The Klipfish Code (15 page)

She held her breath and waited for him to tell every bit of their day and get her in real trouble.

"But she turned fast," he said, "and we missed it completely!"

To her relief, Lars didn't mention anything about the fishing village or the church on Giske or the Germans. "A nice woman named Johanne gave us food and I fell asleep."

From what she could hear, Lars was intentionally steering clear of telling everything. "We're safe and that's what matters," he said, sounding just like Papa.

Bestefar humphed. "We're in the middle of a war," he said, seeming to talk more to himself than to Lars. "I have enough to worry about without my grandchildren wandering off—across open water, no less."

Her mind replayed her long day. What had the German soldier on Giske Island meant when he said "The enemy may try to attack on this coast"? Did that mean the Allied forces were planning to land somewhere on Norway's western coast? She wondered if delivering the compass was part of such a plan. Did it carry codes in the engravings or, somewhere inside its case, a small note of importance? Had anyone seen her on the doorstep of the house in Alnes?

Before she knew it, she had dropped into a fathomless sleep.

Lars's moaning and leg-kicking woke her. He was sound asleep, and she was grateful that she no longer had to wake him to use the night pot. From the main floor, Bestefar's snoring whistled through the house—a good sign.

She slipped into her boots,
jakke,
and hat. Then, silent as a mole, she grabbed a half loaf of something that passed for bread—as Aunt Ingeborg had said, the flour was more like ground sand these days. She broke off a chunk of cheese from the wheel in the icebox. She poured a glass of milk, ate quickly, then stuffed Henrik's half of the cheese and bread in her pockets. This time, Big Olga would have to wait.

Climbing the ladder to the loft with a half bucketful of water, Marit was met with air so foul she nearly tumbled backward.

"Henrik?" she whispered, then clasped her hand over her nose.

She should have left him an empty bucket to use, but that hadn't occurred to her. He was in no shape to climb up and down the ladder. He surely couldn't have hiked to the outhouse. She was a foolish child taking on tasks far larger than she could possibly handle.

If the Gestapo returned to the farm to search again—and especially if they brought search dogs with them—
the smell in the loft would flash a signal brighter than any lighthouse. She knelt beside the soldier.

"Henrik?" No answer.

He was dead—there could be no other explanation. Panic built in her legs. She wanted to run away but forced herself to stay calm. She reached into the pile of straw and touched his chest. Beneath her palm, she sensed breathing—breaths as shallow as a parched riverbed.

Marit brushed straw from his face. His eyes were sunken behind shadowed lids. A white crusty film covered his cracked lips. She touched his forehead. He was burning with fever.

"
Mor,
" he cried weakly, like a child calling out for his mother.

"Oh—you are alive!" She brushed more straw from his body. Careful not to bump him, she examined his injured foot. It was swollen to three times its earlier size, and the open wounds oozed. She didn't know much about medicine, but she knew that his foot was dangerously infected. His fever was possibly high enough to kill him.

She lifted a ladle of water to his lips, but it dripped across his face. Some of it fell into his parted lips. She tried to give him more, and he opened his mouth wider but choked, spitting water, which dribbled down his neck. If he was too weak to drink...

"Don't die on me, Henrik," she whispered. "I delivered
it—the compass—just like you asked." She didn't know if he could hear her or, if he did, whether he understood.

The sky was growing hazy with a dusky morning light. Bestefar could be leaving for his boat at any moment, and Marit needed to be milking Big Olga when he stepped from the farmhouse, just in case he checked on her. She gently placed more fresh straw over Henrik, hoping to hide the foul odor, and then headed down the ladder. "I'll get help, I promise."

From her stanchion, Big Olga studied Marit as she skillfully eased the cow's full udders with her hands. The barn cat and her kittens showed up, right on schedule, and waited for their taste of warm morning milk. Before foamy milk had covered the base of the bucket, the barn door opened.

"Marit?" Bestefar stepped in.

She didn't answer, even though she knew it was rude not to do so. She was afraid that if she said a word, her true feelings—about him, about his unwillingness to take action, about brave Henrik lying overhead, whose life was quickly unwinding like a skein of yarn—would all come out of her mouth and she would say too much. She bit the soft, fleshy inside of her lips.

"
God morgen,
" he said, his voice softer than the night before. She sensed him moving closer, standing behind her as she leaned over the bucket, sheltered by the steady
breathing of Big Olga. Marit tensed, hoping that he wouldn't notice the smell from the loft.

"Marit, it's not that I don't—" he began, then stopped. "I was terribly worried last night when you two were not at dinner. And then the rowboat was gone."

She kept milking—
ting, ting, ting—aiming
the white stream against the side of the can. Though he was apologizing in his own way, and she felt she should at least acknowledge him, she held herself in check. She wasn't ready to let go of her anger.

From the corner of her eye she watched him. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets and filled his lungs with one deep, long breath. When she didn't turn or say anything, he exhaled in a huff, stepped away, and headed out through the barn door, most likely to his boat.

With hands trembling from anger and fright, Marit continued milking. To her relief, the smell from the loft hadn't sent him up the ladder to investigate.

After turning Big Olga out to pasture, Marit knew what she had to do.

"Lars," she said, calling into the house. "Wait here. I'll be back soon!"

Then she dashed down the road, cutting over paths from the general store to Hanna's home, a red clapboard with a porch overlooking the water. Marit banged on the door, trying to catch her breath, and waited.

"Marit!" Hanna said, still in her pajamas. "It's early, but come in. I've missed you, with school out."

Marit stayed on the porch and shook her head.

Hanna's cheerful expression faded. "What happened? Marit, are you OK?" She glanced across the water toward Ålesund. "Oh, no. Did you get bad news about your parents?"

"I need your mother," Marit said.

"She's still at the hospital in Ålesund. The war keeps her busy. She should return in an hour on the first boat. Why?"

Marit didn't know what to do. She had nowhere else to turn. "He made me promise not to tell anyone about him. But if he doesn't get help, he's going to die."

"Who?"

She couldn't return alone. Not without a plan, without help. In a whisper, she told Hanna about the soldier hidden in the loft. "You must not say a word about this. Not to anyone, Hanna."

"I promise."

Marit waited for Mrs. Brottem at the wharf, and when the mail boat chugged into the harbor, she looked for a red scarf and navy wool coat, just as Hanna had described. Since Marit had seen her last, Mrs. Brottem had gathered deep lines across her forehead.

As passengers stepped from the boat, Marit stopped her. "Mrs. Brottem?"

"Why, Marit," she said, a tired smile turning to concern. "Is everything all right with Hanna and my babies?"

"They're fine," Marit said. "It's my brother, Lars." She lied. "Could you please come check on him? He's in a bad way with a fever."

"Of course."

With Mrs. Brottem walking alongside, Marit headed toward the barn. Lars was outside, petting the gray goat.

"Your brother certainly seems fine now," Mrs. Brottem said, pausing on the dirt drive.

"It's not really Lars," Marit said in a rush. "I'm sorry. I had to say that because of the other passengers. Please. I'll show you. In the barn."

"I don't know anything about farm animals, Marit."

"Lars," Marit said, pushing open the barn door. "Keep watch and let us know if anyone is coming. Can you do that?"

"
Ja,
" he said. "I'm good at that."

For the next hour, Marit assisted Mrs. Brottem, supplying her with buckets of warm water. Tucking her strawberry blond hair back into her scarf and washing her hands, Mrs. Brottem set to work. She didn't fret and she didn't smile, but she held the edge of her lower lip between her teeth as she examined the soldier.

She cut the pants right off the soldier's legs. "Don't worry," she told Henrik, who slipped in and out of consciousness. "I promise to sew them back up after they get a good washing."

Marit took his clothes down to where a wash bucket waited, then scrubbed and cleaned his torn and soiled pants. When she returned, wet cloths covered Henrik's forehead and Mrs. Brottem ladled water into his mouth, sometimes smoothing his throat with her fingers to help him swallow.

"It's your foot that's causing all this trouble," she told him. "It's badly infected. I'm going to use some hot compresses, and it will hurt, but you must be quiet. Marit, hand me a clean rag."

Marit handed her one from the pile she'd gathered.

Mrs. Brottem put the cloth in the soldier's mouth. "Bite on this if you must."

Then, she faced the twisted and raw stump of his foot and shook her head. "We should get a doctor here to you, but there isn't one on the island. Marit, your grandfather will have to ferry one over from Ålesund—and they're very busy there, too."

"
Nei.
We can't tell Bestefar!" Marit pleaded.

"Why not? This soldier needs help."

Ashamed of her grandfather, Marit felt heat rise to her face. "I'm worried he'll report Henrik to the Nazis."

Finally, Mrs. Brottem spoke. "Oh. I see." She examined the soldier's foot further. "I'll see what I can do first, but if his foot must be amputated, then we'll have to risk telling him."

Eyes tight with pain, Henrik bit down on the cloth and moaned as Mrs. Brottem swabbed his infected foot. Marit couldn't stand to see anyone in such pain and looked away. But it was either pain or certain death.

"Let's hope that by cleaning the infected wounds he'll take a turn for the better. I'll return tomorrow morning before heading across to the hospital. You must make sure he drinks plenty of water so he doesn't get dehydrated. And if he's warm, use a cold, wet cloth to keep the fever down. When I return, if he's not better, I will speak with your grandfather myself."

Marit nodded.

As Mrs. Brottem lingered to stitch up the other pant leg as Marit watched Henrik. His eyes were a little brighter, his breathing deeper.

His gaze met Marit's, and she guessed his question. "Did you..." he began.

She nodded with a smile. "
Ja.
Just as you asked. It's done."

"
Tusen takk,
" he said. "I owe you a great debt."

Mrs. Brottem must have thought he was speaking to her, for she answered, "Marit—she did the most. But don't thank us yet," she said, her voice stern. "You're not well yet.
Rest.
And do your best to use this pot when you must."

Later, as they headed down the loft ladder, Mrs. Brot-tem whispered, "This war. None of us can handle it alone. But this boy ... Henrik ... without the risks you took to save him, Marit, he'd be dead by now. He owes
you
his life. You've been very brave."

They stood by the cow stanchion as Lars continued his lookout.

"
Nei.
" Marit shook her head back and forth. "I've been terrified, scared to death that—"

"Marit," Hanna's mother interrupted. "You didn't let your fears stop you from ... doing what needed to be done.
That's
bravery."

***

That afternoon, Henrik's fever dropped, and he drank water greedily from the ladle Marit held to his lips. He managed a bowl of thin cod stew, which Marit fed him spoonful by slow spoonful. Then he dropped back, exhausted.

At supper, Lars carried on with Bestefar as if the day
had been just like any other. He talked about missing school, how cold he was at night now without the
dyne,
and about becoming a fisherman someday. Marit was glad for his chatter. She could stay tucked within her silence. She wouldn't have to try to lie about her day.

A knock—so light that she wondered if she'd imagined it—sounded at the door. She dropped her spoon against the edge of her bowl, and cod stew splattered across the table. What if Henrik had managed to climb down the ladder? Maybe he was feverish again—possibly delirious. She had warned him about Bestefar, and that it wasn't safe to come to the house.

Or worse, the Gestapo had returned to do another search. Worse than the Angel of Death. Marit remained statue-still.

Bestefar was at the door, easing it open, clearing his throat. Marit stared at her nearly empty bowl and listened. Whatever bravery she might have shown earlier was no longer in her grasp. She was certain of that.

"Mr. Halversen, my name is Olaf," the voice came. "Olaf Andersen."

Marit jerked her gaze toward the door.

"I need to talk to you."

On the doorstep stood Olaf, with Kaptain at his side, his tail curved over his back. Olaf removed his cap, ran one hand through his untamable hair, and turned his cap round and round between both hands. Why was he
here? It made no sense. And to be out after dark was to risk getting stopped by the Gestapo. But his parents were NS—traitors. Maybe that's why he was free to roam about despite the curfew.

"I came to warn you," he said, looking beyond Bestefar to Marit. "I heard my parents talking with a German officer. I ... I hear more than I should. But I came to tell you that there will be a crackdown on the island. 'A severe crackdown,' the German said. I thought you should know."

A surge of fear zinged through her body. Was it possible that Olaf knew about her helping the Resistance soldier? Did he know about her having delivered the compass? But how could he? He had always acted as if he wanted to be friends. Had he been spying on her all along?