Hanna
That bloody man again, snooping around! He’d normally drive on by, not bothering to stop just to be glared at by me, but he must have pulled up when he caught sight of Ruby, sensing fresh meat. She was taken in by him, too, his smooth manners and his pretending to be concerned about me.
If it were possible, I’d have gnashed my teeth and stamped my feet, like a troll, cursing him and his acquisitive ways. I didn’t like the way he looked at the girl, like a snake hypnotizing its prey, and how she smiled and blushed.
I think of the lawyer’s letter, stuffed into a kitchen drawer, and the way that man sits and waits for me to have to leave the croft so he can swoop in and add it to his own estate, turning Igdrasil into yet another stretch of bleak moorland.
The tree of life will shake, and the wildflowers in the meadow will die as the fragile land erodes into the sea, trampled by the sharp hoofs of sheep at the wrong time of year.
The corncrakes will vanish again and maybe even the storm petrels will leave this place as it turns into a barren green desert.
The thought of his power and my weakness exhausts me.
But I don’t want to waste time thinking about my neighbor today, so I begin to set out some things for lunch.
It takes me far longer than usual, my bad arm hindering me at every turn, but everything is ready by the time Ruby returns from the vet.
I’m glad she wasn’t there to see me drop the butter on the floor as I tried to unwrap it.
Still, Pip licked up the worst of the greasy smear, and I popped what could be saved into the butter dish, so no harm’s done.
As we sit at the table with our bowls of soup, she cuts me a slice of cheese and butters my bread for me (none the wiser!), and then she asks what happened to me after we left Narvik.
You see, Liv, I think, I told you this would happen. Once you open a can of worms, there’s no putting the lid back on.
*
Erik’s parents welcomed us into their home in Fagernes, a short distance down the fjord from the smoking ruins of Narvik. I think the place was good for Liv. It was a haven where we could regain our strength a little after the horror of losing Mamma and witnessing the destruction of our home.
We listened intently to the nightly broadcasts from Troms? and Britain, avoiding the propaganda-filled messages that the Nazis were putting out from Oslo, where the traitor Vidkun Quisling was enjoying his newfound power.
The local newspaper announced that a Nazi named Josef Terboven had been made head of state and had outlawed all political parties apart from Quisling’s National Gathering.
But the broadcasts we listened to on Radio Troms? reported that King Haakon had managed to escape to Britain and was setting up a government in exile, encouraging Norwegians to resist the German invaders in any way possible.
Against the backdrop of this confusion, we slowly started getting back to some sort of normality, even if it bore no resemblance to the life we’d known before.
We had to accept that Norway had been defeated, but we would never take that defeat lying down.
Until the schools could reopen, Erik continued to help crew a local fishing boat, ferrying refugees away from the danger of the towns and cities that had become a focus for German occupation, and he brought us snippets of news.
“They’re already rebuilding the harbor at Narvik.
Getting the supplies of iron ore running again is a priority.
Hitler needs it for his tanks and planes, and to rebuild the battleships that were crippled by the Allies in the fight. ”
Liv and I had no desire to return to our old home, even if it could be rebuilt. The town was overrun with Nazis and held too many painful memories for us now.
In spite of the kindness of Erik and his parents, I began to feel a bit claustrophobic staying with them. It was late June, and as we approached the summer solstice, I felt the usual restless longing in my veins to escape to the fishing hut on the other side of the fjord. I asked Erik to help me.
By that stage, the Nazis were allowing fishermen to go about their work again—although most of the catch was promptly requisitioned for German consumption—and he got one to take me across.
Liv wasn’t keen to come with me. She preferred to stay with Erik’s mother that day and help sew a christening gown for a new grandchild.
I was glad she had that to focus on, a reminder that life goes on.
I sat in the stern as the boat chugged across the water, letting the wind tease strands of hair from my plait and listening to the tonk-tonk-tonk of the exhaust, as regular as a heartbeat.
The sound reminded me of listening out for Pappa’s boat as Liv and I pottered about the shoreline, picking up feathers and shells and poking at the bright red pom-poms of the sea anemones growing in rockpools.
When we reached the bay, I was relieved to find everything undisturbed since our last visit.
The old rowing boat was still drawn up under its tarpaulin, protected from the worst of the storms in the lee of the sea barn, and I knew I’d find Pappa’s ropes and tools still hanging from their hooks in the shed, along with assorted floats, nets, and hand reels, the outboard engine, and a can of fuel.
For the first time since the battle for Narvik had begun in early April, I felt I could breathe again as I drew back the bolt on the door of the fishing hut and stepped inside.
It felt a little like walking into a dream.
The collection of shells and sea glass was arranged just as we’d left it, alongside a few books on the shelf by the table.
Our old rag dolls sat there, too, and I picked up mine and held it against my cheek, breathing in the faint smell of seaweed and engine oil, which so reminded me of my father.
I didn’t shed a tear, though. We’d wept enough in the past couple of months to last a lifetime.
I drew aside the curtain that separated the far end of the hut from the main living area.
The mattresses where we had slept on our summer visits were still there, only slightly chewed by a mouse that was now—thankfully—long gone.
I shook out the eiderdown quilt I’d brought with me and hung it over the rail of the porch to air, then picked up a broom and swept the hut clean.
The coffee pot sat on the stove, and I busied myself fetching water and lighting the fire.
Soon the hut filled with the comforting aroma as it brewed.
I took my cup and went to sit outside, letting the warmth caress my face as the sun danced on the water.
A quartet of herring gulls wheeled overhead, sketching invisible patterns against the blue of the sky, the waves shushing the mewing of their cries.
I drank a sip of coffee, then noticed another bird a little way out on the sea.
It was much smaller than the boisterous gulls and appeared to be paddling its feet in the water as it fluttered across the surface.
I smiled. It was a storm petrel, come back to the summer breeding grounds.
It would have flown thousands of miles to return to one particular island and find its chosen mate.
It cheered me up a little to know even a war couldn’t stop them reuniting.
I felt the possibility of happiness and realized how much more at home I felt there than with Erik’s parents.
I decided then to stay at the hut, at least for the rest of the summer.
It wasn’t too far across the fjord from Fagernes, and I’d be able to take the rowing boat to and fro occasionally, to fetch supplies and to spend time with Liv or bring her here if she wanted to come.
I knew she felt safe with Erik, and she enjoyed the company of his mother, but I needed a bit more space.
I’d be able to grow a few summer vegetables in a little patch of ground behind the hut, and I could bring some staples with me to supplement what I could catch and forage for along the coast. The sight of the storm petrel, busily feeding on the plankton her feet stirred up as she fluttered back and forth, only served to make me feel determined that I could support myself for the few weeks of summer.
Yes, this would be a good place for me to stay for a while, to feel closer to Pappa and Mamma and hope that some of the pain of missing them might begin to heal.
*
Spending the summer at the hut indeed did me good.
Liv and Erik came over regularly to join me, and we spent peaceful days bathing in the light among the skerries, cooking the fish we caught on fires built with driftwood on the beach.
We hiked into the hills above the bay to fish for trout in the high lakes, and picked pails of bilberries and wild raspberries, filling jars with preserves ready for the winter to come.
Sometimes—for a few fleeting moments—it was as if we’d managed to shut out the world beyond the bay, hidden as we were in the arms of the hills.
But then we’d catch sight of a ship laying mines farther up the fjord or hear gunfire from beyond the ridge and be reminded of the enemy occupying our country.
On one of their visits, they brought me a wireless set.
Liv said it was so I’d have some company when they weren’t there.
She told me most Norwegians now tuned in to the nightly British news broadcasts on the BBC, which seemed to be the only reliable way of finding out how the war was progressing in Europe, and showed me how to find the station.
It certainly helped keep the loneliness at bay after they left.