The Klipfish Code Page 12

  From the corner of her eye she watched him. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets and filled his lungs with one deep, long breath. When she didn't turn or say anything, he exhaled in a huff, stepped away, and headed out through the barn door, most likely to his boat.

  With hands trembling from anger and fright, Marit continued milking. To her relief, the smell from the loft hadn't sent him up the ladder to investigate.

  After turning Big Olga out to pasture, Marit knew what she had to do.

  "Lars," she said, calling into the house. "Wait here. I'll be back soon!"

  Then she dashed down the road, cutting over paths from the general store to Hanna's home, a red clapboard with a porch overlooking the water. Marit banged on the door, trying to catch her breath, and waited.

  "Marit!" Hanna said, still in her pajamas. "It's early, but come in. I've missed you, with school out."

  Marit stayed on the porch and shook her head.

  Hanna's cheerful expression faded. "What happened? Marit, are you OK?" She glanced across the water toward Ålesund. "Oh, no. Did you get bad news about your parents?"

  "I need your mother," Marit said.

  "She's still at the hospital in Ålesund. The war keeps her busy. She should return in an hour on the first boat. Why?"

  Marit didn't know what to do. She had nowhere else to turn. "He made me promise not to tell anyone about him. But if he doesn't get help, he's going to die."

  "Who?"

  She couldn't return alone. Not without a plan, without help. In a whisper, she told Hanna about the soldier hidden in the loft. "You must not say a word about this. Not to anyone, Hanna."

  "I promise."

  Marit waited for Mrs. Brottem at the wharf, and when the mail boat chugged into the harbor, she looked for a red scarf and navy wool coat, just as Hanna had described. Since Marit had seen her last, Mrs. Brottem had gathered deep lines across her forehead.

  As passengers stepped from the boat, Marit stopped her. "Mrs. Brottem?"

  "Why, Marit," she said, a tired smile turning to concern. "Is everything all right with Hanna and my babies?"

  "They're fine," Marit said. "It's my brother, Lars." She lied. "Could you please come check on him? He's in a bad way with a fever."

  "Of course."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Warning

  With Mrs. Brottem walking alongside, Marit headed toward the barn. Lars was outside, petting the gray goat.

  "Your brother certainly seems fine now," Mrs. Brottem said, pausing on the dirt drive.

  "It's not really Lars," Marit said in a rush. "I'm sorry. I had to say that because of the other passengers. Please. I'll show you. In the barn."

  "I don't know anything about farm animals, Marit."

  "Lars," Marit said, pushing open the barn door. "Keep watch and let us know if anyone is coming. Can you do that?"

  "Ja," he said. "I'm good at that."

  For the next hour, Marit assisted Mrs. Brottem, supplying her with buckets of warm water. Tucking her strawberry blond hair back into her scarf and washing her hands, Mrs. Brottem set to work. She didn't fret and she didn't smile, but she held the edge of her lower lip between her teeth as she examined the soldier.

  She cut the pants right off the soldier's legs. "Don't worry," she told Henrik, who slipped in and out of consciousness. "I promise to sew them back up after they get a good washing."

  Marit took his clothes down to where a wash bucket waited, then scrubbed and cleaned his torn and soiled pants. When she returned, wet cloths covered Henrik's forehead and Mrs. Brottem ladled water into his mouth, sometimes smoothing his throat with her fingers to help him swallow.

  "It's your foot that's causing all this trouble," she told him. "It's badly infected. I'm going to use some hot compresses, and it will hurt, but you must be quiet. Marit, hand me a clean rag."

  Marit handed her one from the pile she'd gathered.

  Mrs. Brottem put the cloth in the soldier's mouth. "Bite on this if you must."

  Then, she faced the twisted and raw stump of his foot and shook her head. "We should get a doctor here to you, but there isn't one on the island. Marit, your grandfather will have to ferry one over from Ålesund—and they're very busy there, too."

  "Nei. We can't tell Bestefar!" Marit pleaded.

  "Why not? This soldier needs help."

  Ashamed of her grandfather, Marit felt heat rise to her face. "I'm worried he'll report Henrik to the Nazis."

  Finally, Mrs. Brottem spoke. "Oh. I see." She examined the soldier's foot further. "I'll see what I can do first, but if his foot must be amputated, then we'll have to risk telling him."

  Eyes tight with pain, Henrik bit down on the cloth and moaned as Mrs. Brottem swabbed his infected foot. Marit couldn't stand to see anyone in such pain and looked away. But it was either pain or certain death.

  "Let's hope that by cleaning the infected wounds he'll take a turn for the better. I'll return tomorrow morning before heading across to the hospital. You must make sure he drinks plenty of water so he doesn't get dehydrated. And if he's warm, use a cold, wet cloth to keep the fever down. When I return, if he's not better, I will speak with your grandfather myself."

  Marit nodded.

  As Mrs. Brottem lingered to stitch up the other pant leg as Marit watched Henrik. His eyes were a little brighter, his breathing deeper.

  His gaze met Marit's, and she guessed his question. "Did you..." he began.

  She nodded with a smile. "Ja. Just as you asked. It's done."

  "Tusen takk," he said. "I owe you a great debt."

  Mrs. Brottem must have thought he was speaking to her, for she answered, "Marit—she did the most. But don't thank us yet," she said, her voice stern. "You're not well yet. Rest. And do your best to use this pot when you must."

  Later, as they headed down the loft ladder, Mrs. Brot-tem whispered, "This war. None of us can handle it alone. But this boy ... Henrik ... without the risks you took to save him, Marit, he'd be dead by now. He owes you his life. You've been very brave."

  They stood by the cow stanchion as Lars continued his lookout.

  "Nei." Marit shook her head back and forth. "I've been terrified, scared to death that—"

  "Marit," Hanna's mother interrupted. "You didn't let your fears stop you from ... doing what needed to be done. That's bravery."

  ***

  That afternoon, Henrik's fever dropped, and he drank water greedily from the ladle Marit held to his lips. He managed a bowl of thin cod stew, which Marit fed him spoonful by slow spoonful. Then he dropped back, exhausted.

  At supper, Lars carried on with Bestefar as if the day had been just like any other. He talked about missing school, how cold he was at night now without the dyne, and about becoming a fisherman someday. Marit was glad for his chatter. She could stay tucked within her silence. She wouldn't have to try to lie about her day.

  A knock—so light that she wondered if she'd imagined it—sounded at the door. She dropped her spoon against the edge of her bowl, and cod stew splattered across the table. What if Henrik had managed to climb down the ladder? Maybe he was feverish again—possibly delirious. She had warned him about Bestefar, and that it wasn't safe to come to the house.

  Or worse, the Gestapo had returned to do another search. Worse than the Angel of Death. Marit remained statue-still.

  Bestefar was at the door, easing it open, clearing his throat. Marit stared at her nearly empty bowl and listened. Whatever bravery she might have shown earlier was no longer in her grasp. She was certain of that.

  "Mr. Halversen, my name is Olaf," the voice came. "Olaf Andersen."

  Marit jerked her gaze toward the door.

  "I need to talk to you."

  On the doorstep stood Olaf, with Kaptain at his side, his tail curved over his back. Olaf removed his cap, ran one hand through his untamable hair, and turned his cap round and round between both hands. Why was he here? It made no sense. And to be out after dark was to risk getting stopped by
the Gestapo. But his parents were NS—traitors. Maybe that's why he was free to roam about despite the curfew.

  "I came to warn you," he said, looking beyond Bestefar to Marit. "I heard my parents talking with a German officer. I ... I hear more than I should. But I came to tell you that there will be a crackdown on the island. 'A severe crackdown,' the German said. I thought you should know."

  A surge of fear zinged through her body. Was it possible that Olaf knew about her helping the Resistance soldier? Did he know about her having delivered the compass? But how could he? He had always acted as if he wanted to be friends. Had he been spying on her all along?

  Bestefar said quietly, "They've searched here already! What more do we have to worry about? Maybe you're trying to trap us." He stepped closer to Olaf, towering over him.

  Olaf glanced questioningly from Marit to Bestefar, then took a step back.

  "Go," Bestefar said icily, his hand clamped on the edge of the door, ready to close on Olaf's shoes. "Now."

  Olaf yanked on his cap and backed down the steps. "I ... I'm only trying to help."

  "Bestefar," Marit pleaded. She suddenly felt sorry for Olaf. If he was forced away so soon, they would never know more about his warning or what he actually knew about her efforts to help Henrik. "Wait, um, shouldn't we hear him out?"

  "Net"

  Before Bestefar had closed the door, Marit slipped outside and flew down the steps after Olaf. "Wait!"

  The damp ground soaked through her wool socks. Beyond the barn, a crescent moon hung low in the night sky. She made out the shadowy figures of Olaf and his dog as they headed toward the road.

  "Olaf, wait!"

  He stopped and slowly turned. Then he walked back, his face mostly in shadow, lit only by a hint of moonlight reflecting off patches of melting snow. Kaptain sat down immediately at his side.

  "I'm sorry," she said, tilting her head toward the farmhouse, "for what happened in there. Thank you for warning us, even if I don't understand."

  "Your grandfather doesn't want to hear the truth, does he?"

  "He wants peace," she said. "He thinks if he avoids trouble—" She stopped. She had no excuses for Bestefar.

  The night air was icy with mist. Marit wrapped her arms around herself. Her breath hovered in tiny clouds. "At school," she started, not sure exactly what she was going to say, "I'm sorry I never talked with you. I hope you understand. I can't. It's not you. I don't believe you're one of them."

  "Them?" He sounded bitter. "Who, my parents?"

  "Nei, I mean ... NS ... you're not a Nazi."

  "Marit," he said. "You don't even know me."

  She thought of the day he'd carried Kaptain, just a puppy, from the wharf—so proud, so excited. His father had brought back a puppy for Olaf when most people were worrying about the cost of eggs. She didn't know everything about Olaf's parents, and she didn't know everything about Olaf, but she knew him well enough. "I know you're good, Olaf. And I know I'm sorry for so much. You tried to warn us. What can I do?"

  "Just believe me." His voice softened to a plea. "I've heard talk. When one family member is taken away, the others look more suspicious. I'm worried you might be at risk."

  The door opened and Bestefar stood in the doorway. He cleared his throat. Before he ordered her to come inside, Marit said quickly, "It's the war, Olaf. Maybe someday things will be different."

  "Maybe," Olaf said. Then he turned his back and hurried away, absorbed into the damp night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  At Risk

  Marit couldn't sleep. Bestefar's snoring rose through the floor vents like the snorting of a hibernating bear. As much as Marit tried to stay angry with him for the brusque way he had treated Olaf, her own conversation with Olaf bothered her more.

  "Your family is at risk," Olaf had said. In her heart, she believed Olaf was good, but how could she know for sure? How long could anyone be "iced out" before they turned bitter and angry? He had risked much by coming to warn them of a crackdown. But was Bestefar right? Was it possible that Olaf had sided with the NS and was warning them as a ploy, a way of getting them to confide in him and to reveal something secret? Or had he come to warn them as a friend would? What exactly had he overheard? In a world where all the rules had changed, she couldn't know anything for sure.

  Just as she learned by listening to the sounds around her, and paying attention, she would listen with her heart. And her heart told her that Olaf had meant only good.

  She drifted in and out of sleep. Sometime later, she awoke. Outside, a storm was gathering. Waves rushed the shore beyond the farmhouse. Sleet pelted the windowpanes. Wind taunted the farmhouse, and overhead slate shingles trembled.

  Footsteps sounded up the stairs.

  "Marit?" came Bestefar's deep voice. "Lars?"

  Bundled like a bear in foul-weather clothing, he ordered, "Get up. Put on your warm clothes. Hurry now and come with me."

  "Is your boat loose?" Marit asked. A thousand possibilities came to her. He'd found the soldier in the loft. The Gestapo were here, beginning their crackdown. Maybe there was a fire. Bombing—it had started again. She sat up, trying to get her bearings. She didn't feel like getting out of bed if she didn't have to. It was the middle of the night and the air was icy. "But why?"

  "Just follow. Do as I say. And for God's sake, hurry." Then he headed down the stairs.

  She thought of the morning when bombs first fell and Mama and Papa insisted they go downstairs. Like then, this wasn't a time to delay. "Wake up," she said, shaking Lars's shoulder. "Bestefar said we have to get up and follow him." He moaned.

  Marit pushed him to a sitting position, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and helped him to his feet. They didn't have to worry much about adding warm clothes, since they were already dressed in nearly everything they owned. They made their way downstairs and found their boots beside the door. She helped Lars, who was more asleep than awake.

  For a moment, they waited at the door, ready to go. Lars leaned into her.

  "Bestefar," Marit said, sure he'd discovered their soldier for sure. "Just tell us—"

  "I'll tell you soon enough," he said. "But Marit, just this once," he said, his voice full of pleading. "Don't argue with me!"

  Moments later they were following him out the door. "Not a word," he said, his hand raised up to them as they crossed from the house toward the barn. Marit braced herself for questions about Henrik. But he walked right past the barn without a glance. Instead, he hurried through sleet, rain, and wind to the road. In a night as dense as peat, they could easily lose him. Marit grabbed Lars's hand and scurried to keep up. Freezing rain lashed her face. Never had she seen Bestefar move so fast. He was nearly running.

  Then, in her stomach, the reason for this strange leave-taking struck. Olaf's warning. This had something to do with his visit. But what?

  Her whole body tensed, filled with questions and apprehension. They had no excuse for being out in the middle of the night. If a Nazi soldier stopped them, they would all be in terrible trouble. They could be shot on sight.

  They skirted the ditches on the way to the boathouse. Bestefar paused, waiting for them to catch up. Then he pulled them into a huddle so that their heads touched. "Not a word," he whispered. "Not a sound until we're inside. Do you understand?"

  They nodded. With the Nazi headquarters in the schoolhouse just down the road, Marit wasn't about to protest. Still, this whole thing was crazy. Maybe that was it. Bestefar truly had gone crazy.

  Ahead, the boathouse beckoned like a fortress. They followed him through the side door. One step, two. She stopped, waiting. Surely he'd light a candle or help them see somehow. There was a scratch and the smell of sulfur, then the flicker of a candle glowed in Bestefar's hand. And there, coming toward her from a cluster of huddled shapes in the corner, shedding a blanket as she drew closer, was a face that sent Marit's heart on wings.

  Aunt Ingeborg!

  Marit wanted to cry out loud, to scream with joy. Sh
e expected the vision would vanish like a dream, but Aunt Ingeborg, dressed in oversize men's clothing, drew her and Lars into a tight hug, the scratchy wool of her jakke against Marit's face. This was no dream.

  "Oh, Marit! Lars!" Aunt Ingeborg whispered.

  "How did you get here?" Marit asked, her voice hushed. "I saw them haul you away! I thought I'd never see you again." A hundred questions tumbled within her.

  "Our German truck was ambushed—soon after we left Ålesund. Three of us teachers were in hiding, until yesterday. Our guide received a signal—brought us here to wait for the next bus."

  "What bus?" she whispered. There were no buses on the island.

  "Not a real bus," Bestefar interjected. "We'll go from here to Scotland's Shetland Islands. The fishing boats that ferry back and forth—we call them 'The Shetland Bus.'"

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Valuable Cargo

  "Everyone, listen!" Bestefar said, his voice commanding, even at a whisper. He spoke not only to them but also to five people in the shadows. In the ring of the candle's faint light, Marit noticed three men (one with a dark beard, one with a rifle slung across his shoulder, another with a bandage over both eyes) and two women (one whose cape stretched across her protruding belly, the other older, in a calf-length coat). Marit could not understand why Bestefar seemed to be in the middle of this. And how could he know of this plan to take "The Shetland Bus"?

  "You will hide quietly in the hold, shoulder to shoulder, tight as sardines," he began.

  Not only could Marit barely see, but she struggled to grasp the meaning of what she was hearing.

  "Me, too?" Lars asked with excitement. Aunt Ingeborg pulled him close. "Shhhh."