The Klipfish Code (6 page)

The entry door creaked and footsteps fell in the kitchen. Bestefar peered into the living room.

"Ingeborg!" he scolded.

The whir of the sewing machine stopped.

"You know the
bunad
is forbidden."

Aunt Ingeborg sat straighter, lifted her chin, and turned to look at him. "In public, Papa,
ja,
" she said, "but those Nazis don't need to see everything we do or wear in private." Her gaze was steady. "Now do they?"

"You could be arrested," he said. "All of us could be."

Her grandfather and aunt stared at each other. Marit knew well enough to keep her mouth shut. The window curtains fluttered in the breeze. Lilting cries of seagulls filtered in with the low mooing of cows.

Then Aunt Ingeborg snapped her gaze away. Her sewing machine began whirring at a feverish pitch. They
continued their disagreement the way they usually did—in silence. Marit would rather they kept talking through their differences—the way Mama and Papa did—until they came to some kind of understanding.

"Ingeborg," he said, "I
insist
that you stop work on that. You must hide it or burn it." His fingers tapped at the outer seams of his trousers.

Aunt Ingeborg tucked in wisps of hair at her temple, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths, and said firmly, "
Nei.
"

His face reddening, Bestefar shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, took them out again, then turned and went back outside with a huff.

Working her foot pedal into a pleasant whirring, Aunt Ingeborg continued sewing. Marit was amazed that she'd stood up to Bestefar. But more than that, her aunt, in her own way, was standing up to the Germans, too.

Moments passed in silence, then Marit finally remembered the reason she had needed to talk with Aunt Ingeborg. "School's going to start soon, Aunt Ingeborg. Lars and I
need
to return to Isfjorden."

Aunt Ingeborg, two pins held lightly between her teeth, repinned a seam, finished, then looked at Marit with a slow shake of her head. "I don't think you'll return soon."

"But—"

"Marit, your mother and father would have written to tell you to come back by now. It must not be safe."

Marit felt herself crumbling over this—these few words from her aunt that represented so much more. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She'd thought that growing up was about being responsible and in control. Now when she wanted things to be different, she had
no
control at all. "We must go to school here, then?" she whispered.

Aunt Ingeborg nodded. "Folks have decided that students will meet at the church building. Church will be held there on Sunday, school will meet there during the week."

Marit had passed the regular schoolhouse everyday on the way to the pier. A large building, the Godøy School had become home to German soldiers and officers. Signs warned passersby not to gather in numbers outside the building.

Aunt Ingeborg's face turned stern, her blue eyes hard. "Do they think our Norwegian children aren't good enough for schooling? That they can just take over school buildings and toss our children on the street? They make me so—ouch!" A tiny drop of blood appeared on her fingertip. Aunt Ingeborg flashed a quick, determined smile as she held up her pricked finger. "The Nazis—it's all
their
fault."

Aunt Ingeborg laughed at her own joke.
Probably her first,
thought Marit. Then she said, "Oh, and I hope you don't mind, Marit, but I'm to be your teacher."

"I don't mind at all." This news softened the blow of not returning home. "But will I call you Aunt Ingeborg or—"

"At school, call me Miss Halversen. But everywhere else, you and Lars are the only ones in the whole world who can call me Aunt Ingeborg." She reached out and touched Marit's hand. "And I wouldn't give up being your aunt for anything in the whole world."

In September, the Germans ordered that every window be "blacked out" with dark paper so Allied planes would have a harder time hitting German targets at night. The slightest glimmer of light through a blackened window could lead to a knock on the door by the Gestapo—the dreaded Nazi police force.

By day, under the bell tower of the white octagonal church, Marit joined the other fifty-three students. They went from singing "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" on Sunday to doing math, reading, and language lessons on Monday. At the island's makeshift school, the youngest children sat in the pews on the right, fourth- through seventh-graders met on the left, and the oldest students
gathered in the balcony. Even with the war, each grade had to get through its own
pensum,
a series of required subjects.

At first, the teachers—Miss Halversen, her aunt; Mrs. Hammer, who had an irritating habit of tapping her pencil when she corrected papers; and Mr. Moe, who loved to sing louder than anyone in the upper grade—refused to let students wander through the adjoining cemetery. But as the month passed, their rules slackened.

Miss Halversen wore A-line skirts and cardigan sweaters and always started the day with a beaming smile, as if to lift her students' spirits. The smile and cheeriness were something Marit seldom saw at the farmhouse. When Miss Halversen's students finished their lessons early, she let them play board games, spend time outside, or read books of their own choosing. Marit enjoyed this new side of her aunt, as if she were more herself as a teacher than when she was living in the same house with Bestefar.

One day during free time, when Hanna and Marit were leaning against the apple tree, its ruby fruit hanging heavily, Olaf joined them. He sat cross-legged, took his comb from his pocket, and tried to tame the cowlick above his forehead, though it always twisted stubbornly upward as soon as he tucked away his comb.

"How's Kaptain?" Marit asked.

Up close, Olaf's eyes were as smoky gray as lowhanging clouds. "He's coming along. He loves to outrun me, and I'm teaching him to roll over."

Lars came running toward Marit, fell into her lap dramatically, and cried, "Save me, Marit! Save me!"

Two boys circled, sticks drawn like guns.

"Go on," Marit said, and waved them off. They ran away, and Lars bolted after them—stick in hand—around the church.

Hanna wasn't saying a word. Marit curved toward her and raised her eyebrows. "Hanna, are you still here?"

Her friend nodded, and then looked away at the gravestones.

"What's wrong?" Marit pressed. "We're friends. You can tell us."

Hanna refused to answer.

Marit gave Olaf a shrug.

"So what do you think of school here?" Olaf asked her. "I mean, compared to your school in Isfjorden."

"It's different having school at a church, but it's fine. I really like Miss Halversen." She laughed.

"Since you're her niece, she'll probably be easier on you."

"Or harder."

For a few minutes, they talked. He fidgeted with his leather shoelaces, and before long he said goodbye and walked away.

Marit turned to Hanna, whose eyes followed Olaf as
he left them. "Hanna. That was rude. You acted like you didn't even know Olaf. Why wouldn't you talk to him? It's as if he had head lice. I thought you liked him—as a friend, I mean."

"Ice out," she answered.

"What do you mean, 'ice out'?"

"Guess you haven't heard. We have to ice out Olaf Andersen. His parents are NS—the
Nasjonal Samling,
the Norwegian Nazi Party. Marit, they've
sided
with the Nazis." Her eyes narrowed and she whispered, "His parents handed a Norwegian over to the Germans!"

Olaf's parents? Quisling was a traitor, but Marit couldn't believe that any islander, let alone Olaf's own parents, would join the Nazis and turn in other Norwegians. She shuddered. "I can't understand how they ... but that doesn't make Olaf ... he wouldn't do that."

"Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. If anyone in the family is NS, a 'quisling,' then the whole family gets iced out." She nodded toward the tombstones, where Olaf was wandering alone. "It just happened. Yesterday. My parents told me about it last night. By now, most everyone on the island knows."

A wave of cold swept through Marit's body. What if someone turned Mama or Papa over to the Nazis? How could anyone do such a thing?
Why
would anyone do such a thing? Her heart went out to Olaf, but how could she ever understand his parents? "It's like he's
dead then?" she asked. "Treated the way we treat the Germans?"

"Sort of like that."

"Like a dog?"

Hanna huffed. "My papa says we try to treat our dogs
much
better."

It seemed cruel, but if "icing out" was a means of uniting against the Nazis, then Marit had no choice but to take part.

After school that day, outside the church gates, steps sounded behind her and someone tapped her shoulder. She spun around, expecting to see Hanna. It was Olaf. His gray eyes were pleading, and for a moment Marit thought he might start crying.

"Listen, Marit," Olaf said, smoothing his hair back with his hand. "I know what Hanna probably told you, but listen—I'm
not
a Nazi. I'm
not
my parents."

Marit felt sorry for him, but in this war—a war in which
her
parents were risking their lives and
his
parents were turning in Norwegians—there was no middle ground. She grabbed her brother's hand and turned away. "Lars, let's go."

She hurried ahead, and Lars kept glancing back. "Why aren't you talking with Olaf?"

"I'll explain later."

That night, instead of cod stew, which seemed to get thinner each night it was served, Aunt Ingeborg served a
feast: fish cakes in brown gravy, boiled potatoes, and small pancakes with jam for dessert. Bestefar spoke about his day's catch of herring, and Aunt Ingeborg talked about how the quality of flour was getting worse.

All Marit could think about was Olaf and the haunting words of the soldier on the shore months earlier.

War has many unexpected casualties.

In late September, Marit learned from the radio broadcast that the German leader, Terboven, had stepped in and declared the Norwegian Nazi Party to be the official "New Order" in Norway. There would be no more voting.

One evening, Bestefar brought home a newspaper that was being illegally copied and sent all around the country. Before sharing it, he double-checked to make sure the black paper was tight against all windows.

"If any of us should be asked to trample ideals we cherish," he began reading, looking intently from Marit to Lars to Aunt Ingeborg, "to adopt a new way of life we scorn, there is only one course to take. If this is the New Order, our answer is: No Norwegians for sale. Several
hundred Norwegians have sacrificed their lives for something they held sacred. It is also sacred to us."

When he finished, Aunt Ingeborg clapped her hands. "
Ja,
that's right. No Norwegians for sale! Let the Germans hear that loud and clear."

"Unfortunately, the author of these words has been arrested," Bestefar said. "With every day it's becoming clearer. The lines are being drawn. You're either a Nazi or a
jøssing.
"

"A
jøssing?
" Marit asked.

"A loyal Norwegian," he answered quietly.

After that, it seemed almost everyone was a
jøssing.
Even at school, where the red, blue, and white Norwegian flag was replaced with the German swastika flag, little signs of unity sprang up. Along with fishermen, everyone started to wear
nisselues,
red stocking caps like those worn by gnomes. And if not
nisselues,
then they wore red caps, scarves, or sweaters as a sign of unity.

When a German officer stopped by their school, they all pretended to have a scratchy throat and started coughing uncontrollably. Marit had heard that in Ålesund, when a Nazi soldier sat down on a bus, nearby passengers would get up and move to other seats. Nearly everyone, except Bestefar, started sporting a comb sticking out of chest pockets on coats, which meant "we Norwegians can take care of ourselves."

At school, Marit kept an eye on Olaf. Once, she
watched him arrive at the church gate. He paused, pulled a red
nisselue
from under his jacket, and when he thought no one was looking, he donned it. Then he walked around, his stocking cap matching those of the others. It didn't matter. Everyone ignored him. Marit wondered how he could stand coming to school. Many times she wished she could talk with him, but "icing out" was not only a punishment, it was also a warning—a way to remind others to stay loyal. Fair or not, Marit determined she would not cross the invisible line dividing loyal Norwegians from traitors,
jøssings
from
quislings.

Yet Aunt Ingeborg still talked with Olaf. If he raised his hand, she allowed him to speak. In fact, all three of the schoolteachers spoke with him, one on one.

That evening at dinner, Marit blurted the question. "Aunt Ingeborg, if 'icing out' is a way of reminding everyone to stay loyal, then why do you and the other teachers talk with Olaf?"

Her aunt set down her fork. "Marit, I know it's difficult to understand. But you see, I'm a teacher first and foremost. My job is to teach, to help all students learn, no matter what their family background, their personality, or if they're eager or reluctant to learn. And to do that, I need to treat every student fairly. At school, I cannot 'ice out' Olaf."

"But it's not fair!" Marit said, pushing away from the table. "We were friends, and I
have
to turn my back on
him. If I don't, then the 'ice out' doesn't work. I
don't
have a choice."

Bestefar kept eating, but was clearly listening.

Aunt Ingeborg sighed. "But you
do
have a choice, Marit." She reached for Marit's elbow, eased her closer, and then, just as Mama used to do, rested her hand on the small of Marit's back. "There are no easy answers these days. All I know is that you must do what you believe is right—and so must I."