushes, sits on the saddle and freewheels down to the Royal Palace without a single glance behind her. Approaching the crossroads by Parkveien, she brakes in case there are cars coming. None she can see. Bears left, pedals harder, rounds the park, has to brake for a man running across the street, then continues into Sven Bruns gate with the wind in her hair. Brakes on the descent. Slows down to take the bend to the right in Pilestredet. The clouds part so she now has the sun in her face. It is low, an October sun. She glances down at her skirt. A stain. She folds the hem over to hide it, baring her legs to above the knee; she hears a wolf whistle. She turns her head. Sees two German soldiers on the corner, whooping. She almost falls off again, but regains control and lets go of her hem. More wolf whistles. She turns towards her block of flats. Brakes. Gets off her bike. Leans it against the wall. Breathes hard through her mouth and listens. She counts in her head while looking at the piles of wet leaves and inhaling the smell of burnt coke. A magpie is on the rubbish bins, hopping from lid to lid. It flaps its wings and flies off. Ester holds her breath to make sure she captures all the sounds. Nothing happening in the entrance, no footsteps – nor in the block. She does a quick scan then walks over to the nearest bin and the brick behind it, against the wall. She holds her breath again, this time to avoid the stench coming from the bin. Then she flips off her shoe and takes out the papers; she hides them under the brick, puts her shoe back on and can’t get away fast enough.
Pedalling has become harder. She should have gone to Kirkeristen first. She would have had the whole day to deliver the papers then. It was the practical Ester who told herself the papers had to be delivered and that as the block of flats in Pilestredet was on the way, she could go there first. But now her fears are mounting. The fears that she doesn’t have enough time. There are very few people in the streets. It is early. Perhaps not early enough, though. Ester sees clocks everywhere. Above jewellers’ shops, on church towers. On the neon sign advertising Freia chocolate. She tries to concentrate on other matters. Cycles up Apotekergata and turns down to the marketplace. Soon she is racing along towards the cathedral. Her eyes are drawn by the clock on the tower. She jumps off her bike at the corner of Glasmagasinet, the department store. Glances both ways and runs across the street, dragging her bike. Pulls up sharply when she sees uniformed men outside the shop. Hovers for a moment, then continues walking. Pushes her bike past the shop windows, slowly, so as not to attract attention. Squeezes the brake as the road slopes downwards. One of the soldiers is sticking a poster to a shop window. He runs his hand across the poster and is satisfied with the result. Steps back.
Jüdisches Geschäft. Jewish shop.
Ester screws up her eyes and reads the poster again. And once more. Then loud shouts are heard from inside the shop. A man wearing civilian clothing – it is Dad – is dragged through the door. A man in a dark-blue uniform is hauling him outside. Ester stands watching. They are shouting in Norwegian. They tell him to be still, even though he isn’t moving. He looks lost. His jacket is open and he is bare-headed; his hat is in his hands. As the policeman lets go he totters. Falls to his knees. He gets up and tries to brush the dirt from his trousers. The second policeman grabs him again and shoves him into the back of the police van by the kerb. The rear door slams shut. As though he has been swallowed by iron jaws.
Ester can see part of her father’s face through the bars on the window. The hairline, the fringe over his forehead and the top of his glasses. That is when he sees her. They exchange looks. His hand grasps a bar on the door. She closes her eyes and regrets that she has seen this. She wishes she had spared him the humiliation.
So she doesn’t immediately hear the policeman shouting. The man in the dark-blue uniform points. She doesn’t understand. Takes one hand from the handlebars of her bicycle and points to herself. Me?
‘Yes, you!’
Ester is rooted to the spot. All she can do is stand and stare at the man waving his arms. Then she clicks.
‘Get out of the way!’
The police van is trying to reverse and she is in the way.
Lowering her head, she pulls her bike up onto the pavement. The mudguards clattering. The van sets off in the direction of the eastern railway line, rounds a corner and is lost from view. She casts a glance over her shoulder. A small group of police officers is still outside the shop. One of them pushes inquisitive onlookers away. Another seals the shop entrance with chains and a padlock. A third paints something on the door in white:
Closed (Jew).
Ester trundles her bike down Torggata. Stops. She has no idea where she is going. Someone behind her almost collides with the bike, curses and carries on. Ester looks around. The world hasn’t changed. People on the pavement are scurrying to and fro. Outside the entrance to Christiania Steam Kitchen a woman is sweeping. A barber is putting a sign outside his shop. This is what dying is like, she thinks. You have gone and the world doesn’t care. You die and others eat pastries. She keeps walking with her hands on the handlebars, and all she can feel is that she is cold. She leans her bike against her hip and lets go of the handlebars. Her hands are trembling. She has stopped by the kiosk with the Tenor throat pastilles advertisement on the roof. A woman carrying a shopping net emerges from the subway under Folketeateret. Out of the corner of her eye Ester registers the buxom figure. A familiar sight. The waddle, the arm outstretched as if for balance, and the funny hat. It is Ada, who lives across the corridor from her.
Ada approaches, clasps her arm and tells Ester not to go home. Ester answers like a machine. She knows. She was there when they turned up early this morning. Ada looks around to check no one is listening. ‘Have you got somewhere to go?’ she whispers. ‘To hide from the police?’
Ester racks her brain, nods. ‘I think so.’
Ada gives her a hug. Her body is large and soft. The embrace prevents Ester from moving and her bike clatters to the ground. She bends down and lifts it up, nods again and assures her: ‘I know where I can go.’
2
The bike clanks as she pedals. The incline in Uelands gate gets steeper and steeper, but Ester stays seated on the saddle, pumping hard with both legs. She approaches the camp filled with lorries and German soldiers. Looks down at the front wheel and mudguard, which is askew. The pedal scrapes against a bump in the chain guard every time her foot goes round. She hasn’t noticed it before. It must have happened in Youngstorget when Ada hugged her and the bike fell. She is hot. The hill is getting even steeper. She is moving more and more slowly. But she doesn’t want to dismount; she doesn’t want to stop in front of the soldiers.
At last she is at the top, and now it is easier. She continues past the monumental staircase known locally as ‘the Wolf Steps’. The trees in the St Hanshaugen district have red crowns. She turns left. Another incline. But after that the road is down all the way so she freewheels to the block of flats.
She climbs the stairs and knocks on the door of a first-floor flat. Three quick taps, then a pause, one short tap and three thumps with longer intervals.
Silence inside the flat.
At last she hears a knob turn inside, the door opens and Åse is standing there with a baby girl in her arms. ‘It’s Ester,’ Åse says over her shoulder and holds open the door.
Normally Ester would have spoken in baby language, tweaked Turid’s cheek and tickled her. But not today. Ester goes in and undoes her shoes.
‘Ester?’
She can’t bear to meet her friend’s worried eyes at first. Instead she goes into the kitchen. Gerhard is there in his three-quarter-length breeches and woollen jumper. He seems to be on his way out.
Gerhard takes a pile of newspapers from the cupboard, and it is clear they have been stuffed in there a moment before. ‘What a fright you gave us,’ he says, picking up a little suitcase, laying it on the table and filling it with the newspapers.
Ester takes a copy. Reads without registering a word. Noticing only that it looks different. No title on the front page.
‘Where’s the name of the paper?’
‘They’ve decided to remove it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the new regulation. Death penalty.’
‘They think I risk less if I deliver papers without a title?’
Gerhard shrugs. ‘If you’re caught, you have an argument. You didn’t know you were delivering newspapers.’
Ester slumps down on a kitchen chair. She studies the floor, still sensing Åse’s eyes on her.
‘Ester, what’s the matter?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘They’ve arrested my father.’
Now she has said it. The catastrophe is out in the open.
The kitchen has gone quiet.
‘The Germans?’ Gerhard breaks the silence.
‘Quisling’s Hirden thugs and the police. They’re arresting Jews. They came to the flat early today to arrest Dad, but he wasn’t there. He’s been sleeping in the shop since the vandalism started. I hurried over to warn him, but I was too late. I had to stand there watching him being arrested. They’ve closed the shop. Locked it up with chains and a padlock.’
No one speaks. Ester can feel herself becoming irritated by this mixture of silence, sympathy and impotence.
‘They’re throwing us out of the flat. Mum’s gone to Gran’s, and I can’t stay in my own home.’
The two of them stare at Ester in disbelief.
‘It’s true. We’ve been thrown out. Now Norway’s like Germany.’
Åse passes her baby to Gerhard. She crouches down in front of Ester and places her hands on her knees.
‘You can stay here.’
Ester shakes her head.
Åse insists. ‘You can stay here. No one here knows you. No one here knows you’ve got a Jewish passport.’
Ester shakes her head. ‘Then they’ll come here, and you’ll be arrested.’ Even though both Åse and Ester know that to be true, it feels brutal to be so dismissive. She adds: ‘Living beside a camp full of Germans would be a daily nightmare, anyway.’
‘You can stay here until you’ve had time to think, at least.’ Åse gets up and cradles her baby again.
Gerhard closes the suitcase containing the copies of the LondonNews. He stands with his hands on the lid, as if in deep thought. Finally he says: ‘It’s fine by me if you stay here with Åse for a few days. I have to go away.’
Stay here for a few days? What about the days afterwards? What about the rest of my life? Ester thinks.
‘But perhaps you should drop the paper run tomorrow?’
Ester shakes her head.
Åse interjects: ‘I can take the suitcase for you tomorrow.’ She turns to Ester. ‘You can look after Turid while I do the run.’
‘No, Åse. My contact doesn’t know you.’
‘Ester’s right,’ Gerhard says. ‘Her contact will take it as a provocation if you or someone else strolls up. There’s no point.’
Åse nods. She understands. ‘But you’ll stay here until tomorrow, won’t you?’
Ester nods. ‘Definitely.’
Åse says she just has to change the tiny tot.
Ester asks if she can do it. ‘I’d like to have something else to think about.’
She takes the baby into her small room. Lays Turid down carefully on the changing table. Her little face beams. Her feet kick out clumsily as her unbelievably tiny digits clasp Ester’s forefinger. The tiny tot is ticklish. She makes funny baby grimaces, which end in a howl of delight.
The nappy is heavy and wet. Ester undoes it and takes a new one from the shelf under the table. Sprinkles talcum powder over Turid’s bottom and secures her clean nappy. She hears Åse and Gerhard whispering outside.
Ester picks up the little one and she beams back a toothless smile.
Despite herself, Ester listens in. The voices have become slightly sharper.
They are having a row, Ester thinks, and it is because of her, and she regrets having come, regrets having unloaded her problems on these two people, who have enough to deal with already.
It goes quiet again.
Then Åse tries to talk in a normal voice. Theatrical, thinks Ester, who knows most of the timbres in her friend’s vocal range. Åse asks Gerhard if he knows when he will be back. Gerhard answers in forced tones that she knows very well she mustn’t ask. Afterwards the door slams shut and Gerhard’s footsteps can be heard going down the staircase.
Ester has finished, but isn’t sure whether she should leave the room at once. There is something very private about the silence outside. When finally she opens the door, the tap is running in the kitchen and Åse is standing with her back to her. Ester suspects she has been crying and now she is washing her face.
Ester leaves her friend in peace. Goes into the sitting room. Lays Turid on the carpet and takes the rattle from the floor. Shakes it above her cheery face. She becomes aware of a movement in the doorway. Åse is there, watching, her expression overwrought and her thoughts miles away.
Ester asks Åse if she can walk down the streets unmolested, with the Germans around, or indeed generally.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you’re the prettiest girl I know. I think the Germans occupied the country just to catch you.’
They exchange looks. Åse forces a sad smile before she joins them in the sitting room.
3
When at last she hears some noise in the kitchen, Ester pulls at the cord to the spring and lets go. The blackout blind rolls up with a bang. But the room is no lighter. It is still grey outside, neither night nor day. An October morning. She swings her legs out of bed. Sits for a while, staring vacantly into the air before getting up, collecting her clothes from the armchair and going into the kitchen.
Åse is sitting at the table, breastfeeding.
‘Sleep well?’
‘Not really, no. I didn’t sleep a wink all night.’ Ester goes to the sink and fills a glass of water from the tap. She puts down the glass and stares at the wall. Not wanting to express her worst thoughts: that she stopped on the way, that she might have arrived at Kirkeristen earlier, that things would be different if she didn’t keep making mistakes. But then she feels Åse’s eyes on her. ‘What is it?’ Ester asks.
‘You’re completely out of it. Didn’t you hear?’
‘Hear what?’
‘I said I’ve heated some ersatz coffee.’
Ester smiles, but is not interested. ‘You know, I was never very fond of proper coffee either.’
She can see her father’s eyes through the bars in the iron door; this image has haunted her all night.
Åse passes her a jug. It contains hot water. Ester takes the jug back to her room and fills the bowl in the corner. Looks at herself in the narrow mirror perched on the dressing table against the wall. She warms her hands in the hot water, splashes a little over her face and wishes she had her toothbrush with her. Lost in thought again, she manages to drag herself away and put on woollen stockings, a skirt, a blouse and a jumper.
When they are sitting either side of the table afterwards, she says lying awake and thinking has in fact been useful.
Åse is sympathetic. ‘What do you think they’ll do?’
Ester is at a loss to know what to say. This is not something she wants to talk about.
‘To your father.’
Ester doesn’t wish to speculate. She has been wondering about it all night. Perhaps it will boil down to a charge connected with his business; perhaps they questioned him for a few hours, then let him go. These thoughts went through her mind, but with little conviction, because the sign on the window told a different story.
Eviction from his home, the closing down of the shop. What happened the day before was a further turn of the screw. Ester cannot convince herself it will be the last.
Åse squeezes her hand.
They exchange looks.
Ester says that now, for her, there is only one solution. ‘I have to get to Sweden. As soon as possible.’
Åse places Turid over her shoulder to burp her. Pats her little back gently. No burp. She stands up and swings round, but the child shakes her head; she’s not in tune with her mother’s plan.
‘Are you sure?’
Ester has never been surer of anything. ‘They say we don’t own our possessions. My father’s driven off in a police van, and they barred the doors of the shop with iron chains. It’s only a question of time before they come for me.’
Åse is silent.
They look at each other again, and Ester doesn’t know what to say to lighten the atmosphere.
‘But how will you get to Sweden?’
‘The people I talked about, in Carl Berners plass. But I need money. Clothes. I have to go home and pack. Dad doesn’t need his money now.’
‘What if—?’
Ester interrupts her. ‘I have to do this!’
She can hear how harsh and irritated her voice is. But she has had enough of talking now, and gets up and goes into the hallway. Finds her shoes. Slips her feet in. Goes out to the stairwell. The toilet is free. She enters, fastens the hook on the door and leans against it. Some things can be said. Not everything, though. When Ester is overcome by despair, like now, she stands and waits for it to pass. The walls in the little room appear to be pulsating. She sits down on the seat. What happened the previous day is a link in a longer chain that started years before. What she has to do today is react while she still can. She has to defy them, she has to go home and pack, get ready for the journey.
Ester glances at her watch. Sees that she has to hurry.
She leaves the toilet and goes back to the flat, into the kitchen. Washes her hands in the sink, then takes the suitcase containing the newspapers.
‘Are you sure you want to do that today, Ester?’
Åse has put Turid down.
‘I can’t not do it. Someone’s waiting for me.’ Ester gives her friend a hug. It turns into a long embrace.
Åse swallows. ‘Will I see you before you go?’
They look at each other, and Ester senses that she has to be honest. ‘I don’t know.’
Neither of them speaks. Åse’s eyes are moist and shiny.
Ester picks up the suitcase. ‘In a way it’s wonderful too, knowing this is the last time. I’m afraid I have to go.’
Then she is out of the door.
4
She kicks the bulge on the chain guard with her heel, lifts the rear wheel and revolves the pedal once. No scraping sound. Attaches the suitcase to the luggage rack with leather straps. Tucks her fingers up inside the sleeves of her jumper as she sits on the bike. The temperature must have sunk to zero during the night. Every breath she exhales is a white cloud. People are going to work. Crowds are waiting at the tram stops. Ester is frozen and alternates between keeping one hand on the handlebars and one in her jacket pocket. A bell rings. She is passed by two cyclists in a hurry. The pedalling gets her circulation going. Soon she is hot. On the slope down to Bislett she can hold the handlebars with both hands, no problem. The wind catches her hair and her eyes begin to water. A lorry with German soldiers in the back passes. One of them waves to her. She looks down and concentrates on maintaining her speed, which she can do until Hegdehaugsveien starts to rise. She hears the clatter of the tram behind her and moves onto the pavement. Jumps off and waits for the tram to pass before she continues. The day is brighter now, but it is still grey and chilly.
She stands on the pedals for more traction up the hill. She feels hungry. She should have eaten something at Åse’s, but didn’t have the heart to take food from her. However, she does have food in the cupboard at home. As soon as she thinks about home she has doubts. Could they have changed the lock to the flat? No, they are not that quick, she thinks. There aren’t that many of them. It occurs to her in a flash that they might have used chains and a padlock, as they did with the shop, but she dismisses the idea. She will go in, gorge herself, make a packed lunch and get her clothes. Again she has a nagging doubt. How will they react at the plant nursery if I just roll up? Can’t be helped. I will have to take the risk. I will pass on Dad’s regards. It was him who gave me the man’s name. He had planned that we should all escape together. I will have to say that, tell them what has happened. Now there are only three of us – Mum, Gran and I. Again the self-reproach comes flooding back, and she pedals harder; pedals like a woman possessed to expel these thoughts from her mind.
She looks behind her before crossing over to the other side of the street as she approaches Valkyrie plass. Stands on the pedals and freewheels the remaining metres to the metro station entrance. Places the bike against the brick wall by the staircase going down. She is concentrating, even though her movements are familiar and drilled. She loosens the strap over the suitcase on the luggage rack, feels the same stabbing pain in her stomach she has every time she does this. As always, she thinks someone is watching. Someone has seen everything. Someone has watched her come here on the same days, on her bike, carrying a suitcase, rucksack or bag – some collaborator in pursuit of a privilege or more ration vouchers. Someone who is thinking: Her. There’s something funny about her. As always, Ester straightens up and scans her surroundings to locate this spy, but she doesn’t see him, she sees no one. So she takes the suitcase with her down the underground staircase.
On the landing where the stairs divide to lead down to the two platforms, she stops and peers over the wall. The platform to the right is empty. But it shouldn’t be. She doesn’t like what she sees and glances at the station clock.
It is the correct time. The minute hand jumps. Then there is a click in the air, above her shoulder, like someone invisible snapping their fingers. Ester has a nasty feeling and a chill runs down her backbone. The suitcase is suddenly very heavy.
Ester tells herself it is her; she is early. Warily, she descends the steps to the platform on the right, where the air is raw and there is the usual draught through the tunnel. Her skirt flaps. She walks slowly along the platform to the bench. Sits down. There is total silence, apart from a distant hum from an oncoming train. This is presumably the one she will catch. The one she would have caught if the other woman had been here. So what should she do if the woman doesn’t appear?
Ester lifts her head and stares straight ahead. On the opposite platform there are a few people. One of them is reading a newspaper; a man is standing with his hands in his pockets. Ester lets her eyes drift to the right and on the bench she sees a woman.
As the woman turns her head, Ester sees it is the one she has been expecting.
Ester stands up and waves.
The woman quickly looks away.
At that moment the roar of forced air and the squeal of brakes grow, and the train bursts into the station and stops in front of Ester.
For an instant there is total silence again until the doors open.
No one gets out.
Something is happening on the opposite platform. Through the carriage windows she sees a man looking at her as he runs back down the platform to the steps.
Then Ester realises what has happened.
Now she will be arrested.
Ester weighs up her options. Back the same way she came? But then she would run straight into the arms of the man who is bounding up the steps on the opposite side. There is only one possibility.
She leaves the suitcase where it is. Breathing heavily, legs like jelly, she walks across the platform and into the carriage.
The train is still stationary.
She hears the man’s footsteps on the stairs. The clatter gets louder. His steps are a drumbeat. Getting louder and louder.
Ester glances at the sliding door between compartments. But she doesn’t dare turn her back on the drumming feet. She stands looking out at the staircase. A foot appears and a breeches-clad leg.
With a thud the doors slam shut.
The carriage jerks as it moves off. It trundles forwards, slowly, much too slowly. Now the man is on the platform and looking straight at Ester through the glass door as she backs against the opposite wall. She meets his cold eyes as he bangs his fists on the door, but the train doesn’t stop. The man runs alongside the carriage, banging on the door, but now the speed of the train is greater than that of the man. The distance between the man and the carriage increases. Then the carriage is in the tunnel and in darkness.
Ester grabs a strap hanging from the ceiling to prevent herself from falling. She can taste blood in her mouth. There is a bang and Ester’s knees give way.
It is the conductor opening the door to the compartment. Legs apart, wearing a uniform. He asks where she is going.
5
Ester pays, but stands by the door, ready to get off at the next station. Impatiently she waits for the train to stop and the doors to open. At long last the train pulls into Majorstua. She jumps off, runs along the platform and down the steps to the subway leading to the other side. She breathes through her open mouth as she runs up the stairs to the opposite platform.
Here she forces herself to walk slowly, trying to breathe normally, and strolls as calmly as she can back to the station building. Glances left. Sees a man sprinting down the slope to the platform on the opposite side. Could this be the same man? Could he have run that fast?
Ester forces herself to walk even more slowly.
The man is wearing a cap. Ploughing his way through, he looks like the man from Valkrie plass. Breeches. It must be him. He must have turned immediately, shot back up the stairs and run along the street. And now he is walking along the platform, scanning the crowd. He stops, shades his eyes and searches for the train she took. She doesn’t look in his direction. Ester stares at the ground. She will soon be gone. She joins a crowd of passengers.
The bike, she thinks.
But she can’t go and fetch it; not now. Åse can do that, perhaps tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.
6
The bare branches of the treetops stretch out to the sky. Ester wades through leaves along Kirkeveien. It is like shuffling through coloured paper. On another day she would have kicked at the leaves and rejoiced at the different hues. Now she is walking with her eyes peeled and her ears pricked. The motor of a machine drones and some workers are shouting to one another. They are building pillars for a gate into Vigeland Sculpture Park. Ester has to pass through a group of German soldiers. She looks down as she steals between the uniformed backs, trying to think about something else. But she can’t. Even when she thinks she has left them behind she doesn’t dare look up to check. She studies her shoes. They are wearing badly. Her father tried to drum it into her: Save your shoes, Ester. Catch the tram, cycle, walk as little as possible.
She carries on, her eyes boring into the pavement. Turns left into Frognerveien. Now she is taking her old school route back home. Yesterday seems a very long time ago. Only when she turns into Eckersbergs gate does she lift her head, slow down and look around her. Everything seems normal and still. Nobody is on the street, no cars. She stops outside the entrance to number ten. Checks again. Looks up and down the street.
She walks past the entrance. Stops. Thinking once again that the arrest of her father was an attempt to frighten him. That they checked his papers and let him go in the evening or the night. Perhaps he is already at home. Perhaps everyone is. Waiting for her.
As she visualises this, she knows it is a dream. Wishful thinking. She looks up at the windows of their flat. Everything looks normal.
She makes a decision. Goes to the entrance. Opens the door. Enters. Inhales the familiar atmosphere of the stairwell of her home. But her state of mind is the same. The fear is still there. It feels as if she is wrapped in a cloak of unease.
She hesitates on the first landing. Takes a deep breath and forces herself to go up to the next floor. Passes the doors and continues upwards.
She stops on the landing at the top and takes in the sight before her.
She is not sure what she expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. The door to the family’s flat has been smashed open. Ester registers what she sees with the same dead eyes she has seen everything since her father was dragged into the police vehicle. White splinters stick out from the door frame, there is a hole where the lock should be and the door is open.
The sight of the splintered door frame is the irrefutable proof. Her wishes will not come true. Her father has not been released. Her mother is still with her grandmother. And Quisling’s paramilitaries have been here again. They have forced their way in, smashed the door. In her mind’s eye Ester can see the crows, the black crows with greasy beaks, hopping around on the bodies in the forest.
She observes the destroyed door and listens. All she can hear is the usual silence in the stairwell. She raises a hand, touches the door and pushes it. The hinges squeal. She walks in. Again she stops and listens. The hallway looks as it always does. Mum’s elegant coat and dad’s light gabardine hang where they usually do, and there is not a sound to be heard.
But they have been here. They have destroyed the door. Forced their way in. It strikes her that they still might be inside, just in a different room. So she stands still and listens, but hears nothing. And tells herself that those who broke in wouldn’t be so quiet. Unless…
Unless they are waiting for her.
She makes herself move on. Pushes open the door and goes into her father’s study. Here, things are strewn across the floor, papers are scattered around his filing cabinet, the drawers have been pulled out. The bottle of ink on his desk has been knocked over. A very black stain has spread across the inset writing pad and the woodwork. The drawers have been smashed. There are white splinters around the locks. Her foot slips on a piece of paper. The noise makes her freeze. She is still for a few seconds. Curiosity drives her on. She supresses her fear and continues over to the desk. Takes hold of a drawer. Pulls it right out. It is empty. Her heart sinks when she sees this. Nevertheless she has to check. She runs a hand carefully over it. Next drawer. Puts a hand in and searches in vain. Desperation clouds her eyes. How will she and the others get away now?
She hears a thud in the adjacent room.
She quickly crouches behind the desk. Stays stock still. Listens to her heart pounding. Whoever is in there must be able to hear her heart, smell her fear, smell her sweat, she thinks. Whoever is in there is bound to know where she is hiding.
The door creaks as it swings open. But she hears no footsteps. The silence persists. Why has no one come in? She hugs her knees so hard it hurts.
It really hurts.
Was the noise she heard just her imagination?
At length she makes herself stick out her head and have a look.
The ginger cat is sitting in the doorway. When it sees her it gets up and comes in through the door. Strolls over with its tail in the air, rubs up against her legs and starts purring.
The relief turns to a groan as she staggers out. Grabs Puss. Stands up with the cat in her arms and buries her face in its fur. She laughs out loud. ‘So it was you, was it?’
Ester feels braver now that she is no longer on her own. She goes into the room with the grand piano. The family’s polished, gleaming, nut-brown Steinway. The sight of the piano is like looking at a picture of another era – the era before yesterday. She can see her grandmother on the piano stool, her father with a pipe in the corner of his mouth, listening to the music with his eyes closed. Now I am the little match girl, now it is me, dreaming about the comforts that once existed.
She has to speak to them.
She puts the cat down on the lid over the keys. Turns to the telephone. Lifts the receiver, dials and asks the switchboard for a number.
Ester breathes out and closes her eyes when she finally hears her mother’s voice:
‘Thank God, Ester. I thought something had happened to you. But where on earth have you been? We were so frightened for you.’
‘They took Dad,’ Ester says, fighting to keep her voice under control. ‘I didn’t get here in time.’ She is aware the woman on the switchboard will be listening. Someone has probably been informed that the Lemkovs’ telephone is not private.
Her mother says she knows. ‘The police told us when they came here, to Gran’s.’
Ester says she saw her father being arrested; she arrived just a bit too late. She tries to stop herself, but can’t. She starts crying and blames herself for making the situation worse with her snivelling. She doesn’t want her mother to console her. There are others who need that comfort more.
‘It’s not your fault, Ester.’
She can’t waste valuable time making her mother say silly things, Ester thinks. She has to be strong. She has to pull herself together.
Her mother asks if she is still there.
Ester says they have been here; the front door is smashed to pieces. ‘I think they broke in. Dad’s desk has been broken into and all the contents have gone.’
Her mother says nothing. Eventually she asks: ‘Everything? You know what I mean. Has all that gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there no end to this evil?’ The despair in her mother’s voice makes more of an impact than her words.
Ester takes a deep breath. ‘Mum, we have to get out. We have to go – now.’
‘I can’t leave Dad, Ester. Not until I know more about what they want to do to him. If they’ve stolen things from the desk, we’re poor. Can you have a look for my jewellery?’
Ester puts down the receiver and goes into her parents’ bedroom. The cat is sitting on the piano, watching her pass. It is happy. It is kneading the piano with its front paws. It thinks the world is as it was yesterday. That it will continue to be like this for ever.
Ester is in the bedroom. At once she sees what has happened. She goes back, lifts the receiver. Takes a deep breath.
‘It’s gone.’
Ester hears a vehicle stop outside.
She knows what it is. Nevertheless she puts down the receiver and looks outside. She is right. Uniformed men.
She lifts the receiver again. ‘Mum, I have to go. They’ve come back.’ She hangs up. Meets the cat’s eyes. Makes a decision and takes it in her arms. Leaves through the battered door.
At that moment the front door downstairs bangs.
7
Ester lets the door close without making a noise. Stands motionless with the cat in her arms.
She looks down. Dark-blue uniform sleeves on the banister. The stomping of feet echoes against the walls.
Then the neighbour’s door slides open. Ada is in the doorway. She beckons Ester over. Ester goes in. Ada closes the door without a sound. Locks it.
The two of them say nothing, just stand holding each other. The cat starts purring again. Ester lets it go. It strolls through Ada’s flat with its tail in the air.
Ester flips up a corner of the curtain over the glass in the door. She stands on tiptoes and gazes out. Two men in Norwegian Nazi uniform and one man in civvies study the smashed door frame. Ester’s calf muscles begin to ache. At last all three men go into the flat. Ester gives Ada a hug, takes a deep breath and frees herself from her arms.
Ada shakes her head. Tries to hold her back.
Ester mouths: I have to go. She lowers her head. Remembers something. Mouths again: Take care of Puss!
Ada nods. Twists the lock and opens the door without a sound.
Ester slips out onto the staircase. She glides down, staying close to the wall so that the steps don’t creak.
Downstairs at last. She runs to the front door and tears it open.
A black car is parked by the kerb. A man in a dark-blue uniform is smoking a cigarette and leaning against the bonnet. Ester notices too late. It is not a good idea to turn around now. She continues straight on, breathing deeply. Turns left. She is about to pass the car and the man in the uniform. Then she sees a polished black boot – it is stretched out in front of her, blocking her path.
She stops.
The man in the uniform locks his narrowed eyes on her and clamps his lips around a cigarette. His skin is pale and he has pimples around his mouth and by his temple. He is young, perhaps younger than her. A farmhand, she thinks. Eighteen maybe, possibly nineteen. Someone who can stop her simply by raising a leg. He has probably done the same to many others. Who knows what horrors this poor boy has already committed? She looks him in the eye. Meets the self-assured gaze and observes he is puffing on the cigarette in a pseudo-macho way. She can see that appearing nonchalant comes at a cost.
Again she looks at the raised boot and says nothing. Then she feels a slap on her bottom as he lowers his boot. She carries on her way, head down. Her backside burns where he struck her. I should have hit him back, she reflects, slapped his face. Is it suspicious not to react?
Her neck is burning too. From his eyes – or something. She crosses the street. Continues down the pavement on the opposite side. The crossroads is ahead.
A tram rattles past along Frognerveien. The noise means that she can’t hear what is happening further away. The tram is soon out of view. Two more metres. Now she finally dares glance over her shoulder. The two Hirden men and the one in civvies have emerged from the block of flats. All four are standing by the car and watching her. She forces herself to walk slowly over the final stretch. Rounds the corner. Out of sight. She breaks into a run. The tram is heading for the stop by Frogner cinema. She speeds up, crosses Odins gate. The tram has stopped. She is panting and crosses the next side street. She couldn’t care less what she looks like. She is going to catch that tram. She strides out. The tram sets off. She is going to make it. Ups her speed again. Steadies herself and jumps onto the platform at the back. Tastes blood in her mouth, stands there, chest heaving, recovering. The distance from the corner of Eckersbergs gate grows and grows, and there is not a uniform in sight.
Oslo, October 1942
1
Åse holds a hanging strap as the tram crawls into Carl Berners plass. It stops. She manoeuvres the pram to the door. The conductor is a bit slow. He is making his way through the passengers, but can’t get to her. Two men vie to help her with the pram. In the end she lets go and allows them to take control. She thanks them and waits until the tram has moved off before heading towards the crossroads by Trondheimsveien. Here she has to wait. A police officer is directing traffic. Soon he raises a palm to the line of cars. They stop and she sends him a questioning look. He nods briefly. She pushes the pram across and walks up the hills to Hasle, stopping for breathers on the way. The pram is heavy. Fortunately her baby is still asleep. From the corner of the pram hangs a shopping net, which swings to and fro in time with her strides. She turns into Hekkveien. Now and then she holds the net to stop it banging against the pram and waking her child. She comes to a halt. The linden hedge is still covered with yellow leaves, and behind it she can glimpse the roofs of two greenhouses. She turns into the gravel drive of the nursery. Comes off the drive and aims for the space between the greenhouses. Here the flagstones are uneven. The wheels get stuck in the gaps between them, and Åse has to push hard to make any progress.
She has to pass a lorry. The generator is smoking. A man is loading sacks of generator fuel onto the back. Åse steers the pram past and heads towards a line of cold frames. Two young men are walking either side of them. They lift the glazed lid from each in turn and carry it to a pile. They place the glass on the pile, turn and go back for the next. The sound is monotonous: the crunch of footsteps on gravel and a little clunk as the lid falls into position. One of the young men leans forwards and checks that the last lid fits snuggly onto the previous one. Both glance at her furtively.
Åse sits down on the bench by the entrance to a greenhouse. The man with the sacks of kindling has finished. Åse says hello. The man pretends he has seen her only now. He has red hair and freckles. A red fringe curls over his forehead. He stops in front of Åse, who has crossed her legs and is rocking the pram.
Åse points to the pram and puts a forefinger to her lips. ‘I’ve got a little something for Ester,’ she whispers.
The man goes to a small shed, which appears to be leaning against the hedge behind the plot. The door is crooked. One hinge is almost hanging off. He goes in. Comes back out, followed by an athletic man wearing work pants and high boots.
Åse gets up.
The man proffers a muscular hand. ‘Alf Syversen.’
Åse grips his hand and says her name.
Syversen asks how he can help.
She repeats that she wants to see Ester.
He looks at her. ‘There’s no Ester here.’
Åse is puzzled. ‘No Hilde either?’
‘Hilde?’
‘Hilde Larsen. Dark hair, long. My height, slim, about twenty…’
Syversen shakes his head. ‘Afraid not. There’s no one here but us.’ He points to the boys moving the cold-frame lids, the man with freckles and himself.
Åse looks down, thinking, so that is that, we won’t meet again. She fights her emotions. Unhooks the shopping net. ‘Then I’d like to ask you a favour. Please could you give this to her from me.’
He raises a palm, not wanting to take it.
‘She needs it.’
‘I can’t give something to someone who isn’t here.’
They stand looking at each other. She searches his gaze, but fails to find any understanding or sympathy.
‘I just wanted to say goodbye,’ she says. ‘Properly. The last time we met went so fast.’
He turns away from her. He leaves.
Åse watches the broad back and shoulders, wondering for a moment if he was right – she had been imagining things.
At any rate, she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. She pushes the pram back the same way she came. Turns when she hears someone running.
It is the man with the freckles. He says he will help her past the lorry, grabs the pram and pushes. It is tight and they have to coax it through. Turid wakes up. Starts whimpering. They reach the entrance. She wants to thank the young man, but Turid is bawling now. She asks him to wait and lifts the child onto her shoulder, mumbles reassuring phrases and rocks her.
Finally Turid is quiet and Åse puts her down again.
The young man has gone. Åse walks down Hekkveien towards Carl Berners plass. It is only when she reaches the tram stop that she realises what is different. The shopping net with the clothes and food for Ester has gone.
2
Åse puts a hand in the pocket of her woollen jacket for what must be the tenth time. Counts up the ration vouchers and stuffs them back. Leans over the pram to confirm the tiny tot is asleep. The queue is slow. She has been standing outside the shop for an hour and a half. But now there are only a few people ahead of her. A little boy of four or five is sitting on the step in front of the door. He yawns and rests his head on his hands. Åse thinks he is a good boy to have waited for so long without complaint. She leans over the pram again. Turid is still asleep. The doorbell jingles. The woman coming out seems angry. This is a bad sign. Åse has been uneasy for a while. The queue is moving faster now, and the people emerging have lean shopping nets and grumpy expressions on their faces. She guesses there is no more meat. But she won’t leave. She has been waiting here for so long that she is going to try, to ask, when it is her turn.
