Still, how could she understand?
In his heart he always knew there was only the most farfetched hope for them. What would he do, go to Vienna after the war, if he was lucky enough to survive. And she would be there for him? They were not of the same class or station in life. She probably would not even remember his name. By tomorrow, life would have torn them apart anyway—one wind going east, the other west—for good. Whether he set off the charges on the Hydro or not. He closed his eyes and tried to drive her face from his mind. To other things.
He prayed that Ox would be all right.
When it was finally light they all put on their skis and headed up the mountain. After a two-hour climb, they made it to a perch that offered a wide vista of Mael and the lake. The sky was a deep blue, the sun shone brightly. The water reflected a beautiful opal light.
At 8:00 A.M., the blast of a whistle reached them and they saw the train with the heavy water on it chug down the narrow valley into the town. In his binoculars Nordstrum could see red Nazi flags waving on the front grille and soldiers standing guard and watching out on the cars. It steamed through the small town right to the lake’s edge, where what looked like a division of soldiers was gathered along the wharf and in the square. The Hydro was preparing to depart, its cargo ramp down, people climbing aboard. A trail of smoke wafted from its fore smokestack as its coal engine fired up. Some early birds went down the pier and boarded.
He, the Yank, and Larsen watched as the train came to rest in front of the pier. Two open flatcars carrying the thirty-nine drums of heavy water marked POTASH LYE. Troops jumped off. The engine car was disengaged. A switch engine was wheeled in and attached to the two flatcars, which were swung around and into position in front of the open cargo ramp. High up where Nordstrum was, he could not hear, but there clearly was much commotion about. The ferry’s cargo deck was emptied. The switch engine was positioned behind the two railway cars. Slowly, in a ritual the dock crew had likely performed a thousand times with other Norsk Hydro cargo, they loaded the flatcars up the ramp with at least two dozen soldiers onto the ferry. Who would have guessed the import of what the old ship was carrying? Passengers climbed aboard as well. Old folk, saying good-bye to family. Mothers holding the hands of their children.
By 9:00 A.M. it was all complete.
“We should get going,” Gutterson said, digging the snow out from his skis with his poles. “We can watch from a higher perch. We’re going to need all the head start we can get once the charges blow.”
Their route had been worked out. Larsen would hold them back a little, but together Nordstrum knew he and the Yank would get him through. Even if they had to carry him half the way. It was February. Winter was in full force. The traveling would be tough. Still, the vidda was his friend. It always had been. He was sure they’d make it.
“Yes.” Nordstrum finally put down the binoculars. “Let’s go.”
He gathered his poles and put his arms through the pack on his back. While Gutterson and Larsen readied their own gear, he allowed himself one last look—willing his heart into a dull, protected state; reminding himself again that it was war with whom blame lay, not him, and that such things happened, things you couldn’t hope to control, things you must put out of your heart, as Einar had said, and not take the blame onto your shoulders—when he noticed a black sedan drive up on the wharf, red Nazi flags flying. His blood started to race. From the front, two Germans in black uniforms hopped out, snapping their fingers at nearby porters to assist with the luggage. Then from the rear, August Ritter emerged, and a moment later, Natalie—too far away to see her face, but …
A throbbing started to build in Nordstrum’s chest.
Gutterson called out, “Kurt, we have to go. In two hours we can be in the mountains.”
“Yes, I’ll be there,” Nordstrum answered, but continued to watch. Natalie and her grandfather made their way through the crowd toward the ferry, their bags on ahead, and exchanged good-byes with their fawning German hosts, likely senior officers in the cultural legation. The old man clutched his instrument case. They were escorted to the gangway and stepped aboard the ferry.
Gutterson and Larsen pulled their caps tightly over their ears and skied a few strides. When the Yank realized Nordstrum had not followed, he turned back to him. “Kurt…?”
Something in Nordstrum kept him rooted there. A force, which, while it insisted to him where his true duty lay and that there were still battles ahead to fight, and this was merely one small frame in a film playing out whose ending had not yet been written, still tightened like a knot in his gut, even as he willed his legs to move, Now, let’s go, to start the journey.
“I know you, Kurt, you won’t be there. You’ll stay and fight.”
They would not comply.
He took out his Colt and stuffed it in his belt.
“Kurt, in a couple of hours every Nazi in Norway will be looking for us,” Gutterson appealed to him. “You can’t do anything for her. It’s time to leave.”
“Yes, Nordstrum, I don’t want to be anywhere near when those charges go off,” Larsen said, backing him up.
Nordstrum put down the binoculars. He looked at them. “You go on ahead,” he said.
“Go on ahead?” The Yank looked back, bewildered. “What do you mean? We’re all going.”
“You know the Skrykken cabin, don’t you, Eric?”
“Of course. Where we left from the last time. But—”
“Grab what there is to eat there. Ox and I stocked it well. Don’t stay the night. It’ll be far too risky. Unless there’s a storm, of course. I’ll try and meet you there tonight. If not there, farther up the slope, where we met the hunter. You recall it, right?”
“Of course I recall it, Kurt. But there’s no chance. We all go together.”
“No, Yank. Not this time. I can’t.”
Startled, Gutterson skied back to him. “C’mon, Kurt, we’re leaving now. What do mean, you can’t?”
Even Larsen, who was now a bit nervous, and not quite understanding what all the hesitation was about, said, “Yes, what’s going on, Nordstrum? Let’s go.”
“If I’m not there, get yourselves to Miland. I’m sure you know it, Alf? It’s a day’s trek. But there’s a man there. His name is Reinar. He’s in the beer business. He knows what to do with you. I’ve already contacted him. He’s a friend. You can trust him with your life.”