The Klipfish Code (11 page)

"Keep watch, Tekopp," Lars said, "a Viking."

Beneath the water, boulders lay visible and some broke from the water. Marit rowed closer to shore, careful to avoid rocks that could rip open the bottom of their wooden boat or hold it fast in place like a beached sea turtle. They rounded a bend and reached the beach where trees met the shoreline.

Marit began to sing aloud, "Oh, Viking, Viking, where are you?"

Lars looked at her with an expression of wonder and respect.

Rowing parallel to the shore, well beyond the lighthouse and its guards, Marit sang out again, "Oh, Viking, Viking, where are you?"

A flock of oystercatchers worked the beach, poking their orange pencil beaks in and out of crevices. Again she sang out and glided forward. A few of the birds, their black-and-white feathers sharply contrasting with the gray light, scuttled away from her approaching boat.

A haze of movement caught her attention. Onshore, easing from behind a boulder, the injured Resistance soldier stumbled toward them, his face milky white. Bent nearly in half, he hobbled toward the water with the use of a stout stick.

Lars gasped but—thankfully—didn't scream. "Marit! He's hurt!"

"Don't say a word," Marit ordered. "That's our Viking ... injured many years ago by the
kraken,
and now we must rescue him."

Lars stared at the creature hobbling toward their boat. "He doesn't look big enough to be a Viking."

"Well, not all Vikings are huge."

Marit rowed quickly—pull, pull, pull—until the bow just touched the shore. The soldier tumbled headfirst into the boat with a grunt, and then curled into a ball on the floor between them.

"We must hide him," she said.

Lars put Tekopp beside him on the seat, and then spread the
dyne
over the soldier. "His foot. He's hurt bad," he whispered.

"
Ja,
" Marit replied. "And we must keep him a secret."

Marit studied the mound and looked at Lars. This wouldn't work. If they rowed back like this, the soldiers would know they'd picked up something, or
somebody,
along the way. How stupid could she be? Why had she ever agreed to help?

"Lars, the
kraken
is still searching for this Viking—and for little boys—to gobble up. And right now, it's very important that you hide under the
dyne,
too."

He made a face and shook his head. "
Nei.
"

"Don't worry, this man won't hurt you."

Lars pulled in his lower lip, a sign he was getting ready to debate.

"I'm serious, Lars!" she cried, and then tried to act less demanding. "Please," she begged in a softer voice, "do as I ask, and if anyone stops us, don't say a word. Pretend you're sleeping."

Reluctantly, with Tekopp, he crawled under the edge of the
dyne
and disappeared. The mound at the bottom of the boat was large, but Marit hoped it would go unnoticed.

Then, with a silent prayer for their safety, she began rowing back. The rowing was harder now, and though the breeze had died, the sea worked against her in swells. She pulled her elbows back against the darkening waters. Sweat formed on the back of her neck and down her spine. As she neared the lighthouse, she glanced over her shoulder to stay on course. She didn't want to get closer
to the lighthouse than necessary, but she didn't want a current to sweep her farther out into the bay, either.

"
Fräulein,
where is your brother?" a soldier called out, startling her to her toes. Marit recognized his voice. He was the German soldier who had come to investigate the seal pup onshore. She hadn't expected the soldiers at the lighthouse to think it was out of the ordinary for her to be rowing. His question unnerved her, but she forced herself to remain calm.

She let go of the oars, pointed to the mound at her feet, and bent her head against folded hands, hoping he would get her silent message.

The soldier nodded. "Oh, sleeping!"

She nodded and returned to rowing, but the guard held up his hand and motioned to the cove beside the breakwater. "Stop. No farther tonight."

Marit held the oars above the water. Her heart stopped.

"Soldiers are searching the island. You could get shot on the water. Pull your boat to shore and walk home from here."

So that was why he'd commanded her to stop. Her heart started beating again. She knew she couldn't argue. She pointed the boat into the cove. Would he come and take the
dyne?
Her plan to help the Resistance soldier was unraveling. She was a fool, and not only had she put herself in danger, but now she risked her brother's life and the Resistance soldier's, too. It was just a matter
of moments before they would all be found out. She was practically delivering the wounded soldier into Nazi hands.

The boat nudged against the shore. The sun had set, and shadows and darkness merged. Shaking, sweat running along her spine, she climbed from the bow and with more strength than she knew she possessed, pulled the weighted boat onto the shoreline.

At the lighthouse, the German soldier faced the shore, watching them.

"Come, Lars," she said, pretending to shake him awake. "Climb out of the boat." He emerged, his face full of questions. She held her forefinger to her lips.

A risky idea came to her. Extremely risky, but the only thing she could think of. Earlier, the soldier had said they needed more blankets. If she could distract him, then the wounded soldier might have a chance to escape without being seen.

"Lars, wait here by the boat for me. And don't say a word."

Lars nodded, with Tekopp nestled under his chin.

Marit pulled the
dyne
off the wounded soldier, whose eyes widened in alarm. She whispered, "In a moment, I'll distract the guards at the lighthouse. When I do, head north to the pasture. You'll see the barn and you can hide in the loft. It's dark enough—they may not see you cross the field." Then she pointed with her head toward
the barn. At first he didn't move. Had he lost his hearing? If he couldn't get out of the boat, then what was she to do?

To her relief, he nodded.

"I'll meet you there when I can," she said, then turned to Lars. "Wait here for me."

"But Marit—it's getting dark!" With the situation so confusing and alarming, perhaps that's all he could think to say.

She gave him a kiss on the top of his head, something Mama would have done to reassure him. "I'll be right back."

The fluffy
dyne
filled her arms and she carried it along the shore, across the narrow cement breakwater—careful not to slip into the freezing waters on either side—all the way out to the lighthouse where the two soldiers watched. With each step, her legs weakened. Was she walking into her own trap? She wanted to run and get away from the soldiers, but she willed herself to slow down and walk calmly—stretching out time as much as possible to help the Norwegian soldier escape. Her whole being quaked, yet Marit held out the offering. She hoped that it wouldn't be bloodstained from the soldier's wounds. That might lead to another round of questions. She forced an outer calmness and vowed to keep her mouth shut. Not a word.

The Nazi soldiers stepped toward her. The one who
earlier had aimed at the seal pup took the blanket and smiled. "Eiderdown!" he exclaimed. Then he continued in rough Norwegian. "For us?"

Marit nodded, and then lowered her eyes.

"The Gestapo," he said, and pointed toward the farmhouse.

What? What could he mean?

"They're gone now," he said. "It's safe. You can come back for your boat in the morning."

She almost felt she could trust him.

He lifted the blanket again and smiled. "
Tusen takk.
" She was turning to leave when he held up his hand in command.

A panic filled her. Had he figured out her scheme? Did he know that she was trying to create a distraction? She studied his face and tried to read his meaning.

He removed his glove, reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out two chocolate hearts—the kind Papa used to buy her at the milk shop in Isfjorden—and patted them into the palm of her mitten. She stared at them, not sure how to respond. He chuckled as he turned away.

Again, Marit forced herself to walk casually—rather than sprint—back along the wall to the shore. As she looked back, her German soldier had rounded the lighthouse, the
dyne
wrapped around his shoulders. Another soldier said something in German, and they laughed. Perhaps they thought the
dyne
was a real gift, that she
was in love with them; or that she was feeling guilty about not having turned it in earlier; or that she was thanking him for warning her about rowing farther. Or perhaps they laughed at the simple mind of a Norwegian girl giving up something so valuable.

With Tekopp in his arms, Lars waited beside the boat, thankfully now empty. Darkness nearly swallowed it whole. Marit pulled the boat higher onto the shore, tied the bowline around a boulder, and hoped it would hold when the tide rose. The lighthouse sat eerily dark, permanently turned off now so that Allied ships and planes could not see the island.

Clouds hung low and covered the evening sky, eclipsing moonlight and starlight. Tekopp meowed, and Lars put him down and let him run free. As they crunched over snow patches in the pasture, Marit kept watching for the wounded soldier. She reached into her pocket.

"Here," she said, handing Lars a chocolate. She popped the other chocolate in her mouth, startled by its unexpected sweetness. Marit reached for Lars's mittened hand and kept walking. "You did a good job," she said.

He squeezed her hand. "
Takk.
"

"But Marit, why did he sneak away?" he whispered.

"I don't know."

"Vikings fight—they're not afraid of anything. Not even the Nazis."

"No more talk," she said. "Remember. It's our secret."

Tekopp pounced on anything that moved as they crossed the field. The injured soldier was nowhere in sight. Her stomach rolled with nausea as she thought of the risks she'd just taken, of what she might have set in motion. She put one foot in front of the other and kept walking. In spite of Gestapo orders to darken every window, a sliver of light escaped from the farmhouse—enough to guide them.

When they slipped into the farmhouse, Bestefar had not yet returned. Without the
dyne
to cover them, Marit and Lars slept with sweaters on over their pajamas and two pairs of wool socks each. In the middle of the night, Lars tapped Marit on her shoulder. "Marit?"

"
Ja?
"

"I'm freezing."

The damp chill of March had crept into their bed, clung with icy fingers, and refused to let go. Marit hadn't slept either. "Me, too," she said. "Follow me."

Quietly, they slipped downstairs and put on their
jakkes,
mittens, and hats. She debated about putting on
her boots and going out to the barn to see if the soldier had made it there, but she didn't dare open the door, which creaked worse than an old mast in the wind. She'd have to wait until morning. Tiptoeing, they climbed back upstairs and curled up, back to back.

"Marit," Lars whispered in her ear.

She cupped her hand over his ear in return. "
Ja?
"

"Where's the Viking?"

"I hope he made it to the loft. I'll check in the morning."

"Let's check now."

She had to admit, that was exactly what she wanted to do. But if she waited until just after dawn, Bestefar would be gone. "Better to wait. And remember—"

"I know, you've told me a thousand times. Not a word."

"That's right. You know, you're pretty smart, Lars."

"I know. That's what Bestefar tells me."

Before the sun rose, Marit was in the kitchen, pulling on her boots to milk Big Olga.

"You're an early riser today," Bestefar said, startling her. He stepped from his adjoining bedroom, pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders. Ashen half-moons lay beneath his hollowed eyes. He was growing thinner, and the arrest of Aunt Ingeborg—his daughter—appeared to be wearing on him. "Already dressed and ready for chores, I see."

"
Ja,
" she replied and headed out.

Big Olga stomped her foot when Marit entered; she was clearly not in the mood to wait. Marit would milk her first, and then search for the soldier. She listened for sounds of movement above her or from the corners of the barn but heard nothing.

In the warmth of the barn, surrounded by the comforting smells of manure and animal sweat, Marit sat on the wooden stool beside Big Olga. Tied in her stanchion, the cow chewed hay and stood still for Marit as she worked.
Ting, ting, ting.
The foamy milk hit the side of the metal bucket. Aunt Ingeborg had taught her how to milk when she was quite little. As the milk rose in the bucket, steam gathered around Marit's bare hands. The barn cat strolled in, a new batch of barn kittens racing ahead of her. Marit angled one of Big Olga's teats and shot a small stream in their direction. They pawed and licked at the air, catching a bit of the milk on their tongues. Such generosity. War made sharing even a few drops of milk an extravagance.

When Marit finished, Big Olga craned her neck and looked back at her with grateful brown eyes. Marit poured the fresh milk into the milk can, then patted Big Olga's neck before turning her out with the other cows.

The German soldiers had started weighing the milk on a scale when they came to collect their "donation."
And Marit knew she shouldn't remove even a cupful of what they expected. But today she would take a chance. With a wooden ladle, she scooped out some milk, and then put the cover back on the pail. She would add an equal amount of water to the container later, and hope that the soldiers couldn't tell the difference. Stealing from the Germans. It felt good.

Carefully keeping the ladle upright, she scaled the ladder one-handed to the loft, praying that the soldier had found his way there. She pulled herself to the loft floor and scanned expectantly. He was nowhere to be seen. The cats, in hot pursuit of the scent of fresh milk, scaled the ladder after her and began purring and winding their way in and out of Marit's legs.