That summer, Nordstrum heard through the network that his father had been transferred to the concentration camp at Grini. A death sentence, he knew, to a man in his condition. And not long after that he found out through a message snuck out from the camp that indeed his father had died.
What could I have done? he asked himself. Taken him from his house. To where? England, maybe? How? Another town? The old man would never have come. Organized a raid to spring him from the jail? Einar was right, such things would have been mere stupidity and jeopardized the cause. War just took things, Nordstrum had learned. Ground them up in its indifferent jaw, like a tank running over friend and foe alike, spitting them back out as memories. Now was not the time to regret anything. If anyone, his father would have understood. What could you do, Nordstrum came to view it, except to do everything you could to make sure those jaws didn’t clamp their teeth on you one day and chew you up as well. That was all.
In mid-November Nordstrum made his rounds to Uvdal and noticed the CLOSED sign in Hella’s shop placed in the window, and not on the door.
It was only four in the afternoon. Her shop lights were off. She knew to take the strictest precautions about leaving early or drawing attention to herself.
Clearly something had come in for him.
More than once he had thought about the time at her cabin when he’d almost given in, and often wished that he had. Since that time the moment and the opportunity had not coincided. Besides, he had a strict rule, and to let things go any further, even once, or to become involved, would only expose them both to danger. For now it was about the war. Afterward…? Still, what was there to stop them, he sometimes let himself think. Tomorrow they could both be dead. It would give him something pleasurable and life affirming to take his mind from all the death he’d seen. Even if only for a few hours.
But he did not.
There was adequate snow, so Nordstrum skied the hour-long trek from town to her cabin. He was always careful to avoid any travelers on the way, especially in the summer and fall when there were more people in the mountains. Today, he passed only two. He merely pulled up his mask to hide his face. “Good day!” He waved to them as he passed by. As he neared the valley where her cabin was located, he noticed a low-flying Storch in the sky, buzzing around. What was it looking for here? He took cover until it went away.
In another mile or so, the maze of public ski tracks ended and he picked up what he assumed was Hella’s single track on the way to her cabin. At first he felt lifted that she would be there, though a stab of uneasiness picked up in him, as examining her trail, he began to feel the tracks were not fresh. Maybe even from the day before.
As he glided down the final ridge, still a kilometer or so away, any concern he had intensified into outright worry.
A second track seemed to have intercepted hers. A vehicle. It looked like that of a German half-track with its wide treads, the only thing that could get around in the mountains. It came from the west, from Haukeli maybe, a village known to be full of Germans.
A knot tightened in Nordstrum’s chest.
The German W/T patrols were always a constant threat. Which was why they had to make their transmissions brief and infrequent. And why a skilled operator was the only kind that survived.
And Hella was as smart and careful as they came.
A short distance away, he took out his binoculars and scanned the surrounding hills, worried the house might be under watch. He saw no sign of anyone. Still, what he saw on the snow was not a good sign. He increased his pace, finally coming around the lake and in sight of the cabin. A thin trail of smoke came out of the chimney, heartening him. Hopefully she was there and all was fine. The radio was well hidden behind the false wall in the bedroom. He only prayed Hella hadn’t been in the act of transmitting when they showed up. But if anyone could hold herself together through such a visit, it was her.
Even more worrisome, the half-tracks led directly to her door.
Nordstrum skied up quietly and took off his skis. Are they still here? He pulled out his Colt. Before entering, he searched the perimeter of the cabin. No sign of anyone. But what he did see in the snow was the second set of vehicle tracks, the half-track, heading off to the west. And no sign of Hella having left—unless she’d been taken in and was now in custody.
He noticed her skis were stacked outside.
He went up to the door, cocked his Colt close to his chest, and called out, “Hella…?”
There was no reply.
“Hella!” he shouted again. He waited. Nothing.
He pushed open the front door.
She was there, in a chair at the table where she did her transmissions, and he was about to relax and say, “Oh, good, you’re here…” when he noticed her mouth parted slightly and her head crooked on her shoulder and her eyes staring blankly ahead.
Her white sweater was dotted with crimson holes.
“My God, Hella!”
Her gun was on the floor, the gun she boasted she could use so adroitly, which she clearly had gone for in the drawer, now hanging open loosely. The radio was on the floor, hammered into a dozen useless pieces, riddled with bullets. The door to the bedroom was ajar, and the false wall they had built in the closet ripped open.
Nordstrum sank into a chair next to her and shook his head sadly. “Hella, no…”
Sitting there, she looked as beautiful and as defiant as when he had first seen her from across the restaurant. He placed his hand against her cheek. It was cold, cold as a mossy rock in January, but still smooth. Smoother than there was a right to feel in such a war.
He detected a hint of persimmon on her. It made him smile.
He found a blanket folded over a chair and draped it over her. It was better to leave her as she was, he thought, painful as it was. She’d be missed. People in town must know about the farm. Someone would come to look soon enough. Her son would need to be told. She deserved a hero’s burial, not just to lie here, exposed and alone. But that was best.
For a second he considered the possibility that they had been betrayed. Ox? Reinar? He had never spoken of her to anyone. Just as he had never spoken of them to her. No one would connect them. “There are others, I assume…?” she had once asked him, with that smart smile of hers and bright, almond eyes.
Others, yes, but not like you.
No one like you.
Maybe all she’d been was simply unlucky. Maybe the Germans were just patrolling the hills nearby when they caught her signal. Anyone knew, luck trumped all the courage and preparation in the world any day. They would have definitely taken her in, perhaps forced her to give him up—maybe even threatened her son—had she not gone for her gun, and—
A stab of dread knifed through him.
He looked to the open drawer and pawed around inside. It wasn’t there. Then he remembered, she usually kept it with the equipment. In a sweat, he ran into the bedroom closet, got on his knees, and frantically searched in all the corners of the false compartment.