Hanna
So often in life, we reach a fork in the road, and in that moment we try to make the best decision we can about which direction to take.
But there is no way of knowing whether it’s the right one, neither with foresight nor hindsight.
I’ve pondered that often. And the only conclusion I’ve been able to draw is that perhaps there is no right decision.
Perhaps there only ever has been one path, the direction we were always going to take because it’s determined by who we are and always will be.
Some might call it Fate. Some might blame it on the gods, like the ones in my book of sagas who watch in amusement as the humans on Earth below blunder blindly through life, misguidedly believing they have any degree of self-determinism.
Perhaps, when it comes down to it, the only guidance we can truly rely on is the voice within, the instinctive intelligence we so rarely listen to.
We overthink, trying to rationalize and find a logical way forward, but that is just interference.
Our thoughts create static, just like on the radio, making it hard to focus, to tune in and hear the real message.
I’ve learned that gut instinct is the only reliable guide when the airwaves around us are filled with the cacophony of other voices.
If only I’d known, back then. I should have listened to my instinct and insisted that Liv leave on the Shetland Bus when she fled Fagernes as the teachers were arrested.
For better or worse, though, she had decided to stay with me at the hut, and at first, it seemed to be for the best. A thousand teachers had been arrested across the country that day.
They were imprisoned and interrogated by the Gestapo.
It was an agonizing time, thinking of what Erik might be going through, although I couldn’t help feeling thankful that Liv wasn’t going through it, as well.
I wouldn’t have been able to bear the thought of her suffering.
They had arrested some of the family members of teachers, too, in an attempt to increase the pressure on them to capitulate to the will of Quisling and his cronies. We received a message from Erik’s mother to say her husband had been taken in for questioning.
“I have to go to her,” Liv said.
“They may arrest you too, if you do,” I pointed out. But I already knew we would go, and I went to ready the boat. I couldn’t let her make the journey alone.
The immense strain showed on Mrs. Terland’s face when she opened the door.
She hugged Liv close but didn’t weep. I think she was past shedding tears, having seen her son and then her husband bundled into the back of Gestapo cars in the space of a week.
We sat with her, waiting for news, each minute seeming to take an hour to pass.
After a while, I decided to go out for a walk, just to get away from the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
A woman waved as I neared the church and hurried across the street to say hello.
“Mrs. Terland, we were so sorry to hear about your husband. You and he are my children’s favorite teachers. ”
“I’m not Liv, I’m her sister,” I said, with an apologetic smile.
“Ah, sorry for the mistake. You look just like her! Please send best wishes to her from the Lunde family. We’re all praying for his safe return very soon.”
I thanked her and walked on, heading for the shore. I crossed the strand of beach and followed the path out onto a tree-covered promontory, needing to be alone, to be surrounded by the space, the peace, and the familiar, soothing hush of the waves.
At the far end, where the rocks tumbled to meet the water, I breathed in the smell of the pines and the tang of the salt air.
The only sounds were the soughing of the wind through the branches at my back and the cry of the seabirds above me.
The anxious muddle of thoughts in my head slowly settled as I stood there, simply breathing, making a little more space for the fear to leave my body and the calm reserves of strength, which I knew I needed more than ever, to rise in me once again.
At last, when I’d gathered myself enough, I squared my shoulders and turned away, walking back to the Terlands’ house.
As I pushed open the front door, I heard a male voice coming from the kitchen.
Quickly taking off my coat, I hurried down the corridor to find Erik’s father sitting at the table, Mrs. Terland and Liv on chairs pulled close beside him.
He looked ashen, his face drawn and pale, and he was telling them of his ordeal.
He spoke slowly, and I could see how carefully he was choosing his words, no doubt sparing us the details of all he’d been subjected to at the hands of his interrogators.
“They told me I was lucky not to be sent to Grini,” he said.
“And when I asked if that was where Erik had gone, they laughed, telling me they were the ones with the questions, not me. But when they turned me out, realizing I was of no further use to them, I saw a man I used to know from the office. I wasn’t surprised he’d turned into a quisling—I never trusted him, although he did look a bit ashamed to be working there—but I took the opportunity to appeal to him and begged him to tell me where they’d sent Erik.
He said they were sending many of the teachers north to a camp in Kirkenes.
And he said I should tell my son to join the damn union if he knew what was good for any of us.
It might be his last chance to be released. ” He grimaced at the memory.
“Kirkenes!” Liv gasped. “But it’s so far north.”
“One more thing I managed to get out of him…a train will be coming to Narvik this afternoon, to collect the teachers from there.” He glanced toward the clock on the mantelpiece, then scrambled to his feet. “If we hurry, we might be in time. We might just be able to see him.”
We ran to the harbor, and I started the boat’s engine, not caring how much of the precious fuel ration we used as we sped up the fjord.
It was the first time Liv and I had been back to Narvik since the battle had left our hometown in ruins, and we were surprised to see how much had already been rebuilt.
But, of course, it was still an important port for the German war machine, with Swedish iron ore needed more than ever for their tanks and battleships, so they had poured their efforts into the town’s reconstruction.
We ran through the streets toward the station, but the way was barred by a German roadblock. None of us wanted to risk being arrested, or even shot, by one of the rifle-bearing soldiers, so we ducked down a side street. Then we heard a train approaching.
“We’re too late!” Liv was on the verge of tears.
“Quick,” I said. “We can get closer to the tracks on the edge of town.”
At least the layout of the streets remained the same, even if they were lined with unfamiliar new buildings, interspersed with gaping spaces filled with the debris of our former lives.
I turned my head away from the place where Mr. Mosling’s bookshop had once stood, forcing myself to keep going, striding uphill.
We were gasping for breath by the time we reached the point where the railway line met the hills, just before it disappeared into a tunnel.
To our surprise, others were standing there.
Women with baskets of baking, a farmer with a crate of milk bottles, a small crowd carrying whatever food or clothing they could spare.
And then we heard the train, the engine laboring as it made the slow climb from the station.
As it drew closer, one woman began to sing. Ja, vi elsker dette landet—Yes, we love our country as it rises forth, rugged, weathered, over the water.
The song grew louder as the rest of us joined in, singing the words that meant more to us now than ever before. Love it, and think of our mother and father, and the saga-night that lays dreams upon our Earth.
When the train was alongside, it seemed the driver slowed the engine even more.
Perhaps he knew this might be the last chance some of those on board would have to see their loved ones.
People stepped forward to thrust their offerings through the windows of the carriages into desperate, outstretched hands.
And then Liv gave a cry. “Erik!” She ran forward, risking everything to touch his fingertips with hers one more time.
“I love you,” he shouted, his words barely audible above the din of the wheels grinding against the steel tracks.
In a gust of hot, angry wind, the train disappeared into the tunnel, and people began to turn away.
The four of us were the last to leave. Erik’s parents stood gazing into the maw of darkness that had swallowed their son and so many of his colleagues, while I tried to comfort my inconsolable sister, who had sunk to her knees, sobbing at the side of the tracks.
“We need to go,” I said at last. “It’s not safe staying here. There may be patrols.”
We walked back to the harbor in silence and still could find no words as I steered the boat back around the headland to Fagernes, where we dropped off Mr. and Mrs. Terland.
“Please stay,” said Erik’s mother, clinging to Liv’s hands.
She shook her head, with a glance at me. “It’s already getting late. We need to go back to the hut tonight, I think.”
“You’re right,” said Erik’s father. “It’s safer for you there.”
Little did he know. But I couldn’t tell him why it wasn’t.
It felt as if we’d run out of safe places by then.
And I needed to get back to my wireless set, to make sure our Allies across the sea knew what had just happened, on the day truth and knowledge were sent into exile in Norway, along with our teachers.
*