The Klipfish Code (12 page)

"Sorry," she said. "Not for you this time."

A mound in the corner rustled with movement. Fully buried beneath the straw, the soldier lifted his head, his skin colorless and his hair tangled with straw.

"
God morgen,
" she said, trying to sound like Mama on the icy mornings when Marit hadn't wanted to get out of a warm bed. She knelt next to him with the ladle of fresh milk and pushed away the eager barn cats.

He eyed the milk hungrily and reached for it, his hands trembling so hard Marit thought he might spill every drop.

"Here," she said, "let me." She brought the milk to his
chalky lips. Greedily, he gulped the milk down. Then he dropped back into the straw. "And water," he said. "I'm so thirsty."

"
Ja,
" she said. "I'll get some."

Rather than bring water from the hand pump in the kitchen, which was risky, Marit scooped a bucket of water from the animals' trough outside. A thin covering of ice was already melting in the early rays. Though snow stayed for a long time on the mountain, the island's farmlands rarely froze over, and the snow usually melted within days of falling.

The soldier drank three ladles of water before he said, "Enough."

"That's good," she said, trying to sound cheery. "Before long, I'll bring you something to eat, too."

"
Takk,
" he said, and burrowed beneath the straw again without another word.

When Marit entered the kitchen, Bestefar was busy ladling porridge from the cast-iron pot into bowls. "Marit," he said, his voice serious. "I just went upstairs to wake Lars, and your
dyne
is missing. Missing!"

Marit's heart dropped. She had hoped to come up with an excuse for its disappearance, but she was too late. Pinpricks shot through her. Could Bestefar read the guilt on her face? "I know. I should have told you."

Lars sat at the table, spoon in hand. Marit stared at
him, hoping to remind him that he wasn't to say a word about the soldier—or Viking.

"And that's why you came downstairs fully dressed this morning?"

She nodded.

"And you and Lars slept in your hats and
jakkes?
"

That part was true, too. "
Ja,
" she said quietly.

"They're worse than lice!" he growled.

Marit wasn't sure what he was talking about. She remembered how much Aunt Ingeborg hated lice, how she had treated and combed the heads of two school kids to help them get rid of the pests. But that was last fall—months ago. What was Bestefar talking about?

"Yesterday," he said, "when I returned briefly from fishing, soldiers were here at the house. You two were gone. They told me, 'Enemies on the island' as they jabbed pitchforks in the hay, tapped on walls, and even searched upstairs. And then they stole your
dyne!
Wasn't it enough to requisition all our blankets last fall? They say they need
everything
for their soldiers fighting throughout Europe and Russia. We held back only one. Only one!
How
do they expect children to stay warm? They are heartless!"

Marit breathed out relief. Her deception was covered by the Nazis themselves.
Let them take the blame.

After breakfast, just as Aunt Ingeborg would have done, Marit and Lars washed clothes and sheets on the
washboard and hung them on the line to freeze-dry in the breeze. When a quiet moment came and Bestefar was gone, she sneaked out with Lars to the barn.

They'd both saved a bit of their breakfast porridge and a little cheese for the soldier.

"How come you're so young," Lars asked the soldier as he ate the food with his hands, "when you've lived so long? Are you really a Viking that the sea monsters hurt?"

The soldier looked at him quizzically.

Marit nodded encouragingly.

"It's a secret," he said, his hands trembling. A deep crimson brightened his cheeks. Marit touched her hand to his forehead, as Mama had done to her so many times, and felt the soldier's fever travel through her fingers.

"You're burning up. You must rest."

He finished the small bit of food, and then lay back again.

"What's your name?"

"Henrik."

"We'll let you rest then, Henrik." She started to her feet as Lars climbed down the ladder.

"Wait." The soldier's face was guarded.

Marit couldn't see his face; he was hidden so completely. Only his arm stretched through the straw, a metal compass dangling in his hand. "I can't make it. You must take this to the fishing village—north side of the island. I was to have landed there."

The village he spoke of boasted the largest lighthouse on Godøy and was not an easy jaunt down the road. It would take a full day of hiking to get there and back—or a boat ride halfway around the island.

"But why?"

"No—no questions. The less you know, the better."

She remembered Papa telling her the same thing. She reached for the compass, and as soon as she lifted it from his hand, his arm flopped down beside him, as if he'd been holding a great weight. He lay there, his arm in full view. Marit covered it with straw again and leaned closer.

"Who ... who do I take this to at the fishing village?"

"First house in the village," the soldier said, struggling for air between phrases. "Farthest house from the lighthouse. Ask for Astrid. Say, 'Do you have any klipfish for sale?'"

"Klipfish?"

"
Ja.
"

Then she repeated his instructions back to him.

"Good," he said. "And when she asks you how many, you say, 'A bucketful.' And make sure you show her an empty bucket. Can you remember this?"

"Astrid and klipfish," she repeated. "And I must bring an empty bucket."

"
Ja,
that's good. Go ... please," Henrik whispered from beneath the straw, "before it's too late."

And then he was silent, completely hidden and completely still. Marit left him and joined Lars below. She held the compass in her hand. Lars scooted closer. "What's that for, Marit?"

"For telling direction. North, south, east, or west." She didn't want to involve Lars in this, but she would look more suspicious acting on her own. And she would risk a scolding and too many questions from Bestefar if she left Lars behind. It was early in the day. If she took off with Lars, they would appear as two bored kids trying to fill their unexpected days off with something to do. With school temporarily shut down, this would seem believable.

Marit paused, reminding herself of the risk, another choice filled with
unthinkable
consequences. She'd heard stories about the Gestapo: the woman who had her fingernails pulled out, the fisherman from Ålesund taken away for questioning and returned with cigarette burns across his body, the numerous bodies found floating in the sea ... Norwegians ... and no one knew what terrible things they'd suffered before drowning.

Compass in hand, her palms slippery with sweat, she examined the silver object and the simple carving of a ship on its cover. She flipped open the lid, expecting to find a note, a piece of paper, something secretive. But it looked like an ordinary compass. She turned toward Godøy Mountain and the needle pointed north. It
worked like an ordinary compass. What could possibly be so important about it that this man, Henrik, would travel the sea, have his boat shot out from under him, lose his companions, and entrust her with it? There had to be more to it.

Marit forced a smile and feigned enthusiasm. "Lars," she whispered, "are you ready for another adventure?"

Though the hike over the island's peak to the fishing village on the other side was daunting, Marit thought she could make it. She was less certain about Lars, especially if they ran into snow at the top. And she doubted he'd be strong enough to hike back again. Unlike Papa, she certainly wasn't going to carry him over her shoulder if he got too tired. That left only one other choice. They would row to the island's north side.

Marit packed a chunk of cheese, two slices of coarse bread, and a jar of water. Over their
jakkes,
they pulled on dark, canvas raincoats. Marit sniffed. "
Uff da!
" Bestefar had bought the raincoats for them in Ålesund, but they were not soaked in regular linseed oil, which had
disappeared; these raincoats reeked of cod liver oil. Putrid smelling—but better than nothing in such weather.

A light drizzle misted the air. Shades of deep gray blanketed the sky above the sea and pasture. They hiked toward the lighthouse shore where the rowboat waited, nudged higher onshore from tidal currents.

"Help me push," Marit said, throwing her weight against the bow.

Lars's face reddened as they edged the boat slowly over the kelp-covered rocks. From the corner of her eye, Marit saw a German soldier trot across the breakwater toward them, gun over his shoulder.

The compass around her neck turned weighty as an anchor.

"
Hei! God morgen!
" he called with a wave.

Marit froze.

In a few long strides, the soldier was at the boat's side, pushing alongside her. Marit looked at him questioningly, and he smiled in return. It was the soldier she'd given the
dyne
to yesterday. She could not understand his motivation, but inside, she breathed a prayer of gratitude.

Within seconds, the boat eased into the water. Fast as rabbits into their burrow, she and Lars slipped into the safety of the rowboat. Lars sat in the bow so he could look ahead; Marit sat in the middle seat, facing their wake as she rowed. With a wave, she thanked the soldier,
and then pulling quickly on the oars, glided away from shore.

She'd come to feel completely at ease in the rowboat, the oars familiar in her hands—the only thing left in life over which she had control. The task of rowing to the north side of the island would not be easy. She pulled hard, stroke by stroke, and they rounded the lighthouse and peninsula and skimmed over boulders that lay dangerously close to the surface.

"Keep a lookout for sea monsters," Marit called, just in case the soldiers could hear. "We're off on another adventure!"

Lars gazed at Ålesund to the east. Marit hoped that Bestefar's trawler was nowhere in sight. He would be furious to see them go beyond the lighthouse boundary, and he'd stop them.

To blend in and be less visible from the water, Marit kept the rowboat close to shore. If she strayed too far, they could end up wrestling ocean currents. Fortunately, morning waters were fairly calm. The rowboat crested over the tops of small waves and pulsed them toward the northeastern point of the island. The shoreline drifted by quickly. They passed farms, a single red boathouse, the wooded shoreline where she'd found Henrik, and another pasture where sheep grazed on patches of last year's grasses. Snows had begun to melt.

Drizzle drenched her face, but Marit didn't mind.
Perhaps this mission would be easy to accomplish after all. With a breeze at their stern, they glided easily. She understood the risk, but to be doing something to help the Resistance was exhilarating. For two years she had not been able to do anything to help fight the Nazis. Just a week ago, she'd stood mute and helpless as Nazis hauled her aunt away. Finally, she was doing
something.

Unlike Bestefar, she chose to fight back.

"Are sea monsters related to trolls?" Lars asked, keeping watch.

"No, sea monsters live in the ocean. And trolls, they live deep in the mountains. They're all scary, but no, I don't think they're related."

"And they eat children."

"Oh, I don't think trolls like the taste of children. But they sure like mountain goats." She glanced over her shoulder at him, not sure if he really believed in such things anymore. Either way, at least he was willing to play along.

"Oh," Lars said, sucking on his lower lip. "And Henrik, did he really hurt his leg by fighting the
kraken?
"

"
Ja,
he's very brave."

"But then why did he hide from the soldiers in our barn?"

"Sometimes Vikings get hurt and they need to heal before they can go back to battle."

"Did the
kraken
bite his foot?"

She nodded.

"Marit," he said, his dimples forming tiny crevices in his rounded cheeks. "Are you telling me the truth? Are there really sea monsters and trolls? Is he really a Viking? Are you sure? Do you swear on the Bible?"

She drew a breath. This wasn't the time to tell him the truth. If she just played along, she lessened the risks for him should they be stopped and questioned. She remembered Papa's words:
The less you know the better.
In war, she now understood, this was often true.

"Lars," she said, "this is serious. Just keep a lookout. Better to keep watch."

That was all it took. Lars turned his gaze back to the sea, ready to resume his post. Marit was relieved. She needed to have him work with her, even if he didn't know the real reasons why.

She rowed on. Drizzle soon turned to plump raindrops. Her thoughts drifted with the current. She wondered about her old friend Liv. What was she doing at this moment? Marit pictured her on a distant farm, helping with chores, maybe reading a book in the hayloft in a patch of sunshine. Liv loved to read.

At the most eastern point of the island, their luck changed. Waves struck boulders and sent sheets of white spray into the air. Marit rowed hard as they veered into a wind that swept toward the island's rocky northern shore. She leaned hard into the oars.

"Watch for boulders!" she called. "But I can barely see," Lars whined. "I'm getting rain in my eyes."

"Try!" she shouted. "I don't want to look over my shoulder and lose ground. Call out, 'keep left' or 'keep right.' Help keep us headed toward that lighthouse ahead. Do you see it?"

"
Ja!
Red and white striped."

"Good."

Only a fool would try to row into the wind here. But she
was
a fool, just like her Papa. If Bestefar thought such heroic actions were foolish, then let him. She pulled harder against the oars, straining her back against the bitter wind.