But before he fully stepped into the light, a bolt of caution grabbed him and he ducked back against the wall.
A car came alive from down the road near the church and crept toward him. The crest of the Quisling NS party on its door. It slowed as it came up to his father’s road, and then stopped. His father was upstairs now; a light was on in the house. The shades were open and you could see him making his way around, dropping off the collected wood at the hearth, kneeling, stoking the flame. Two men stepped out of the car. The streetlight showed them in dark suits, the uniform of the Quisling police.
Nordstrum’s fists clenched into a ball.
They waited for a while, looking down toward the house. One of them whispered something to the other. The heavier one headed down the street, his footsteps clacking on the stone. The other remained by the car. Nordstrum’s hand found the Browning in his belt. He could take them both, he knew. No doubt of it. But his father would be the first casualty. And after his meeting today with Einar and what lay ahead for them both, that would not be wise.
So he remained huddled against the church. The one who had gone around the side came back and conferred a bit with his colleague watching the house. Nothing to report, they must have decided. They climbed back into their car and started the engine. Slowly, they passed the house, and, as if satisfied nothing was afoot, drove on.
Only then did Nordstrum remove his hand from his gun.
Inside, he saw a figure at the window. He was either watching the NS car—the old fox likely knew they were there—or, as he looked out, beyond them, to the street, something else.
On the Ibsen that he’d laid open on his father’s table, Nordstrum had left his school ring.
His father stood there, looking out, knowing exactly what it meant. As if he knew Nordstrum was still there. He made a brief wave with his hand; not so much a greeting, with any affection, merely enough to convey Move on, Kurt. It’s not safe here for you now.
Not now.
Then, with the slightest nod, he closed the shades.
Who knew what lay ahead? Nordstrum would be gone in the morning. He didn’t know if he would ever see the old man again. War came with that risk. Truth was, he didn’t even know if he would survive the next days himself.
He put up his collar and headed away from the wall, taking the long way back toward town, around the rectory, away from the road, through fields of snow. The biting wind knifed through his jacket. In his mind, Nordstrum felt the strangest sensation of being lifted up, a child again in his father’s arms, feeling the safety of his grip, then being put down into the large chair that was his father’s seat at the end of the table.
“A true man goes on until he can go no further, Kurt,” he heard his father say proudly, “and then he goes twice as far. Remember that.”
And he had.
4
Two days later, in the town of Flekkefjord in southern Norway, the D/S Galtesund pulled away from the dock with three loud blasts of its horn.
On the wharf, in this quiet fishing village where the war seemed yet to have visited, people waved as the coastal steamer drifted into the fjord and came around. For thirty-five years, the Galtesund, at 620 tons, had chugged along at a max of thirteen knots, with a single smokestack and a crew of twenty. Like an old dog that knew its way home, it slowly chugged its way up Norway’s western coast to Kristiansand, Bergen, Trondheim, and Tromso, all the way to Hammerfest in the north, if the ice was free, and then reversed its route and made the long slog back to Oslo. It was a kind of maritime bus, dropping off vital supplies, businessmen, and families, a lifeline along the coast. There were two classes onboard, and twelve small staterooms for any willing to make a longer trip of it. Not exactly the Queen Mary, even the captain knew. But it damn well got there.
A few fishing vessels got out of its wake as it chugged up the narrow fjord.
Stavanger, the next stop. Four hours.
On the aft deck, Nordstrum, Einar, and Jens, along with two other men known to Einar, Odd and Lars, smoked in the freezing drizzle, waiting for the ship to clear the sight of land.
They had on everyday workmen’s clothes, as if heading to their jobs at the boatyards of Bergen or the gunnite mines of Tromso. They carried heavy satchels, which to anyone’s eye would appear to be their tools, a common practice in Norway; tools were passed on from father to son. In reality, the bags contained two Bren submachine guns with ammunition clips, several handguns, and a handheld radio. Despite the Occupation, there were still large parts of Norway that went on as if the war had not touched them. And this was one. The boat was filled with happy families and regular folk just traveling up the coast. No sign of soldiers or police onboard. Just the crew.
“So far so good.” Einar gave a nod to Nordstrum, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Nordstrum flicked his cigarette into the water. “Let’s hope it continues.”
An hour later, they had cleared the mouth of the fjord and were steaming up the coast at thirteen knots, barely in sight of land. Nordstrum had sized up the crew. A few young merchantmen just going about their jobs. Nothing to worry about. A few more were grizzled veterans. Family men. And the captain. Nordstrum watched him as they readied for sea. Smoking a pipe in his blue uniform with a gray beard and weathered blue eyes. Nordstrum pegged him as the type who would not roll over easily. Happily, they hadn’t seen sight of anyone military on board. If they had, they would have had to dispose of them. But you never knew; knew how far someone would go to protect the passengers. Or—be it with Quisling or the king—where their sympathies lie?
An hour out of Stavanger, they chugged along, as much in the North Sea as along the southwest coast.
It was time.
The men looked to Nordstrum, who flicked another cigarette into the sea. “Let’s go, boys.”
Jens opened his tool bag and hid a Bren under his peacoat. He slipped another to Lars, one of Einar’s men. Nordstrum took his Browning. They kicked the bags beneath a bench. Lars went to the third-class cafeteria, where the bulk of the passengers gathered. Nordstrum and Einar climbed to the foredeck and headed to the bridge. Jens and Odd slipped inside a poop door and headed to the engine room.
On the bridge deck, Nordstrum and Einar took one last, quick glance at each other, then opened the side door and went in. The captain was drinking a coffee and looked up, surprised. The first mate was plotting the course. A third officer, who handled the radio, was scribbling at some kind of word puzzle.
“We have a request, Captain,” Nordstrum said.
“No passengers on the bridge.” The captain waved them off. The radioman quickly leaped up to bar their way. “We’re behind in time. We have a schedule to maintain.”