Hanna
I took more care than ever to make sure the wireless set and aerial were concealed, always on the lookout for another visit from Captain Stolz.
He’d continued to drop by from time to time in the autumn, and I was always coldly polite in fending off his advances.
Perhaps he’d taken umbrage at my rejection the last time he’d appeared, or maybe it was the wild weather that prevented him from coming, because to my great relief, I hadn’t seen him for a while.
On days when the wind howled around the hut, flinging handfuls of snow against the walls, I blessed the storms that kept him at bay.
My birthday meal was nothing special—the usual fare of salt cod and potatoes, though because it was a special occasion, I followed it with some pineapple out of a tin Liv had brought with her on her last visit.
But I told myself there would be time to celebrate in better days, once Norway was free again, and everything would taste all the sweeter.
In the afternoon darkness, a fishing boat pulled into the bay to collect the weapons and explosives from beneath the hut.
I went out to pass on the messages I’d received, giving the coordinates for the attacks.
“Good luck,” I said, as the men cast off.
One of them saluted, and then I returned inside to the warmth of the stove.
As I turned the pages of my book, trying to distract myself, the sound of the boat’s engine puttered away into the fjord, dwindling to silence.
The only sounds were the scouring of the wind around the walls and the cry of a lone gull.
I pictured the villages of Moskenes and Reine, their red-painted houses clinging tenuously to the rocks of those outlying islands, and sent up a silent prayer that their inhabitants would remain safe.
That night, I set up the wireless and sent my message confirming all had gone as planned at this end.
The stream of bleeps dissolved into the darkness, and then I flicked the switch to the receiving position and waited.
I was expecting a terse reply, just confirming my message had been received, but to my surprise the letters I transcribed onto my pad and decoded spelled out something else entirely.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY FROM YOUR PERSONAL DOCTOR WHO THINKS OF YOU EVERY DAY.
It felt like a gift. I smiled, imagining the radio waves bouncing off the heavens between us, linking us across the ocean of darkness.
I had no idea whether it was Euan who was transmitting, but he was certainly there.
The stream of Morse dits and dahs made the distance between us dissolve, and I imagined myself with him in the operations room at Lunna House, his smile lighting the night.
THANK YOU, I sent back. HAPPY CHRISTMAS FROM THE ALAMOOTIE.
*
The BBC reported that a raid had been carried out by commandos on strategic targets in Norway.
Key German infrastructure had been destroyed and some prisoners of war captured, then taken to Britain.
So, the attacks on Reine and Moskenes were deemed successful, but there was also one devastating piece of news.
Captain Linge, the commanding officer who had formed and led the Norwegian Independent Company, had been killed in a simultaneous raid farther south at M?l?y.
In his memory, the unit he had created was renamed Kompani Linge.
His courage continued to inspire the Norwegian resistance even after his death.
The commando raids were fleeting attacks, but they hit their mark.
Because of the uncertainty of when and where the next strikes would be, and the possibility they might herald a longer-term Allied invasion, Hitler had to keep aircraft, battleships, and thousands of Nazi troops in Norway to defend the coastline.
That meant thousands fewer troops available to fight in mainland Europe, and those ships and planes confined there instead of being deployed elsewhere.
Our resistance was making a difference, not just in our own country but to the progress of the war.
There were more raids in the pipeline, so my work kept me busy through the dark days of January.
Captain Stolz seemed to be busy elsewhere, too, perhaps as a result of the recent actions, because there were still no further visits from him.
I sent up a little personal prayer of thanks for that.
It was by no means the aim of the raids, but it was a very welcome consequence.
My gratitude for his absence was tinged with guilt, too, though.
My heart bled every time I heard a resistance fighter had been captured, and every time family members of those suspected to be involved were taken away for questioning or sent to the camps, like the one in Grini, which were springing up across Norway.
Many of those prison camps were in Finnmark, in the far north, and I hated to think what conditions there must be like in the Arctic winter for any poor soul who found themselves incarcerated.
There were reports of foreign prisoners being sent to those camps, too—prisoners from Russia, Poland, and Czechoslovakia.
They were forced to work as laborers, building a railway and new roads for the German Army.
I would later learn how many of them did not survive.
I was hunched over my wireless one night in early February when a disturbing message came through.
TEACHERS NOW OFFICIALLY ORDERED TO JOIN QUISLING UNION.
OSLO GROUP COORDINATING RESISTANCE. Immediately, I thought of Erik and Liv.
They’d both steadfastly refused to teach the Nazi-approved curriculum, of course, along with most other teachers across the country, and they hadn’t joined the union despite the increasing pressure to do so.
But this was an official order now, and those who refused to comply would be punished.
The powers-that-be were tightening the screw in an attempt to control the schools, to indoctrinate our children with their abhorrent principles.
I gazed out into the darkness, in the direction of Fagernes.
I wanted to be with Liv, but the wind was howling as a storm battered the coast.
As soon as the weather changed, I got up early and rowed out to catch the milk boat to Fagernes.
I went straight to the school, thinking I’d find them there as usual, but the gates were padlocked shut.
A woman passed by and told me, “They’ve been closed.
By order of the government.” I hurried through the snow-packed streets to Erik’s parents’ house and knocked at the door.
When Mrs. Terland ushered me in, they were sitting at the kitchen table, a hastily printed resistance newspaper spread in front of them. Liv got to her feet and enveloped me in a tight hug.
“You’ve heard?” she asked, and I nodded. “The resistance asked us to write to the government, formally refusing to join the union. In response, the administration has closed the schools across Norway.” She pointed to the newspaper. “Now they’re asking parents to write in support of the teachers.”
Erik ran his hands through his hair. He looked pale and exhausted from the strain. “We’ll set up a classroom in the church,” he said. “The minister will support us.”
I was moved by their determination. My sister and her husband were gentle and kind by nature, not people I’d ever thought of as fighters.
And yet here they were, fighting their own battle for what they believed to be right.
It might not have involved guns and explosives, but their peaceful resistance was just as powerful as the armed struggle going on across our country.
There was another knock at the door, and we all froze.
Visitors always used to be welcome at our doors, but not now.
We breathed a sigh of relief when it turned out to be one of Erik’s colleagues from the school.
The pair retired to the front room to discuss plans so that they could continue to teach their pupils.
We spent the rest of the day together. Liv sat by the fire with her sewing. “It helps take my mind off things,” she said. “Will you read to me, Hanna?”
I took a book I remembered from our childhood from the shelf and began.
“Once upon a time there was a poor peasant who had so many children that he did not have enough food or clothing to give them. They were all pretty children, but the prettiest was the youngest daughter, who was so lovely there was no end to her loveliness. One day—on a Thursday evening in late autumn—the weather was wild and rough outside, and it was cruelly dark. The rain was falling, and the wind was blowing until the walls of the cottage shook. They were all sitting around the fire, busy with this and that. Then, all at once, there were three taps at the window. The father went to see who it was. Outside, what should he find but a big white bear.”
I paused, glancing up at Liv. She was intent on her stitching, but she smiled as she worked and nodded, telling me to go on.
The familiar words of the old folk tale anchored us and comforted us, and it seemed as if our father and mother were there beside us once again, silently helping us find our way through the darkness.
For a few hours, the fear and the anguish were kept at bay beyond the circle of firelight.
When it was time for me to go, I hugged Liv with a fierceness that nearly squeezed the breath out of her. “I’ll keep in touch,” I said. “And I’ll come back just as soon as I can.”
As I walked away, she and Erik stood together in the doorway, haloed by the lamplight from within the house. He had his arm around her waist, holding her close, as I waved my goodbyes, then picked my way through the snow-crusted streets toward the pier.
*