The Klipfish Code Page 11

  Lars began to whimper, and his whimpers turned to crying.

  Marit talked faster, hoping her brother would hold his tongue. "We were bored," she continued, "so we went rowing this morning and the wind was so strong it blew us off course." She pointed to the weather outside the windows and told him that they came from Godøy. "I couldn't row back, so we came into the church for shelter. I hope we didn't break any rules. We weren't trying to be trouble for anyone. We don't want to be a problem."

  She surprised herself at how easily the words rolled off her tongue. She had never been good at lying. The war was apparently changing that.

  The soldier related her story to the officer, and then asked, "What is your name?"

  "Marit Gundersen. And this is my brother, Lars."

  The soldier raised his voice above Lars's snuffles. "The enemy may try to attack on this coast and we want to keep you safe. You seem like smart kids. Tell us, have you seen anything on your island that seems unusual?"

  "Net."

  "Think harder. Anything out of the ordinary—visitors, perhaps? Faces you haven't seen before. Five men, perhaps, wearing oilskins and sea boots? Anyone with anything to hide? Anything unusual?"

  She tilted her head, as if seriously considering his questions. She pictured Henrik's oilskin boots, one in shreds around his badly injured foot. He had said his boat had gone down. Had the other four all died? This question about anything unusual was almost laughable.

  With a casual shrug of her shoulders, she replied with amazing outward calm. "Net." For extra effect, as if she were genuinely trying to think hard, she paused. Then, hoping to persuade Lars to not add a word, she slowly shook her head at him, then at the soldier. "Nothing unusual."

  She hoped she'd convinced him.

  He spoke again in German with the officer, then turned to her, his face revealing nothing. "Gather your things," he ordered, "and come with me."

  ***

  In the pouring rain, Marit and Lars followed the soldier to the nearest house. He knocked—bam, bam, bam, bam. Behind them in the distance, in the shelter of the church doorway, the officer smoked a cigarette.

  The tallest woman Marit had ever met opened the door. To her chest she held a crying infant. "Ja?"

  "By orders of the Reich, give these children shelter and return them to Godøy where they belong."

  "Return them? But my husband—"

  The soldier snapped his arm straight toward her head. "Heil Hitler!" he shouted, then walked away.

  The woman stood board stiff. Her baby bawled harder. Then she turned her attention to Marit and Lars, as if seeing them for the first time. Her shoulders relaxed and she exhaled. "Vel," she said. "You'd better come inside. It's a foul day." Once the door was closed and locked, she added with scorn, "But for the Nazis, compared to the hell that awaits their souls, this weather will someday seem like heaven."

  Marit smiled. She liked this woman.

  "My husband is fishing, and you'll have to stay here until he returns. I have no way to get you back to Godøy before then."

  A small fire crackled in the cookstove. As she placed her baby in a basket on the counter, she motioned with her head to a bench at the table. "Sit," she said, "and hand me your wet clothes." They removed their layers, right down to their thin wool undergarments, and she hung their clothes on a line that stretched from one end of the kitchen to the other. Bright yellow dishes decorated the open shelves. A red runner graced the simple wooden table. Marit enjoyed the comfort of being in this home. She thought of the many times she'd sat at her own kitchen table in Isfjorden with Papa and Mama. The scents of fresh coffee, wood smoke, and homemade flatbread, fresh from the oven. She'd give almost anything to go back to those times.

  The woman added a birch log to the cookstove, and before long, heat billowed, warming them and drying their clothes. She poured mugs of hot water. "Something to warm you," she said. Arms across her chest, she studied them, then turned to her nearly bare cupboards and icebox. Soon, she laid out a few pieces of pickled herring and two pieces of bread.

  "Takk," Marit said, knowing that with food increasingly scarce, this was a generous gift, a banquet. She and Lars huddled side by side and ate hungrily.

  They soon learned that the woman's name was Johanne, and that she was originally from Bergen on the mainland. "With this war, I'm beginning to wonder if anything is left standing there anymore." The Allies, she said, had hit several German targets, including ships. "And the Germans bomb any building that they think is connected with Resistance activities. The world has turned upside down."

  What would Johanne think if Marit told her she was helping the Resistance and hiding a soldier? She had an impulse to tell this woman everything, but she held back. Because of her actions, she must be extra careful to guard her secrets so no harm would come to Johanne's family.

  Johanne told them a joke. "A knock came at the door," she began, "and the old woman asked, 'Who is it?'

  "'The Angel of Death,' came the reply. The woman opened the door and smiled. 'Come in, come in! I thought you were the Gestapo!'"

  Marit laughed, but Lars scrunched his forehead in confusion.

  "The Angel of Death," Johanne explained, "even that looks good compared to the Gestapo—the Nazis' secret police. Get it?"

  He nodded. "I knew that."

  Johanne told them how when the radios were recently turned in on Giske Island, the villagers put their radios on a horse-drawn cart, draped it in black, and followed the cart like a funeral procession. "We even sang hymns," she said, "accompanied by fiddle."

  Marit told Johanne about the bombing of their real home at Isfjorden, about staying with Bestefar on Godøy Island, and about Aunt Ingeborg being taken away in the middle of the school day.

  "Oh, dear." Johanne's shoulders rose slowly. She looked at them with sympathy. "And your parents, are they alive?"

  "They've sent letters," Lars said.

  "Good," Johanne said. "That's good. With this war, you never know."

  What Johanne said was true. Marit's parents could be killed any day—any second—by air attacks, or found out by the Gestapo. But her parents were still in the mountains, Marit tried to console herself, tucked safely away from harm. At least, that was her prayer.

  "My husband won't be back until later. Read or rest, whatever you like. He'll get you home. Not that I like the idea of his crossing the waters at night, mind you, but we've been given no choice, have we?"

  "Nei," Marit replied.

  The baby started to fuss, and Johanne moved to a corner rocker to nurse.

  From a shelf, Marit pulled down a book called Kristin Lavransdatter: The Bridal Wreath. She opened the novel and began reading aloud about a Norwegian girl in the Middle Ages and her struggle to survive in difficult times. Marit knew Lars loved to be read to. And she had loved it when Mama had read to them every night.

  That afternoon in the living room, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Lars on the braided wool rug, Marit read until her voice grew hoarse. Before long, Lars stretched out his legs, lay his head down, and fell asleep. And still Marit read, partly because Lars's body, snuggled against hers, was comforting. And partly because she couldn't put the book down. It took her away from the present and everything her world had become. It silenced her concerns about returning to Godøy. It helped her pretend they could stay here with Johanne instead. What would Bestefar do when he learned of their misadventure? And the soldier in the loft. What if Bestefar found him? Would he stay quiet and hidden while she was away? It was easier to keep turning the page of the book than to answer such questions.

  By late afternoon, to their fortune, the wind and rain had eased. When Lars stirred, Marit put the book back, went to the kitchen, and talked with Johanne. "The wind seems to have died down. I think I could row back."

  "It's too far, and it's growing dark."

  "But I'm a strong rower," she said, her arms and shoulders aching.

  Johanne shook her head. "That may be, but you were
put in my charge, and I'm not going to let another wind toss you back up on our shore. For your sake and for mine. The less often those Nazis come to my door, the better. You'll stay and wait until Rollo returns. He'll motor you back."

  Marit didn't have to wait long. Within the hour, Johanne's husband returned, and then wordlessly he bade them to follow. In the thickening darkness, he towed their empty rowboat behind his trawler.

  At considerable risk, they slowly crossed the water between the two islands and rounded the peninsula of the familiar lighthouse. Marit was told to watch for mines, but how was she to see them in such dark waters?

  Suddenly, a shot rang out and water sprayed before the bow. She screamed.

  From the lighthouse, rays of light swept across the boat.

  "Halt!"

  Rollo idled the motor. "These children," Rollo shouted, "drifted in their rowboat to Giske! We were ordered to return them here, where they live!"

  There was no answer, just lights washing back and forth over the deck, illuminating them. Water lapped against the boat and rocked them from side to side.

  Marit held on to the boat's mast with Lars. "Just stay calm," she whispered, "don't talk."

  "Proceed!" the soldier shouted.

  Rollo shifted from neutral to forward, and they made their way slowly from the lighthouse to the wharf. In the distance, shadowy shapes looked increasingly familiar.

  "There's the pier," Marit called. "Up ahead."

  Without a word, Rollo eased the boat slowly into the harbor and pulled up beside an open dock. "Stay home," he said, almost the only words he'd said the whole way. "You put others in danger."

  "Takk," Marit said.

  He motioned to their rowboat tied to the stern of his trawler. She and Lars hopped down into it as he untied it from his boat and pushed it away.

  Marit picked up the oars and rowed the short distance to the dark silhouette of Bestefar's boathouse. As she pulled through the black water, her shoulder muscles, back, and hands protested in pain. She was more sore than she'd ever been in her life.

  They touched shore, hopped out, and pulled up the rowboat. Marit almost wanted to kiss the stones beneath her feet. They had made it back. They were safe! As they passed the boathouse's side door, it creaked open.

  They jumped, and Lars seized Marit's arm.

  "Marit!" Bestefar spoke harshly.

  She took in the figure darkening the door frame. He would never forgive her for being gone so long with the rowboat, no matter what excuse she tried to come up with now. He'd spoken one word, and by his tone, she understood clearly where he was placing the blame.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Infection

  "Straight home!" Bestefar ordered. Without another word, he marched them down the road. Marit glanced at the barn as they passed. She needed to check on Henrik, to bring him food and water and tell him that she'd delivered the compass. All that would have to wait until Bestefar went to bed.

  In the warmth of the kitchen, Bestefar paced, his eyebrows meeting in a white, furrowed V.

  "It wasn't Lars's idea to row out so far, that much I know. Marit, I think it's best you go to bed early tonight."

  "But I'm starving!"

  "You'll survive until morning. No, your punishment is to head straight upstairs. You've caused me enough worry. You need to ponder your foolishness."

  Marit drank a cup of water from the hand pump at the sink, and then paused at the first step, wondering about Henrik. He needed food. He needed water. Perhaps if Marit told Bestefar the truth, he'd help her care for him. Maybe call a doctor. But she came to a quick decision—the same one she'd come to earlier. To tell Bestefar was to risk Henrik's life further.

  "Marit!"

  Her anger toward Bestefar burned all the hotter as she stomped loudly up the stairs.

  "That's enough for one day," Bestefar called after her. "Not another word, not another foot stomping, do you understand?"

  She refused to answer.

  Stretched out on her bed, she listened to her stomach rumble with hunger. She'd never felt more tired. Every muscle in her body was filled with lead. And she was really, really hungry. But she would not beg. She was too proud to plead for something to eat. Still, it wasn't fair that Lars was allowed to eat a bowl of cod stew. Far from the wood stove, her bedroom was cool; Aunt Ingeborg's homemade wool socks and her own sweaters barely warmed her.

  Even Lars made her angry. His voice flitted up the stairs, chatting on and on to Bestefar about being on the water and the wind blowing them straight to Giske and spotting a killer whale. "And we nearly bumped into a floating mine," he added, "but I told Marit to turn right."

  She held her breath and waited for him to tell every bit of their day and get her in real trouble.

  "But she turned fast," he said, "and we missed it completely!"

  To her relief, Lars didn't mention anything about the fishing village or the church on Giske or the Germans. "A nice woman named Johanne gave us food and I fell asleep."

  From what she could hear, Lars was intentionally steering clear of telling everything. "We're safe and that's what matters," he said, sounding just like Papa.

  Bestefar humphed. "We're in the middle of a war," he said, seeming to talk more to himself than to Lars. "I have enough to worry about without my grandchildren wandering off—across open water, no less."

  Her mind replayed her long day. What had the German soldier on Giske Island meant when he said "The enemy may try to attack on this coast"? Did that mean the Allied forces were planning to land somewhere on Norway's western coast? She wondered if delivering the compass was part of such a plan. Did it carry codes in the engravings or, somewhere inside its case, a small note of importance? Had anyone seen her on the doorstep of the house in Alnes?

  Before she knew it, she had dropped into a fathomless sleep.

  Lars's moaning and leg-kicking woke her. He was sound asleep, and she was grateful that she no longer had to wake him to use the night pot. From the main floor, Bestefar's snoring whistled through the house—a good sign.

  She slipped into her boots, jakke, and hat. Then, silent as a mole, she grabbed a half loaf of something that passed for bread—as Aunt Ingeborg had said, the flour was more like ground sand these days. She broke off a chunk of cheese from the wheel in the icebox. She poured a glass of milk, ate quickly, then stuffed Henrik's half of the cheese and bread in her pockets. This time, Big Olga would have to wait.

  Climbing the ladder to the loft with a half bucketful of water, Marit was met with air so foul she nearly tumbled backward.

  "Henrik?" she whispered, then clasped her hand over her nose.

  She should have left him an empty bucket to use, but that hadn't occurred to her. He was in no shape to climb up and down the ladder. He surely couldn't have hiked to the outhouse. She was a foolish child taking on tasks far larger than she could possibly handle.

  If the Gestapo returned to the farm to search again—and especially if they brought search dogs with them— the smell in the loft would flash a signal brighter than any lighthouse. She knelt beside the soldier.

  "Henrik?" No answer.

  He was dead—there could be no other explanation. Panic built in her legs. She wanted to run away but forced herself to stay calm. She reached into the pile of straw and touched his chest. Beneath her palm, she sensed breathing—breaths as shallow as a parched riverbed.

  Marit brushed straw from his face. His eyes were sunken behind shadowed lids. A white crusty film covered his cracked lips. She touched his forehead. He was burning with fever.

  "Mor," he cried weakly, like a child calling out for his mother.

  "Oh—you are alive!" She brushed more straw from his body. Careful not to bump him, she examined his injured foot. It was swollen to three times its earlier size, and the open wounds oozed. She didn't know much about medicine, but she knew that his foot was dangerously infected. His fever was possibly high enough to kill him.

  She lifted a ladle of wate
r to his lips, but it dripped across his face. Some of it fell into his parted lips. She tried to give him more, and he opened his mouth wider but choked, spitting water, which dribbled down his neck. If he was too weak to drink...

  "Don't die on me, Henrik," she whispered. "I delivered it—the compass—just like you asked." She didn't know if he could hear her or, if he did, whether he understood.

  The sky was growing hazy with a dusky morning light. Bestefar could be leaving for his boat at any moment, and Marit needed to be milking Big Olga when he stepped from the farmhouse, just in case he checked on her. She gently placed more fresh straw over Henrik, hoping to hide the foul odor, and then headed down the ladder. "I'll get help, I promise."

  From her stanchion, Big Olga studied Marit as she skillfully eased the cow's full udders with her hands. The barn cat and her kittens showed up, right on schedule, and waited for their taste of warm morning milk. Before foamy milk had covered the base of the bucket, the barn door opened.

  "Marit?" Bestefar stepped in.

  She didn't answer, even though she knew it was rude not to do so. She was afraid that if she said a word, her true feelings—about him, about his unwillingness to take action, about brave Henrik lying overhead, whose life was quickly unwinding like a skein of yarn—would all come out of her mouth and she would say too much. She bit the soft, fleshy inside of her lips.

  "God morgen," he said, his voice softer than the night before. She sensed him moving closer, standing behind her as she leaned over the bucket, sheltered by the steady breathing of Big Olga. Marit tensed, hoping that he wouldn't notice the smell from the loft.

  "Marit, it's not that I don't—" he began, then stopped. "I was terribly worried last night when you two were not at dinner. And then the rowboat was gone."

  She kept milking—ting, ting, ting—aiming the white stream against the side of the can. Though he was apologizing in his own way, and she felt she should at least acknowledge him, she held herself in check. She wasn't ready to let go of her anger.