The Klipfish Code (16 page)

Bestefar said quietly, "They've searched here already! What more do we have to worry about? Maybe you're trying to trap us." He stepped closer to Olaf, towering over him.

Olaf glanced questioningly from Marit to Bestefar, then took a step back.

"Go," Bestefar said icily, his hand clamped on the edge of the door, ready to close on Olaf's shoes. "Now."

Olaf yanked on his cap and backed down the steps. "I ... I'm only trying to help."

"Bestefar," Marit pleaded. She suddenly felt sorry for
Olaf. If he was forced away so soon, they would never know more about his warning or what he actually
knew
about her efforts to help Henrik. "Wait, um, shouldn't we hear him out?"

"
Net
"

Before Bestefar had closed the door, Marit slipped outside and flew down the steps after Olaf. "Wait!"

The damp ground soaked through her wool socks. Beyond the barn, a crescent moon hung low in the night sky. She made out the shadowy figures of Olaf and his dog as they headed toward the road.

"Olaf, wait!"

He stopped and slowly turned. Then he walked back, his face mostly in shadow, lit only by a hint of moonlight reflecting off patches of melting snow. Kaptain sat down immediately at his side.

"I'm sorry," she said, tilting her head toward the farmhouse, "for what happened in there. Thank you for warning us, even if I don't understand."

"Your grandfather doesn't want to hear the truth, does he?"

"He wants peace," she said. "He thinks if he avoids trouble—" She stopped. She had no excuses for Bestefar.

The night air was icy with mist. Marit wrapped her arms around herself. Her breath hovered in tiny clouds. "At school," she started, not sure exactly what she was going to say, "I'm sorry I never talked with you. I hope
you understand. I can't. It's not you. I don't believe you're one of them."

"Them?" He sounded bitter. "Who, my parents?"

"
Nei,
I mean ... NS ... you're not a Nazi."

"Marit," he said. "You don't even
know
me."

She thought of the day he'd carried Kaptain, just a puppy, from the wharf—so proud, so excited. His father had brought back a puppy for Olaf when most people were worrying about the cost of eggs. She didn't know everything about Olaf's parents, and she didn't know everything about Olaf, but she knew him well enough. "I know you're good, Olaf. And I know I'm sorry for so much. You tried to warn us. What can I do?"

"Just believe me." His voice softened to a plea. "I've heard talk. When one family member is taken away, the others look more suspicious. I'm worried you might be at risk."

The door opened and Bestefar stood in the doorway. He cleared his throat. Before he ordered her to come inside, Marit said quickly, "It's the war, Olaf. Maybe someday things will be different."

"Maybe," Olaf said. Then he turned his back and hurried away, absorbed into the damp night.

Marit couldn't sleep. Bestefar's snoring rose through the floor vents like the snorting of a hibernating bear. As much as Marit tried to stay angry with him for the brusque way he had treated Olaf, her own conversation with Olaf bothered her more.

"Your family is at risk," Olaf had said. In her heart, she believed Olaf was good, but how could she know for sure? How long could anyone be "iced out" before they turned bitter and angry? He
had
risked much by coming to warn them of a crackdown. But was Bestefar right? Was it possible that Olaf had sided with the NS and was warning them as a ploy, a way of getting them to confide in him and to reveal something secret? Or had he come
to warn them as a friend would? What exactly had he overheard? In a world where all the rules had changed, she couldn't know anything for sure.

Just as she learned by listening to the sounds around her, and paying attention, she would listen with her heart. And her heart told her that Olaf had meant only good.

She drifted in and out of sleep. Sometime later, she awoke. Outside, a storm was gathering. Waves rushed the shore beyond the farmhouse. Sleet pelted the windowpanes. Wind taunted the farmhouse, and overhead slate shingles trembled.

Footsteps sounded up the stairs.

"Marit?" came Bestefar's deep voice. "Lars?"

Bundled like a bear in foul-weather clothing, he ordered, "Get up. Put on your warm clothes. Hurry now and come with me."

"Is your boat loose?" Marit asked. A thousand possibilities came to her. He'd found the soldier in the loft. The Gestapo were here, beginning their crackdown. Maybe there was a fire. Bombing—it had started again. She sat up, trying to get her bearings. She didn't feel like getting out of bed if she didn't have to. It was the middle of the night and the air was icy. "But why?"

"Just follow. Do as I say. And for God's sake, hurry." Then he headed down the stairs.

She thought of the morning when bombs first fell and
Mama and Papa insisted they go downstairs. Like then, this wasn't a time to delay. "Wake up," she said, shaking Lars's shoulder. "Bestefar said we have to get up and follow him." He moaned.

Marit pushed him to a sitting position, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and helped him to his feet. They didn't have to worry much about adding warm clothes, since they were already dressed in nearly everything they owned. They made their way downstairs and found their boots beside the door. She helped Lars, who was more asleep than awake.

For a moment, they waited at the door, ready to go. Lars leaned into her.

"Bestefar," Marit said, sure he'd discovered their soldier for sure. "Just tell us—"

"I'll tell you soon enough," he said. "But Marit, just this once," he said, his voice full of pleading. "Don't argue with me!"

Moments later they were following him out the door. "Not a word," he said, his hand raised up to them as they crossed from the house toward the barn. Marit braced herself for questions about Henrik. But he walked right past the barn without a glance. Instead, he hurried through sleet, rain, and wind to the road. In a night as dense as peat, they could easily lose him. Marit grabbed Lars's hand and scurried to keep up. Freezing rain lashed
her face. Never had she seen Bestefar move so fast. He was nearly running.

Then, in her stomach, the reason for this strange leave-taking struck. Olaf's warning. This had something to do with his visit. But what?

Her whole body tensed, filled with questions and apprehension. They had no excuse for being out in the middle of the night. If a Nazi soldier stopped them, they would all be in terrible trouble. They could be shot on sight.

They skirted the ditches on the way to the boathouse. Bestefar paused, waiting for them to catch up. Then he pulled them into a huddle so that their heads touched. "Not a word," he whispered. "Not a sound until we're inside. Do you understand?"

They nodded. With the Nazi headquarters in the schoolhouse just down the road, Marit wasn't about to protest. Still, this whole thing was crazy. Maybe that was it. Bestefar truly had gone crazy.

Ahead, the boathouse beckoned like a fortress. They followed him through the side door. One step, two. She stopped, waiting. Surely he'd light a candle or help them see somehow. There was a scratch and the smell of sulfur, then the flicker of a candle glowed in Bestefar's hand. And there, coming toward her from a cluster of huddled shapes in the corner, shedding a blanket as she drew closer, was a face that sent Marit's heart on wings.

Aunt Ingeborg!

Marit wanted to cry out loud, to scream with joy. She expected the vision would vanish like a dream, but Aunt Ingeborg, dressed in oversize men's clothing, drew her and Lars into a tight hug, the scratchy wool of her
jakke
against Marit's face. This was no dream.

"Oh, Marit! Lars!" Aunt Ingeborg whispered.

"How did you get here?" Marit asked, her voice hushed. "I saw them haul you away! I thought I'd never see you again." A hundred questions tumbled within her.

"Our German truck was ambushed—soon after we left Ålesund. Three of us teachers were in hiding, until yesterday. Our guide received a signal—brought us here to wait for the next bus."

"What bus?" she whispered. There were no buses on the island.

"Not a real bus," Bestefar interjected. "We'll go from here to Scotland's Shetland Islands. The fishing boats that ferry back and forth—we call them 'The Shetland Bus.'"

"Everyone, listen!" Bestefar said, his voice commanding, even at a whisper. He spoke not only to them but also to five people in the shadows. In the ring of the candle's faint light, Marit noticed three men (one with a dark beard, one with a rifle slung across his shoulder, another with a bandage over both eyes) and two women (one whose cape stretched across her protruding belly, the other older, in a calf-length coat). Marit could not understand why Bestefar seemed to be in the middle of this. And how could he know of this plan to take "The Shetland Bus"?

"You will hide quietly in the hold, shoulder to shoulder, tight as sardines," he began.

Not only could Marit barely see, but she struggled to grasp the meaning of what she was hearing.

"Me, too?" Lars asked with excitement. Aunt Ingeborg pulled him close. "
Shhhh.
"

Marit was completely stunned. The man she had turned her anger toward, whom she had accused of being as spineless as a boiled potato, was part of the Resistance?

"You won't be comfortable," he explained to everyone, "but whatever happens on deck, you must all remain below—and absolutely silent. Am I clear?"

Marit tried to catch up with all that was coming to light.

"There's no time to waste. Let's board the bus," he said. "We'll ferry out in the dinghy to the trawler."

The Shetland Islands were over three hundred kilometers away. It was stormy, the worst kind of weather and the wrong season to make that kind of voyage.

Marit's mind buzzed with questions, but this wasn't the time to ask them. She understood the risk of making any more noise than necessary. But what about Mama and Papa? Was she to leave Norway and leave them behind? Then she remembered. She grabbed Bestefar's sleeve.

"There's a soldier—a Resistance soldier—in the barn loft. He's wounded. I've been hiding him. If we don't go back for him, the Gestapo will find him."

"In the loft?
Our
loft?" Bestefar said. His silence was filled with foreboding. "If we go back for anyone now, we risk the whole mission."

"And if we don't, he'll die. We can't leave him!" Marit headed toward the door. "I'm the one who told him to hide there. I'll go."

Bestefar glanced around, as if weighing the value of his cargo. "Not alone," he said. "It's better if I join you. We must hurry. The rest of you—row out and take your places in the boat's hold. Ingeborg, guide them. We'll return quickly, God willing. If anything should happen to us, get word to Einar. He'll know what to do." Einar, Marit knew, was another local fisherman—apparently working, too, for the Resistance.

Marit forced herself to leave Aunt Ingeborg and Lars. She had to help Henrik.

Heads tucked, she and Bestefar braved the pelting sleet.

"Shouldn't we stay in the ditches?" she whispered.

He shook his head. "They're accustomed to seeing me at this hour. If we're stopped, let me do the talking."

No sooner had they rounded the first bend than lights bore down on them from behind. Marit scuttled out of the way, but not before a truck splashed past her, then squealed its brakes to a stop. She and Bestefar continued walking until they were alongside the vehicle. Its window opened, and a flashlight blinded them.

Marit covered her eyes with her mitten, hoping to keep from giving away her dread.

"What are you doing out past curfew?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Bestefar said. "I had to check on my fishing boat. The bilge pump has not been working, and I had to make sure she wasn't taking on water."

The light fell squarely on Marit. "And you?"

"She's my granddaughter."

"
Nei!
" the soldier shouted, and with a swift motion through the open window, hit Bestefar across his face with a pistol.

Bestefar stumbled back. Marit gasped, but held herself still.

"She must answer for herself," barked the soldier.

If she didn't speak up this time, Marit was certain the soldier would hurt Bestefar far worse than he already had.

"The night is so awful," she said, "I didn't want Bestefar to be out all alone. He didn't want me to come, but I followed him."

The soldier humphed. "To have such devotion, old man. You're lucky."

"
Ja,
" Bestefar said. "Marit is my pride and joy."

Despite the bleak situation, she tucked away his words.

"Get home quick, before your luck runs out." Then the Nazi soldier motioned to the driver, and the wheels
churned forward, kicking up a spray of freezing water. The wind whined and churned up the sea so that it roared against the shore below. Marit and Bestefar pressed home, nearly at a run, without a word. Some encounters were too close to even speak about.

The barn and farmhouse sat dark and lonely. Marit opened the barn door, and Bestefar followed her inside. She clambered up the loft ladder. "Henrik! We must get you out of here."

The loft was silent.

"Henrik?"

She fumbled in the darkness and found him. She removed her mittens and reached out to touch his face. The moment her hands touched his nose and forehead, she gasped. His skin was stiff and cold. Lifeless. She leaned forward and touched her head to his chest, hoping for the sound of a faint heartbeat, the slightest breath of air. But she was too late. Her efforts to save him had not been nearly enough.

She had failed him.

She eased his stiff eyelids shut with her fingertips. Though her throat ached, she whispered, "
God natt.
" Good night.

Then she nearly stumbled down the ladder, her chest shuddering.

"Marit," Bestefar said, catching her.

The low moan of a wounded animal rose from her
core. Her legs buckled, and as she slid to her knees, Bestefar pulled her into his arms and held her up. Though she had barely known this soldier, his death seemed to embody all the losses, all the sacrifices being made across Norway. Somewhere, Henrik had a mother and father who would cry when they learned the news—
if
they ever learned of their son. Maybe he had a brother, or a sister, or even a girlfriend. "I tried—but it wasn't enough," she cried, her tears flowing into Bestefar's wool jacket. "I should have asked you to help, but ... he's dead."