The Redbreast (53 page)

‘To hell with that. What do you want?’

‘Well, you probably have plans for today . . .’

‘Yes, I was planning to keep the door locked and the windows closed and read the papers. Spit it out.’

‘I need to have some fingerprints taken.’

‘Great. When?’

‘Right now. You’ll have to bring your case with you, so we can send them from here. And I’ll need a Smith & Wesson.’

Harry gave him the address. Then he took the pile of papers with him to one of the shrouded chairs, sat down and began to read.

95
Oslo. 17 May 2000.

Leningrad. 12 December 1942.

The flares light up the grey night sky, making it resemble a filthy top canvas drawn over the drab, bare landscape surrounding us on all sides. Perhaps the Russians have launched an offensive, perhaps it is a feint, we never know until afterwards. Daniel has proved himself as a fantastic marksman again. If he was not a legend before, he assured himself immortality today. He hit and killed a Russian from a range of half a kilometre. Then he went into no man’s land alone and gave the dead man a Christian burial. I have never heard of anyone doing anything like that before. He brought the Russian’s cap back with him as a trophy. Afterwards he was in his usual high spirits and sang and entertained everyone (apart from a few envious killjoys). I am extremely proud to have such a resolute, courageous person as my friend. Even though some days it seems as if this war will never end and the sacrifices for our home country are great, a man like Daniel Gudeson gives us all hope that we will stop the Bolsheviks and return to a safe, free Norway.

Harry checked his watch and read on.

Leningrad. New Year’s Eve 1942.

. . . when I saw the fear in Sindre Fauke’s eyes I had to say a few reassuring words to him to relax his vigilance. It was just us two out there at the machine-gun post; the others had gone to their bunks, and Daniel’s body lay rigid on top of the ammunition boxes. Then I scratched more of Daniel’s blood off the cartridge belt. The moon was shining and it was snowing, an extraordinary night, and I thought that now I would collect the remains of Daniel and put him together again, make him whole so that he could stand up and lead us. Sindre Fauke didn’t understand this. He was a hanger-on, an opportunist and an informer who only followed those he thought would win. And the day things looked darkest for me, for us, for Daniel, he would also betray us. I took a swift pace back, so that I was behind him, seized his forehead and swung the bayonet. You have to be fairly deft to get a deep, clean cut. I let go as soon as I had sliced him for I knew the job was done. He turned round slowly and stared at me with those small piggy eyes of his; he seemed to want to scream but the bayonet had severed his windpipe and only a whistling sound came from the gaping wound. And blood. He grabbed his throat with both hands to prevent his life running out, but that only made the blood squirt out in fine jets between his fingers. I fell and had to scrabble backwards in the snow not to get it on my uniform. Fresh bloodstains would not look good if they decided to investigate Sindre Fauke’s ‘desertion’.

When he no longer moved, I turned him on his back and dragged him over to the ammunition boxes on which Daniel was lying. Fortunately, they had a similar build. I found Sindre Fauke’s ID papers. (We always keep them on us, day and night, because if we are stopped and have no papers on us saying who we are and what our orders are (infantry, Northern Front, date, stamp and so on) we risk being shot on the spot as deserters.) I rolled up Sindre’s papers and stuffed them into the canteen attached to my cartridge belt. Then I took the sack off Daniel’s head and wrapped it round Sindre’s. Next I put Daniel on my back and carried him out into no man’s land. And there I buried him in the snow, as Daniel had buried Uriah, the Russian. I kept Daniel’s Russian cap. Sang a psalm. ‘A mighty fortress is our God’. And ‘Join the circle of men round the fire’.

Leningrad. 3 January 1943.

A mild winter. Everything has gone according to plan. Early in the morning of 1 January the corpse-bearers came and took away the body from the ammunition boxes as they had been instructed. Naturally, they believed it to be Daniel Gudeson they were dragging on the sledge to the Northern Sector. I still have to laugh whenever I think about it. I don’t know if they took the sacking off the head before dumping him into the mass pit; it would not have bothered me anyway as the corpse-bearers knew neither Daniel nor Sindre Fauke.

The only thing that bothers me is that Edvard Mosken seems to suspect Fauke did not desert and that I killed him. There is not a great deal he can do. Sindre Fauke’s body is lying with hundreds of others, burned (may his soul burn for ever) and unrecognisable.

But last night when I was on watch I had to undertake the boldest operation so far. Gradually I had come to realise that I couldn’t leave Daniel’s body buried in the snow. With the mild winter there was a good chance the body could become exposed at any moment and reveal the switch. And when I began to dream at night about what foxes and polecats would do with Daniel’s body as the snow melted in spring, I decided to dig up the body and have it put in the mass grave – after all, that was consecrated ground.

Of course, I was more frightened by our own sentry posts than by the Russians, but fortunately it was Hallgrim Dale, Fauke’s slow-witted comrade, sitting in the machine-gun nest. On top of that, it was a cloudy night and, even more important, I felt that Daniel was with me, yes, that he was in me. And when I had finally manoeuvred the corpse on to the ammunition boxes and was about to tie the sack around his head, he smiled. I know that lack of sleep and hunger can play tricks with your mind, but I did see his rigid death-mask change in front of my very eyes. The extraordinary thing was that instead of frightening me, it made me feel secure and happy. Then I sneaked back into the bunker, where I fell asleep like a child.

When Edvard Mosken woke me up an hour later, it was as if I had been dreaming the whole thing, and I think I managed to appear genuinely surprised to see that Daniel’s body had turned up again. But this was not enough to convince Edvard Mosken. He was sure it was Fauke’s body, sure I had killed him and had put his body there in the hope that the corpse-bearers would think they had forgotten to collect him the first time and take him along. Dale removed the sacking and Mosken saw that it was Daniel. They both gaped, open-mouthed, and I had to fight to restrain the laughter inside me from bursting out and giving us – Daniel and me – away.

Field Hospital, Northern Sector, Leningrad. 17 January 1944.

The hand-grenade that was thrown from the Russian plane hit Dale on the helmet and spun around on the ice as we tried to move away. I was closest and was sure all three of us would die: Mosken, Dale and me. It is strange, but my last thought was what an irony of fate it was that I had just saved Edvard Mosken from being shot by Dale, the poor man, and my sole achievement was to extend the life of our section leader by exactly two minutes. Fortunately, however, the Russians make terrible hand-grenades and we all survived with our lives intact. As for me, I had an injured foot and shrapnel had sliced through my helmet into my forehead.

By a remarkable coincidence I ended up in Daniel’s fiancée’s ward, with Sister Signe Alsaker. At first she didn’t recognise me, but in the afternoon she came over and spoke to me in Norwegian. She is very beautiful and I know only too well why I wanted to be engaged to her.

Olaf Lindvig is also in this ward. That white leather tunic of his hangs on a hook by his bed. I don’t know why – perhaps so that he can walk right out and back to the duties awaiting him as soon as his injuries have

healed. Men of his calibre are needed now; I can hear the Russian artillery fire closing in. One night he was having nightmares, I think, because he screamed, and Sister Signe came in. She gave him an injection of something, morphine perhaps. When he went to sleep again, I saw her stroke his hair. She was so beautiful that I felt like calling her over to my bed and telling her who I was, but I didn’t want to frighten her.

Today they said I was to be sent to the west because medicines were not getting through. No one said anything, but my foot is painful, the Russians are coming closer and I know this is my only hope for survival.

Vienna Woods. 29 May 1944

The most beautiful and the most intelligent woman I have ever met in my life. Can you love two women at once? Yes, you certainly can.

Gudbrand has changed. That is why I have taken Daniel’s nickname – Uriah. Helena preferred it. Gudbrand was an odd name, she thought.

I write poems when the others have gone to sleep, but I’m not much of a poet. My heart beats wildly when she appears in the doorway, but Daniel says you have to stay calm, well, almost cold, if you want to win a woman’s heart. It is like catching flies: you have to sit quite still, preferably looking in another direction. And then, when the fly has begun to trust you – when it lands on the table in front of you, goes closer and finally almost begs you to try and catch it – then you strike as quick as lightning, firm and sure in your convictions. The latter is the most important. It is not speed but conviction that catches flies. You have one chance – and you must be ready for it, Daniel says.

Vienna. 29 June 1944.

. . . freeing myself from my beloved Helena’s arms. Outside the air raid had been over for a long time, but it was the middle of the night and the streets were still deserted. I found the car where we had left it, beside the restaurant
Zu den drei Husaren.
The rear window was smashed and a brick had made a huge dent in the roof, but otherwise, fortunately, it was unscathed. I drove as fast as I dared back to the hospital.

I knew it was too late to do anything for Helena and me. We were simply two people caught in a maelstrom of events over which we had no power. Her fears for her parents doomed her to marrying this doctor, Christopher Brockhard, this corrupt person who in his boundless selfishness (which he called love!) was an affront to the innermost essence of love. Couldn’t he see the love that drove him was the absolute antithesis of the love that drove her? Now I had to sacrifice my dream of sharing a life with Helena to give her a life, if not one of happiness, then at least of decency, free of the degradation that Brockhard would force her into.

The thoughts raced through my mind as I sped along roads which were as tortuous as life itself. But Daniel was in command of my hands and feet.

. . . discovered I was sitting on the edge of his bed and gave me a look of disbelief.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Christopher Brockhard, you are a traitor,’ I whispered. ‘And I sentence you to death. Are you ready?’

I don’t think he was ready. People are never ready to die; they think they will live for ever. I hope he got to see the fountain of blood stretching up towards the ceiling, I hope he got to hear the splash on the bedding as it came down again, but above all I hope he realised he was dying.

In the wardrobe I found a suit, a pair of shoes and a shirt which I hurriedly rolled up and carried out under my arm. Then I ran out to the car, started it . . .

. . . still asleep. I was soaked and cold from the sudden downpour and crept under the sheets towards her. She was as warm as an oven and groaned in her sleep as I pressed myself up against her. I tried to cover every centimetre of her skin with mine, tried to delude myself into thinking it was for ever, tried to avoid looking at the clock. There were just two hours until my train left. And just two hours until I would be a hunted murderer over all of Austria. They didn’t know when I would leave or which route I would take, but they knew where I would go – and they would be ready for me when I arrived in Oslo. I tried to hold her tight enough to last me a lifetime.

Harry heard the bell. Had it rung before? He found the intercom and buzzed Weber in.

‘Right after sport on TV, this is what I hate most,’ Weber said as he stamped in fuming, and slammed a flightcase the size of a suitcase down on the ground. ‘Independence Day, the whole country off their heads with national fervour, roads closed so you have to drive all the way round the centre to get anywhere. Holy Jesus! Where shall I begin?’

‘There are bound to be some good prints on the coffee pot in the kitchen,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been talking to a colleague in Vienna who is busy looking for a set of prints from 1944. You brought a scanner and a computer, did you?’

Weber patted the flightcase.

‘Great. When you’ve finished scanning in the prints, you can connect my mobile to the computer and send them to the email address listed under “Fritz, Vienna”. He is sitting ready to compare them with his set of prints and let us know immediately. That’s basically it. I just have to read through a few papers in the sitting room.’

‘What’s the . . . ?’

‘POT stuff,’ Harry said. ‘Need-to-know basis only.’

‘Is that so?’ Weber bit his lip and gave Harry a searching stare. Harry looked him in the eye and waited.

‘Do you know what, Hole?’ he said finally. ‘It’s good that someone in this country still behaves like a professional.’

96
Oslo. 17 May 2000.

Hamburg. 30 June 1944.

After writing the letter to Helena, I opened my canteen, shook out Sindre Fauke’s rolled-up ID papers and replaced them with the letter. Then I carved her name and address on it with the bayonet and went out into the night. As soon as I was outside the door I could feel the heat. The wind tore at my uniform, the sky above me was a dirty yellow vault and the only thing to be heard above the distant roar of flames was cracking glass and the screams of those who no longer had anywhere to flee. It was more or less how I imagined hell to be. The bombs had stopped falling. I went along a street that was a street no more, just a strip of tarmac running through an open area with heaps of ruins. The only thing left standing in the ‘street’ was a blackened tree pointing up at the sky with witches’ fingers. And a house in flames. That was where the screams were coming from. When I was so close that my lungs were scorched by every breath, I turned and began to walk towards the harbour. That was where she was, the little girl with the terror-stricken black eyes. She pulled at my jacket, screaming her heart out as I passed.