The Klipfish Code Read online

  At the end of the fjord and protected by mountains, her village had always felt safe. Now, scraps of wooden boats filled the harbor and their charred masts poked up like old bones. Stone chimneys stood tall amid piles of burned boards. Wisps of smoke climbed from the rubble. How dare the Nazis invade them? She wanted to scream at the Germans who had dropped the bombs. Didn't they have families, too?

  The steamer chugged around the fjord's bend, and Papa knelt and hugged her and Lars close. "Bestefar will meet you two in Ålesund—and then he'll ferry you with his boat back to the island." He paused, as if searching for something more to say. Finally, he stood and said only, "I promise—we'll be together soon."

  "Then please," Marit burst out, "please—don't send us away!" She wrapped her arms around her mother. Her entire life was being ripped up by the roots.

  Too soon, with Lars at her heels, Marit boarded the steamer. As the engine rumbled and the steamer pulled away and out of the harbor, she raced up the ladder to the stern railing. She had meant to wave goodbye; instead, she gripped the wooden rail and looked back through blurry eyes. Something larger and more frightening than she could possibly understand had been set in motion. Beyond the steamer's churning wake, Mama and Papa became smaller and smaller, until she could not see them at all.

  ***

  Hours later, the steamer eased toward the landing. Fog thick as risengrot—Marit's favorite rice pudding—covered the city's harbor as the steamer slowed its engine. Marit kept a lookout for Bestefar's boat, which was like many other fishing trawlers with its two masts, open decks, wheelhouse, and the tonk-tonk-tonk of its engine. They were sturdy wooden boats that handled wind or calm, port or open ocean water.

  In the fog, everything was gray and dull. On past holidays, she had loved looking at Ålesund's ornate and colorful buildings. She loved walking past the bustling wharves and fisheries where they turned dry, salted cod into klipfish and shipped it around the world. Once dried and salted, the codfish kept forever. She loved Mama's way of cooking it in butter and water. Though the fisheries used faster, more modern methods, some local fishermen still dried split cod on large boulders in the sun.

  She spotted the trawler dockside. Two masts stood tall, the wheelhouse was empty, and Bestefar sat on the rail, his legs crossed in wool trousers, cupping a pipe. "There he is, Lars."

  "Bestefar!" Lars called as he ran ahead down the steamer's rough planks, but their grandfather didn't hear. His head was bowed.

  Marit followed behind, making her way slowly toward the fishing trawler.

  Bestefar looked up and saw them coming. He held up his hand, probably the friendliest gesture Marit guessed she would see from him.

  "Hei, Bestefar," Marit called, trying to force a little cheerfulness in her voice.

  He nodded at them. "Hurry now." Beneath his fisherman's wool cap, tufts of white hair stuck out, matching his well-trimmed mustache. His steely eyes seemed harder than ever. Mama always said he was a happier man when Bestemor—Marit's grandmother—was alive. But she'd died when Marit was only three, too young to remember her. "It's as if your grandmother's long illness drained the life out of him, too," Mama had once tried to explain. "Not only did Ingeborg take over Mama's classroom on the island, but she stayed on at home to care for Papa. He wouldn't leave the house for days, not eating, not even tending his nets. It was your aunt Ingeborg who finally forced him from the house and back to fishing again."

  Marit wished she could feel sorry for him, but the only grandfather she'd ever known was cold and short on words—except with Lars, of course.

  "Lars," Bestefar said. "You're getting to be a big man now."

  Lars jumped right into Bestefar's arms. "Not that big, Bestefar!"

  Marit turned away. He hadn't even said hello to her or used her name. If he wanted to be that way, she could too. Let him be in his own salty broth, like herring in a barrel.

  "Well, don't just stand there on the dock, Marit. Cast off now. And no falling in this time. I don't want to fish you out again."

  "Bestefar, that was a long time ago." She'd been four when she'd tripped and gone in, nearly drowning. Why couldn't he let it go? Swiftly, she moved to untie the line from the nearest cleat. In her haste, however, she managed to make knots in the rope where there had been none. She felt Bestefar's eyes on her, waiting. She was making a mess of things only because of him. It was the way he was. Nothing was ever done quite right. Never fast enough.

  With the rope finally untied, Marit pushed off from the dock and jumped into the boat. The sails were down and secured. Her grandfather ran the engine for the short trip back to the island. He stood in the wheelhouse. Lars stood in front of him, a big smile on his face, hands up on the wheel, pretending to steer beneath Bestefar's large hands.

  Seagulls swooped and cried mournfully around the boat as it crossed from the mainland to Godøy Island. Marit stood at the bow and clung to the rails. Salt water splashed up as the bow rose and fell. She breathed in the salty ocean air. She hated to leave her parents, but at least the island was a place she loved to visit. She loved combing the shoreline for treasures. There were the chickens and goats, and Big Olga, with her gentle brown eyes, the cow Marit had learned to milk years earlier. And Aunt Ingeborg. She was like a crab, hard-shelled on the outside, but soft on the inside. Strict, too, but she had to be. She was a schoolteacher.

  Compared with her aunt, Bestefar was ... Marit glanced back at the snow-crowned mountains. She had it. He was a stone troll.

  Chapter Three

  Land of the Midnight Sun

  On summer nights, the sun held fast to the sky, refusing to let darkness swallow the land. Whenever Marit opened her eyes, a hazy light covered the island and poured in through the open window. And this night was no different. She drifted on a sea of frustration, a rowboat tossed by every wave.

  The bed she shared with Lars barely fit in the room. It may have been her mother's room when she was a girl, but it was never meant to be shared by two—especially with a younger brother. If Lars slept soundly, then he didn't wet their shared bed. If he slept fitfully and cried out from nightmares, then Marit hung sheets on the clothesline the next morning. Marit envied Aunt Ingeborg sleeping in a bed all by herself in the other upstairs bedroom.

  She felt trapped, pushed up against the wall, but at least on her side of the bed, a window looked out toward the sea.

  The pasture ended at the shore and rocky peninsula, and at the base of the lighthouse paced a German soldier, his rifle angled on his shoulder. Immediately after the first bombs fell, truckloads of German soldiers arrived and took control of every town in Norway. At first, they handed out candy, which she always refused. Every time Marit saw them, an icy unease settled in her belly. The Nazi soldiers patrolled everywhere, including the islands. And this soldier, guarding this lighthouse, came too close. As far back as she could remember, she'd loved walking out to the lighthouse. It was as much her own as it was every Norwegian's lighthouse.

  Over two months had passed since the Germans had dropped bombs and invaded. It was already June. Though more bombs fell up and down Norway's coast, none had yet fallen on Godøy Island. And in all that time—since the day she and Lars had arrived at the island—she hadn't heard from Mama and Papa. Not a word. They were her parents. Why didn't they write? Or leave a message on the phone at the island's general store? Phone lines might be down, her parents were likely helping the British, but things still didn't add up. The British and Norwegians had failed to stop the Germans. The Nazis were rumored to make many unexpected arrests, and when they did, people disappeared. What if Mama and Papa were arrested in Isfjorden? What if she never heard from them again?

  With a small kick, Marit untangled her legs from her nightdress. She checked on Lars, to see if he was twitching with nightmares. He slept stomach-down, burrowed in his pillow, his hair rumpled around his head. He breathed slowly, peacefully; otherwise—just to be safe—Marit would have nudged him to get up and use the night pot.


  She flopped back down, shifting from her belly to her back. Day by day, there were more orphans in Norway. At least she wasn't one of them. She dropped her forearm across her eyes. But nothing worked.

  Finally, Marit gave up and studied the buttery yellow slanted ceiling, the hand-painted chest that held her traveling clothes, and above it on the windowsill, the jar of daisies Lars had gathered alongside the dirt road. She rolled over, facing the wall. Papa had promised they'd be together soon. But when was "soon"? Two months, two years? When, Papa? They should never have left Isfjorden—no matter how bad things had seemed; they should have stayed together as a family.

  Marit curled into a tight ball and finally slept.

  ***

  "Frokost!" Aunt Ingeborg called upstairs, as she did every morning. Marit jumped up, emerging from a dream of searching for her parents amid bomb-shelled buildings, and bumped her head on the slanted ceiling. "Uff da!"

  With a groan, she dragged herself out of bed. The sun was higher than usual. "Oh, no." By now, Big Olga's udder would be painfully full.

  Lars's rumpled hair—the color of kaffe with cream—stuck out from under the fluffy dyne.

  "Lars, get up. Don't keep Aunt Ingeborg waiting."

  No sooner had the words left her tongue than the dyne flew off the bed. As Lars's feet hit the wooden floor, Marit hurried ahead down the steep stairs into the yeastscented kitchen. She braced herself for her aunt's scolding, although the worst kind of scolding was Bestefar's stony silence.

  Aunt Ingeborg turned away from her bread dough and wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron. Her fingernails were trimmed short, her forearms covered with sun-bleached hairs and sprinkled with freckles from hours in the gardens. She pushed golden strands back into her tightly woven bun, then humphed.

  "I thought you were going to sleep forever. The sun's halfway through its chores already, as you two should be." She had the same sterling blue eyes as Mama—only Mama's eyes were glistening water, and Aunt Ingeborg's were melting ice.

  At the back door, Marit pulled on her boots. "I'm sorry..." she began. "I'm going right now."

  "No, I already took care of the milking. Boots off." Aunt Ingeborg patted Marit's shoulder and steered her to a chair at the table. It was set with plates of cheese, herring, bread, strawberry jam, and hard-boiled eggs and a pitcher of buttermilk. "Besides, you needed extra sleep. A girl of ten shouldn't have such dark circles."

  "Takk. Tomorrow—I promise—I'll be up earlier."

  "Tomorrow, ja, but today I need you two to pick rhubarb."

  "For pie?" Lars asked, his dimples deepening in his rounded cheeks.

  "And jam. I hope to trade some for flour and a little coffee. Now, bow your heads."

  Later, they headed outside. Alongside the red barn, trimmed white like every door and window frame of her grandfather's goldenrod house, they found rhubarb leaves as big as elephant's ears. In the land of the midnight sun, the long hours of daylight helped crops grow fast—and large.

  "Remember, Lars," Marit said, "pull them out like this." Without breaking its stem, she pulled on a long rhubarb stalk until it slipped free.

  "I know, Marit," Lars said, shaking his head. "I heard what Aunt Ingeborg said. You don't always have to tell me what to do, just because you're older." His bangs hung nearly into his eyes; Mama would have trimmed his hair weeks ago.

  Marit put her hand on his shoulder. "I know you're smart. You finished grade one already."

  Lars lowered his head.

  "Well, maybe you didn't finish grade one, but close enough."

  "See?" he said. "You said I didn't finish."

  "Don't worry—we'll start school in the fall and you'll be in grade two."

  He was two heads shorter, but sturdy. The island was a good place for him, and Aunt Ingeborg's cooking had helped ease the stomachaches he'd had when they first arrived.

  Some things were the same. Her brother. Aunt Ingeborg and Bestefar. Three cows swishing their tails in the pasture. The island smells of kelp, fish, and salt water. Cries of seagulls and kittiwakes. Wooden trawlers and smaller fishing boats bobbing on a soft chop. The fairyland city of Ålesund across the harbor with its towers and turrets—or at least what was left of it. But when sirens rang across the water, the sound of bombs falling in Ålesund often followed.

  She turned away and joined Lars in picking more rhubarb. Soon a pile of green leaves and red stalks reached Marit's knees. They brought their harvest to the back steps, cut off the stems, and threw the leaves behind the barn.

  "Just enough sugar left to bake pies," Aunt Ingeborg said as they carried the ruby red stems into her tidy kitchen. "After this, I don't know when we'll see sugar again."

  Chapter Four

  Refugee

  That afternoon—as they had every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday since they'd arrived—Marit and Lars hiked the dirt road to the fishing wharf. They paused by the first boathouse, where a new propaganda poster had been tacked up overnight. The illustration showed a blond Norwegian and a blond German shaking hands, with "Alt for Norge!" written above it.

  "Don't believe it," she told Lars. "All for Norway is a lie."

  Such posters often combined Nazi swastikas with Viking boats and heroic characters, as if the Germans could convince Norwegians that the two countries were destined to merge. Norwegians regularly ripped down the pro-Nazi posters at night, but in the mornings, German soldiers tacked them back up again.

  Beneath the gaze of Godøy Mountain, Marit and Lars walked on. They passed several island farms—narrow strips of land that stretched like piano keys to the shore. Fjord horses dotted a few pastures; more ponies than horses, their thick manes and golden coats caught the morning sunlight as they grazed.

  Along the way, Marit's mind raced with worry that a letter from Mama and Papa might—or might not—arrive. At least there was one bright spot: her new friend, Hanna.

  The day they'd first met, Marit had been waiting on the pier with other islanders for the mail boat to arrive. Someone had tapped Marit on her shoulder and asked, "Where are you from?" Marit turned to discover a girl her own height, with shiny dark hair and a smile that revealed a slice of air between her front teeth.

  "Isfjorden," Marit replied.

  "My name's Hanna Brottem. What's yours?"

  "Marit Gundersen. I'm staying with my grandfather, Leif Halversen, and my aunt Ingeborg."

  "You mean Miss Halversen. She's going to be my teacher next fall."

  "Really? Oh, and this is my brother, Lars."

  Lars glanced away shyly, but his dimples deepened. "Hei," he said, without meeting Hanna's eyes.

  Hanna told Marit about her family's new baby and two-year-old sister she looked after every day while her mother worked at the hospital in Ålesund. She pointed to a nearby red clapboard home facing the ocean. And Marit told Hanna about being bombed, how their cookstove had been blown partway through their kitchen wall, and how they hadn't been able to return home yet. That she wondered every day if her parents were all right.

  "That's terrible," Hanna said. "Much worse than no flour or sugar."

  "A lot worse."

  Hanna's eyebrows bunched over her tiny nose. "Then ... you're refugees."

  Refugees. The word had an edge to it, like a fence meant to divide those who belong from those who do not. Marit wasn't sure if this girl was making fun of her. What had she meant exactly? She bristled. "Ja. I guess so."

  Hanna touched her arm lightly. "That must be hard—to be separated like that from your home and parents."

  Marit could only nod. Whatever doubts Marit had about Hanna instantly vanished. She knew she'd made a good friend.

  ***

  As they waited for the mail boat to pull alongside the dock, Marit tapped her foot impatiently. Lars held Marit's hand, and she let him. His small hand reminded her that he was only seven. Even at ten, she was having a terrible time being separated from Mama and Papa. More than once, she'd woken up from the same nightmare. Always, she was o
n a ship with her family and they were crossing the ocean, when out of nowhere, the legendary sea monster—the kraken—reached its terrible tentacles and suction cups around the ship and to the very top of the mast. Part crab, part octopus, it was enormous, and it finally found what it was looking for—Mama and Papa. It wrapped its slimy arms around their bodies and pulled them toward its pinching mouth, then sank out of sight, leaving a whirlpool behind. Marit clung to Lars as the ship twirled in dizzying circles, sucked slowly downward toward the bottom of the sea. That's when she usually woke up—terrified and sobbing.

  "Hei, Marit!" Hanna ran toward them, her braids whipping in the breeze. Marit dropped Lars's hand. "Hanna!"

  Soon after, the mail boat pulled up to the main dock.

  "What do you have for us today?" called Mr. Larsen, grabbing a line and tying it off. Owner of the general store, with a head of short sandy curls and matching beard, he was taller than most men on the island.

  "The usual," replied the captain. He tossed the leather mailbag to Mr. Larsen as a handful of passengers disembarked.

  "Do you have a letter from the Gundersens?" Marit asked Mr. Larsen, following him step by step to his shop.

  "Same answer, Marit. You'll have to wait—along with everyone else."

  A new sign in the window stated: Out of potatoes. Don't know when we'll get them.

  Inside, the shop's shelves of food, household, and farm supplies seemed to dwindle every day. Mr. Larsen stood behind his counter and began pulling letters and parcels from the leather bag. Villagers crowded around. "Ivarsen!" he called out.

  "Here!" A young woman scurried forward, hand up.

  "Riste."