“It is Slav,” the woman declared in Norwegian. “But you can see, I’m from Oslo. I’m just taking my son to his father, who’s been working in Rauland.”
“Your Norwegian is quite good, madame,” the Quisling said. “But it is clear you are not of Norwegian blood. So what is it then?”
“It should be good, sir, I’ve lived in Norway my whole life,” she replied, an edge of nerves in her voice. “I’m as Norwegian as you, I swear.”
“Yes, well, we will have to verify this when we get to Mael.” The Quisling looked again at her ID card. “Do not disembark until you see me, madame. Otherwise I have no choice but to turn you and your child over to the authorities there.”
Fear sprang up in her eyes. Her boy, sensing his mother’s agitation, began to whimper. “Please, sir, we’re not meaning anyone harm. I only beg you to—”
“Your child appears sick, madame. Perhaps you should keep him separate from the other passengers.”
“He’s fine. You’re just scaring him, that’s all.”
“If you have nothing to hide, then there is nothing to be afraid of, I assure you.” The Hird handed her back the card. “We are only interested that the law is followed and all Jews and non-purebloods must be registered as such with the state. Now, I insist you take your son and wait for me inside. We’ll settle this little matter in Mael.”
Clearly upset, the woman struggled to pick up her belongings, and, grabbing her son’s hand, led him to the third-class seating. A nearby man got up and helped her gather her things. But it was hard not to notice the agitation that had taken over her face. Her papers were likely correct. She could be a Jew or a Gypsy. Nordstrum had heard they’d begun to round up those people and send them to places like Grini, a guarded camp outside Oslo, and some of them shipped even farther to places in Europe, to who knows where? Maybe she was fleeing into the mountains with her son to hide. Maybe she had someone there to take them in. Whatever, they were no bother to anyone. Nordstrum looked toward the shoreline. They were about three-quarters through the crossing. Another half hour or so to go. The tiny ferry stop at Mael, tucked underneath the mountains, was now visible in the distance off the port side.
“Fucker.” Jens gritted his teeth in disgust. “Using his power to terrorize an innocent woman.” He looked toward Nordstrum with a kind of conspiratorial gleam in his eye, a silent communication they both instantly understood. Are you up for it?
And Nordstrum, angered by the Quisling as well, looked back with resignation, as if unable to stop what would happen next. “Why not? Let’s go.”
Jens grinned. “Now you’re talking.”
Nordstrum stood up. He got the officer’s attention with a wave, motioning the man toward him.
He and Jens stepped back toward the stern, where there were no passengers around.
The Hird came up to him. “Yes?”
“You were asking about that woman?” Nordstrum said. “I know her. If you want, I can fill you in.”
“There are rewards for good citizens as yourselves.” The Quisling’s eyes grew bright, likely thinking of the favor he would receive for uncovering and turning in an escaped Gypsy or Jew.
“Over here, then.” Nordstrum motioned him to the railing, Jens a step behind. “Not everyone feels the same way. I don’t want anyone to hear.”
The breeze whipped off the lake, sharp and chilling. Most passengers were either inside having a coffee or lining the deck amidships in the sun. One couple was having a cigarette on the second deck by the rear smokestack, the gusting wind flapping their hair.
“We’re workmen. We’ve seen her in Oslo, as she says.” Nordstrum leaned close.
The Quisling sidled up to him. “Go on…”
The two on the second deck had now turned and were pointing toward the mountains. Nordstrum caught Jens’s eye, and then leaned close to the Quisling. “Well, you see, it’s like this…”
From behind, Jens lifted the officer in the air. There was barely time for him to realize what was happening. “What the hell—”
“Here’s your reward,” Nordstrum said, seizing the man’s legs. “Enjoy your swim.”
They carried him to the rail, the Hird kicking against them now with a shout that was muffled by the whipping wind, and then hoisted him, his arms cycling frantically and his face twisted in shock and fear, over the side and into the icy lake.
The Quisling’s scream was drowned out by the heavily churning engines as the Telemark Sun, chugging at ten knots per hour, pulled farther away.
“Heil Hitler to you, as well!” Jens called after him, extending his arm.
There was barely a noise as he hit the water.
But someone must have seen him from the decks. Suddenly there were shouts. “Man overboard! Someone in the water!”
On the top deck, people ran to the railing, pointing. The alarm began to sound, a big booming whorl, whorl. Passengers rushed out to see what was happening.
The frigid March waters were probably no more than thirty-five or -six degrees, Nordstrum figured, and, coupled with the weight of the Quisling’s now water-sodden coat dragging the struggling man down, even the strongest of swimmers wouldn’t last more than a couple of minutes before he succumbed.
People were shouting now, gesturing toward the water. “Save him!” Two of the crew ran to the stern, one of them holding a life preserver and untying a coil of rope. Bravely, he climbed onto the rail, readying himself to throw it. “Hold on!” he called to the drowning man. But it was pointless to hurl it now; they were too far away.
The boat’s engines slowed as the ship slowly came about. People streamed to the lower deck, passengers and crew, pointing toward the water as the Quisling struggled and flailed, the weight of his jacket and medals dragging him under.
“Someone do something!” a woman yelled. “Help him!”
“It’s the Quisling,” another said.
“Oh. Let the bastard swim then.”
One member of the crew gamely removed his jacket, about to dive in. Nordstrum held the man back. “Let him be.”
“Let him be, sir?” The crewman looked aghast. “The man’s drowning.”
“He’s not drowning.” Nordstrum shrugged. “He’s swimming.” And when the puzzled seaman looked back in confusion, Nordstrum told him again, “Just let him be.”
In the minutes it took for the ferry to make a sweeping turn and come around, the Quisling had disappeared. All that was left was his gray, billed officer’s cap, bobbing on the surface.
A woman crossed herself. “He’s gone.”
The captain, a gray-bearded man in a thick sweater, finally made his way down from the bridge. “What the hell’s happened here?”
Nordstrum shrugged and met the seaman’s gaze. “He wanted to take a swim. Who were we to hold him back?”
“Take a swim…?” The captain glared accusingly. “There’ll be hell to pay when we make land.”
“He was a fucking Quisling,” Nordstrum said. “Any problem with it?”
People huddled around, on the main deck and on the deck above, staring.
The captain’s eyes slowly drifted to the place in the water where the officer’s body had gone down. Then he looked back at Nordstrum and spat into the lake. “No problem at all.”