The Klipfish Code (14 page)

"A sister?" said a man in a melodic voice. Then it all flooded back. Rowing to the fishing village, asking for klipfish and leaving the compass in the hands of a strange man, and then getting swept by southwesterly winds to Giske Island. "Where? Show us."

Footsteps approached. It must be a pastor, someone who would help them. Expectantly and with a sense of relief, Marit opened her eyes. Lars stood at the edge of her pew, pointing. Behind him glowered the faces of two men: a Nazi soldier and an officer.

Marit jumped to the worst conclusions: They'd been found out, caught as part of the Resistance. But she tried to hide her fears. She rubbed her eyes, faked a wide yawn, and blinked.

The officer said something in German, and the soldier interpreted it in Norwegian. "What are you kids doing here?"

Lars's chin began to quiver.

No, Lars ... not now!
Marit thought.
Please don't tell about our trip.

She debated if she should remain silent, as always, but decided to risk speaking. "School's closed," she started and cleared her throat.

Lars began to whimper, and his whimpers turned to crying.

Marit talked faster, hoping her brother would hold his tongue. "We were bored," she continued, "so we went rowing this morning and the wind was so strong it blew us off course." She pointed to the weather outside the windows and told him that they came from Godøy. "I couldn't row back, so we came into the church for shelter. I hope we didn't break any rules. We weren't trying to be trouble for anyone. We don't want to be a problem."

She surprised herself at how easily the words rolled off her tongue. She had never been good at lying. The war was apparently changing that.

The soldier related her story to the officer, and then asked, "What is your name?"

"Marit Gundersen. And this is my brother, Lars."

The soldier raised his voice above Lars's snuffles. "The enemy may try to attack on this coast and we want to keep you safe. You seem like smart kids. Tell us, have you seen anything on your island that seems unusual?"

"
Net.
"

"Think harder. Anything out of the ordinary—visitors, perhaps? Faces you haven't seen before. Five men, perhaps, wearing oilskins and sea boots? Anyone with anything to hide? Anything unusual?"

She tilted her head, as if seriously considering his questions. She pictured Henrik's oilskin boots, one in shreds around his badly injured foot. He had said his boat had gone down. Had the other four all died? This question about anything
unusual
was almost laughable.

With a casual shrug of her shoulders, she replied with amazing outward calm. "
Net.
" For extra effect, as if she were genuinely trying to think hard, she paused. Then, hoping to persuade Lars to not add a word, she slowly shook her head at him, then at the soldier. "Nothing unusual."

She hoped she'd convinced him.

He spoke again in German with the officer, then turned to her, his face revealing nothing. "Gather your things," he ordered, "and come with me."

***

In the pouring rain, Marit and Lars followed the soldier to the nearest house. He knocked—
bam, bam, bam, bam.
Behind them in the distance, in the shelter of the church doorway, the officer smoked a cigarette.

The tallest woman Marit had ever met opened the door. To her chest she held a crying infant. "
Ja?
"

"By orders of the Reich, give these children shelter and return them to Godøy where they belong."

"Return them? But my husband—"

The soldier snapped his arm straight toward her head. "
Heil Hitler!
" he shouted, then walked away.

The woman stood board stiff. Her baby bawled harder. Then she turned her attention to Marit and Lars, as if seeing them for the first time. Her shoulders relaxed and she exhaled. "
Vel,
" she said. "You'd better come inside. It's a foul day." Once the door was closed and locked, she added with scorn, "But for the Nazis, compared to the hell that awaits
their
souls, this weather will someday seem like heaven."

Marit smiled. She liked this woman.

"My husband is fishing, and you'll have to stay here until he returns. I have no way to get you back to Godøy before then."

A small fire crackled in the cookstove. As she placed her baby in a basket on the counter, she motioned with
her head to a bench at the table. "Sit," she said, "and hand me your wet clothes." They removed their layers, right down to their thin wool undergarments, and she hung their clothes on a line that stretched from one end of the kitchen to the other. Bright yellow dishes decorated the open shelves. A red runner graced the simple wooden table. Marit enjoyed the comfort of being in this home. She thought of the many times she'd sat at her own kitchen table in Isfjorden with Papa and Mama. The scents of fresh coffee, wood smoke, and homemade flatbread, fresh from the oven. She'd give almost anything to go back to those times.

The woman added a birch log to the cookstove, and before long, heat billowed, warming them and drying their clothes. She poured mugs of hot water. "Something to warm you," she said. Arms across her chest, she studied them, then turned to her nearly bare cupboards and icebox. Soon, she laid out a few pieces of pickled herring and two pieces of bread.

"
Takk,
" Marit said, knowing that with food increasingly scarce, this was a generous gift, a banquet. She and Lars huddled side by side and ate hungrily.

They soon learned that the woman's name was Johanne, and that she was originally from Bergen on the mainland. "With this war, I'm beginning to wonder if anything is left standing there anymore." The Allies, she said, had hit several German targets, including ships.
"And the Germans bomb any building that they think is connected with Resistance activities. The world has turned upside down."

What would Johanne think if Marit told her she was helping the Resistance and hiding a soldier? She had an impulse to tell this woman everything, but she held back. Because of her actions, she must be extra careful to guard her secrets so no harm would come to Johanne's family.

Johanne told them a joke. "A knock came at the door," she began, "and the old woman asked, 'Who is it?'

"'The Angel of Death,' came the reply. The woman opened the door and smiled. 'Come in, come in! I thought you were the Gestapo!'"

Marit laughed, but Lars scrunched his forehead in confusion.

"The Angel of Death," Johanne explained, "even
that
looks good compared to the Gestapo—the Nazis' secret police. Get it?"

He nodded. "I knew that."

Johanne told them how when the radios were recently turned in on Giske Island, the villagers put their radios on a horse-drawn cart, draped it in black, and followed the cart like a funeral procession. "We even sang hymns," she said, "accompanied by fiddle."

Marit told Johanne about the bombing of their real home at Isfjorden, about staying with Bestefar on Godøy
Island, and about Aunt Ingeborg being taken away in the middle of the school day.

"Oh, dear." Johanne's shoulders rose slowly. She looked at them with sympathy. "And your parents, are they alive?"

"They've sent letters," Lars said.

"Good," Johanne said. "That's good. With this war, you never know."

What Johanne said was true. Marit's parents could be killed any day—any second—by air attacks, or found out by the Gestapo. But her parents were still in the mountains, Marit tried to console herself, tucked safely away from harm. At least, that was her prayer.

"My husband won't be back until later. Read or rest, whatever you like. He'll get you home. Not that I like the idea of his crossing the waters at night, mind you, but we've been given no choice, have we?"

"
Nei,
" Marit replied.

The baby started to fuss, and Johanne moved to a corner rocker to nurse.

From a shelf, Marit pulled down a book called
Kristin Lavransdatter: The Bridal Wreath.
She opened the novel and began reading aloud about a Norwegian girl in the Middle Ages and her struggle to survive in difficult times. Marit knew Lars loved to be read to. And she had loved it when Mama had read to them every night.

That afternoon in the living room, sitting shoulder to
shoulder with Lars on the braided wool rug, Marit read until her voice grew hoarse. Before long, Lars stretched out his legs, lay his head down, and fell asleep. And still Marit read, partly because Lars's body, snuggled against hers, was comforting. And partly because she couldn't put the book down. It took her away from the present and everything her world had become. It silenced her concerns about returning to Godøy. It helped her pretend they could stay here with Johanne instead. What would Bestefar do when he learned of their misadventure? And the soldier in the loft. What if Bestefar found him? Would he stay quiet and hidden while she was away? It was easier to keep turning the page of the book than to answer such questions.

By late afternoon, to their fortune, the wind and rain had eased. When Lars stirred, Marit put the book back, went to the kitchen, and talked with Johanne. "The wind seems to have died down. I think I could row back."

"It's too far, and it's growing dark."

"But I'm a strong rower," she said, her arms and shoulders aching.

Johanne shook her head. "That may be, but you were put in my charge, and I'm not going to let another wind toss you back up on our shore. For your sake and for mine. The less often those Nazis come to my door, the better. You'll stay and wait until Rollo returns. He'll motor you back."

Marit didn't have to wait long. Within the hour, Johanne's husband returned, and then wordlessly he bade them to follow. In the thickening darkness, he towed their empty rowboat behind his trawler.

At considerable risk, they slowly crossed the water between the two islands and rounded the peninsula of the familiar lighthouse. Marit was told to watch for mines, but how was she to see them in such dark waters?

Suddenly, a shot rang out and water sprayed before the bow. She screamed.

From the lighthouse, rays of light swept across the boat.

"
Halt!
"

Rollo idled the motor. "These children," Rollo shouted, "drifted in their rowboat to Giske! We were ordered to return them here, where they live!"

There was no answer, just lights washing back and forth over the deck, illuminating them. Water lapped against the boat and rocked them from side to side.

Marit held on to the boat's mast with Lars. "Just stay calm," she whispered, "don't talk."

"Proceed!" the soldier shouted.

Rollo shifted from neutral to forward, and they made their way slowly from the lighthouse to the wharf. In the distance, shadowy shapes looked increasingly familiar.

"There's the pier," Marit called. "Up ahead."

Without a word, Rollo eased the boat slowly into the
harbor and pulled up beside an open dock. "Stay home," he said, almost the only words he'd said the whole way. "You put others in danger."

"
Takk,
" Marit said.

He motioned to their rowboat tied to the stern of his trawler. She and Lars hopped down into it as he untied it from his boat and pushed it away.

Marit picked up the oars and rowed the short distance to the dark silhouette of Bestefar's boathouse. As she pulled through the black water, her shoulder muscles, back, and hands protested in pain. She was more sore than she'd ever been in her life.

They touched shore, hopped out, and pulled up the rowboat. Marit almost wanted to kiss the stones beneath her feet. They had made it back. They were safe! As they passed the boathouse's side door, it creaked open.

They jumped, and Lars seized Marit's arm.

"Marit!" Bestefar spoke harshly.

She took in the figure darkening the door frame. He would never forgive her for being gone so long with the rowboat, no matter what excuse she tried to come up with now. He'd spoken one word, and by his tone, she understood clearly where he was placing the blame.

"Straight home!" Bestefar ordered. Without another word, he marched them down the road. Marit glanced at the barn as they passed. She needed to check on Henrik, to bring him food and water and tell him that she'd delivered the compass. All that would have to wait until Bestefar went to bed.

In the warmth of the kitchen, Bestefar paced, his eyebrows meeting in a white, furrowed
V.

"It wasn't Lars's idea to row out so far, that much I know. Marit, I think it's best you go to bed early tonight."

"But I'm starving!"

"You'll survive until morning. No, your punishment is
to head straight upstairs. You've caused me enough worry. You need to ponder your foolishness."

Marit drank a cup of water from the hand pump at the sink, and then paused at the first step, wondering about Henrik. He needed food. He needed water. Perhaps if Marit told Bestefar the truth, he'd help her care for him. Maybe call a doctor. But she came to a quick decision—the same one she'd come to earlier. To tell Bestefar was to risk Henrik's life further.

"Marit!"

Her anger toward Bestefar burned all the hotter as she stomped loudly up the stairs.

"That's enough for one day," Bestefar called after her. "Not another word, not another foot stomping, do you understand?"

She refused to answer.

Stretched out on her bed, she listened to her stomach rumble with hunger. She'd never felt more tired. Every muscle in her body was filled with lead. And she was really, really hungry. But she would not beg. She was too proud to plead for something to eat. Still, it wasn't fair that Lars was allowed to eat a bowl of cod stew. Far from the wood stove, her bedroom was cool; Aunt Ingeborg's homemade wool socks and her own sweaters barely warmed her.

Even Lars made her angry. His voice flitted up the stairs, chatting on and on to Bestefar about being on the
water and the wind blowing them straight to Giske and spotting a killer whale. "And we nearly bumped into a floating mine," he added, "but I told Marit to turn right."