‘Mamma, I’m hungry,’ Eirik sobbed as we trudged along the track through the forest.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m hungry too. But we must walk just a little further.’
I stopped, crouching to draw Ingunn’s shawl closer around him for warmth. Panic stabbed inside my chest as I took in his face, which was thinner than ever, and the purple half-moon shadows beneath his eyes; the way his narrow chest heaved as he coughed and fought to draw breath. He’d fallen ill a week ago, and sometimes his cough was so bad it made him vomit. I had no medicine and neither of us were getting enough rest or food; my own clothes hung on me, my skirt loose on my hips.
We had spent the better part of a month now making our slow way south. Sometimes it was just me and Eirik, and sometimes we were with others, travelling in lorries, cars, farmers’ carts or on foot. Each mile was a game of cat-and-mouse with the Germans and their sympathisers as we made our way between farms, villages and towns, moving along a sparse chain formed by pockets of Milorg – kind strangers who were prepared to help us in some way by giving us food, a roof over our heads for the night or arranging the next leg of our journey, and risking their own liberty and lives to do so.
There were times, though, I couldn’t contact the person I was supposed to, or it was too dangerous to try. Then Eirik and I were forced to spend our nights wherever we could find shelter, huddling together for warmth with nothing to eat at all and listening to wolves howling mournfully in the hills and mountains around us. I had no idea how long our journey would take, and I was trying not to think about the way the days were growing steadily shorter or how the temperature was beginning to drop. Often, I found myself wondering if we would ever make it to Sweden at all. With every step, I could hear Anders jeering at me: What do you think you’re doing? Do you really think you’re capable of this? You stupid woman! His face loomed in my nightmares, and during the day it was as if he was right there with us, a ghost walking alongside and questioning everything I did. It was only the necessity of staying strong for Eirik that kept me from giving up completely. I had to keep going for his sake, no matter what the voice inside my head told me.
‘Carry me, Mamma,’ Eirik said, tears still streaming down his face.
‘You’re too heavy, my darling,’ I told him, stroking his matted hair and moving to rub his back in circles as he began coughing again. ‘But we can rest for a minute, if you want to.’
He nodded miserably.
We found a sheltered spot among a sparse stand of birches whose leaves were turning yellow. One tree had fallen, and after touching the moss-covered surface of its trunk to see how damp it was, I sat down, pulling Eirik into my lap. ‘Don’t fall asleep,’ I said as he snuggled into me.
‘I won’t, Mamma.’ Eirik’s face was pressed against my arm, his voice muffled. Within minutes, his body had relaxed, his breathing growing steadier although it still rattled in his chest.
Sighing, I shifted him into a slightly more comfortable position, my own eyelids drooping. Stay awake, I told myself sharply. I tried to work out where we were and wondered how far we still had to go that day. We were walking along a valley I didn’t know the name of, following a river as it wound its way through the fjords and mountains towards the coast. Last night, along with a young Jewish couple who were also fleeing to Sweden, we’d been given refuge with a husband and wife in their sixties who lived on a small farm at the edge of a little village. This morning they had directed us to another house some twenty miles away, the next link in the chain. ‘Look for the red house with the white windows and the single pine tree behind it,’ the farmer’s wife had told me that morning as she repeated the directions to me and I carefully committed them to memory. When we arrived I had to ask for Harald Thoresen – those were the code words she’d told me to say so that the person she was sending us to would know we needed their help. Eirik and I had walked with the Jewish couple for a while, but they were fitter and stronger and eventually I told them to go on ahead. They’d promised to let our contact know there were others on the way.
I allowed Eirik to doze for fifteen minutes or so before gently shaking him awake again. ‘We must keep going,’ I told him as he shook his head and coughed.
‘No, Mamma, no,’ he whined.
‘Yes.’ Trying to sound firm, I stood and lowered him to the ground. ‘It’s not far, I promise, and when we get there you will have something to eat.’
He looked at me with an expression that was utterly wretched, and I felt a pain twist through my heart. What had I been thinking, allowing Mette to talk me into taking those messages to the camp at Elvenes? I should have stayed out of it – should have put Eirik’s safety first as I had tried to fool myself into thinking I was. Now we faced nothing but uncertainty – possibly even death.
Despite my promise to Eirik, it was early evening and almost dark by the time we reached the village the farmer’s wife had described to me. I kept to the edge of the road like a nervous animal, watching and listening as I scanned the houses either side of us, searching the gathering gloom for the red house with the single pine tree behind it. Was that it? No – there were two pine trees, and the windows had been painted grey.
We trudged on. I began to wonder if we’d taken a wrong turn somewhere earlier in the day. I was so hungry my head was swimming and my stomach felt as if it was trying to turn itself inside out. Eirik was coughing steadily as he stumbled along beside me. But at last, I saw it up ahead, exactly as the farmer’s wife had described: a red house with white windows, and a tall pine tree standing alone on the hillside behind it that seemed to lean down towards the building slightly.
‘You see, lille vennen,’ I told Eirik. ‘I told you we would get here eventually. And if we are lucky the nice lady and gentleman we met last night will be here too.’
He clung to my hand, wide-eyed and silent, as we walked to the door and I knocked on it. It seemed an age before it opened to reveal a thin woman with a bony, hard-looking face, her hair lying in limp curls around it. She was holding a flickering oil lamp.
‘Ja?’ she said, in a voice as sharp as her features.
I cleared my throat. ‘I’ve come to see Harald Thorensen,’ I said, my stomach churning at her impatient tone – it reminded me of Anders. I couldn’t meet her eyes.
The woman stared at me blankly.
‘Harald Thorensen,’ I repeated. ‘Is he here?’
‘I don’t know who you mean,’ she said. She looked me and Eirik up and down, taking in our travel-worn clothes, our thin, pinched appearance.
Something’s not right, a warning voice said in the back of my head, sending prickles up and down my spine. I nodded. ‘My mistake,’ I said. ‘I apologise. I must have the wrong house.’
Grasping Eirik’s hand tightly, I pulled him back towards the road, and away from the woman’s gimlet stare.
‘But Mamma, you said there would be something to eat!’ he cried.
‘Be quiet.’ I frowned at him, aware of the woman still gazing at us as we hurried away, no doubt listening to every word.
‘But Mamma—’
‘Eirik, hush!’
Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks; I was on the verge of tears too. I glanced back and saw the glow of the woman’s lamp. She was still watching us from her doorway.
My heart was beating rapidly, a metallic taste in my mouth. One thing was very clear to me: that woman was not part of Milorg. Whoever the farmer’s wife had thought would be here was not here now. This meant we had no food, save for the few dry crusts of bread remaining at the bottom of the bag I carried over one shoulder, only a few sips of water, and nowhere to sleep. The weather was clear, the stars were coming out, and the temperature was dropping fast. It was going to be a cold night. Idiot, Anders snarled inside my head. Look what a mess you’ve got yourself and Eirik into now! You’re not fit to be a mother!
And what had happened to the Jewish couple? Had they managed to get away?
Then, to our left, in the last of the daylight, I saw an ancient-looking barn a short way along a gravelled track. It looked abandoned, one end of the roof sagging inward.
‘Come, we will stay here. It will be an adventure!’ I told Eirik, who was still crying. I tried to make myself sound cheerful, but I couldn’t stop my voice from trembling.
Eirik hiccuped and sobbed. I led him to the barn and pushed open the door, which was hanging by one hinge. It was so dark inside I could hardly see anything, but I could smell old hay and thought I heard something squeaking: a rat, or a mouse. Suppressing a shudder, I told myself that it was better than sleeping out in the forest – at least in here, we’d have some protection from the autumn chill.
We went inside. Leaving the door open a crack so that I would hear if anyone came, I made us a bed in the musty hay nearby; there were heaps of the stuff everywhere. I gave Eirik the bread to eat and made him drink what remained of our water. Then I wrapped us both in Ingunn’s shawl and we lay down. Sleep overtook me almost immediately, heavy as thick, black syrup. I was so worn out that for once I didn’t even dream.
The following morning, I opened my eyes with a start. I had meant to wake early, but it was already light outside. Beside me, Eirik was still sleeping, his face grey, his breath rattling in his chest in a way that made anxiety twist inside me. My ever-present guilt built to a roar. He already had bronchitis, I was certain of it, and if we didn’t get to Sweden soon I was scared it would worsen, perhaps even become pneumonia.
Anders is right, I thought. He has always been right. I really am useless.
I stroked a strand of hair back behind Eirik’s ear, gently so I wouldn’t wake him, and wondered what had woken me and what we were going to do.
Then I heard the voice outside. A woman.
The woman from last night.
‘I think they’re in here. That door was closed yesterday – my husband used to keep his tools in here and I came to check that they were still here.’
A man answered her. He spoke Norwegian, but not terribly well, and his accent was odd; I could tell it was not his native tongue. ‘A woman and a child, you say?’
‘Yes. They looked shabby, as if they had been on the road a long time. The woman kept asking for Harald Thorensen. I’m sure they are up to something. Perhaps they are Jews, or spies.’
‘Thank you. I will take things from here.’
Realisation slammed into me. The man was German – Wehrmacht. The woman had led him straight to us.
I looked round wildly and saw a pitchfork hanging on the wall near where we had been sleeping. As I heard footsteps approaching outside, I crept over and lifted it down. The prongs were coated in rust but still wickedly sharp. I tried to imagine using it, swinging it frantically at the German to keep him back so we could escape. You’re crazy if you think it will work, Anders sneered inside my head.
But what choice did I have?
‘Mamma?’ Eirik said, lifting his head.
‘Hush,’ I told him desperately, but the door was already opening. As daylight flooded into the barn I saw the unmistakable silhouette of a Wehrmacht officer. He stepped through the door, a tall solidly built man wearing the immaculate green cap and uniform I was all too familiar with from Kirkenes. It was impossible to tell his age; his face was stony and smooth, neat brownish hair showing at his temples beneath his cap. ‘So, she was right. I have caught myself two rats,’ he said in his careful Norwegian, a recognisable note of disgust colouring his tone.
He glanced at the pitchfork I was clutching and shook his head. ‘Put that down, if you do not want to get shot.’
‘Mamma,’ Eirik said again, his voice thready with terror.
‘Shh, lille vennen. It will be all right,’ I told him, although I kept hold of the pitchfork, hoping he wouldn’t see my hand trembling. I turned back to the officer, squaring my shoulders. ‘We are just passing through on our way to visit family,’ I said. ‘The house we called at last night is the home of an old friend, but they must not live there any more. We were too tired to continue, so we stayed here.’
Please believe us, please, I begged inside my head.
His face remained impassive. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you will have your papers. Show them to me.’
He held out his hand and I knew, then, that we were lost. We had no papers; I had not had them on me the day we left Kirkenes and we had not been able to get any others yet, not even false ones.
The Wehrmacht officer shook his head. ‘I thought so.’ He unclipped his pistol from his belt and pointed it at me.
‘Mamma!’ Eirik screamed, leaping up out of the hay.
Startled, the officer swung the gun round, pointing it straight at Eirik. Seeing his finger tighten on the trigger, I cried out too and lunged forward reflexively, the pitchfork gripped in both hands. A noise halfway between a grunt and a scream escaped from between my clenched teeth as I thrust the prongs into the officer’s lower abdomen. There was a second of resistance; then they punched through fabric and flesh. The gun went off with an ear-splitting bang as the officer cried out and staggered back, the bullet firing harmlessly into the air and leaving behind the sharp smell of cordite.
I thrust again, to make sure, and let go of the pitchfork. It fell noiselessly into the hay.
The officer clutched his stomach, his eyes wide. Blood was blooming rapidly across the front of his uniform, forming dark wet stains against the green as he staggered backwards. He murmured something in German I couldn’t quite make out and let out a bubbling, gurgling noise; blood began to spill from his mouth. At the door to the barn, his legs went out from under him and he collapsed, still clutching his stomach, still making that awful gurgling sound. His legs kicked once, twice, his boot heels digging furrows in the dirt.
Then the noise stopped and he went still.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, I thought, pressing my hands to my mouth. What have I done? What on earth have I done?
Behind me, Eirik began to wail.