The Klipfish Code (8 page)

She knocked the box from the officer's outstretched hand. Chocolates scattered at his feet. Mrs. Hammer and Mr. Moe gasped, and a disquieting hush fell over the church.

Marit covered her mouth.

As if stunned, the officer didn't move. Then, almost in slow motion, he took two steps back. He snapped his officer's cap on his head and straightened his jacket. When he spoke, his voice was sharp. "You could be arrested for such talk," he warned. "I was trying to court you. I could have forced you, but I didn't. I'm doing you a favor."

Miss Halversen stood tall.

The officer turned away. His heels hit sharply across the floor, echoing stonily through the church building, and the door shut hard behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Mr. Moe hurried to Miss Halversen. "I can't believe you knocked the gift from his hand! You're so brave, Ingeborg."

"Or impossibly stupid," muttered Mrs. Hammer, her arms crossed squarely. "He'll make us pay for this, you can count on it."

Miss Halversen dropped to the pew and bowed her head in her hands. Her shoulders rose and fell with silent sobs. If she hadn't been spying, Marit would have rushed down and put her arms around her.

Hanna nudged her in the side and motioned toward
the stairs. Stealthily, Marit crept down the stairs after her. Once outside, they ducked snowballs, passed snow forts, and wandered through the gravestones without talking. A chill far colder than the winter air settled deep in Marit's bones. With her mitten, she swept the windblown snow off the headstones, as if learning the dates of every birth and death was more interesting than talking with Hanna about what had just happened to Miss Halversen.

On February 1, 1942, Marit celebrated her twelfth birthday. Hanna came over for dinner and gave Marit a pair of multicolored wool mittens. "I knit them out of yarn from old socks."

The thumbs were a little lumpy, but to Marit they were the best gift in the world. "They're beautiful!
Tusen takk!
"

Lars gave her a tiny wooden gnome roughly carved out of wood. It wore a tall pointed hat—that much Marit could make out—and had two feet.

"Lars, for being only eight years old—"

"Almost nine. Only two months away," he reminded her. "April second, remember?"

"Right. Almost nine. You're an excellent carver!"

That night, as Lars drifted to sleep, she lay awake in the complete darkness of her bedroom. Another year had passed. Did her parents think of her and wish they could be with her on her twelfth birthday? If they were alive, she knew they would. Mama used to make
lefse,
Marit's favorite, and sprinkle the rolled potato pancakes with butter and cinnamon. After every birthday dinner, Papa always took out his Hardanger fiddle. With it rested under his chin, he'd tap his foot along with "Two Mountain Trolls" until she and Mama and Lars started dancing on the wood floor.

Months had passed since Mama and Papa's last letter. They had sent a letter every three months. Marit suspected they would write more often if they could, but that they didn't want to attract any extra attention that would in any way connect their efforts in Isfjorden with their children on the island. If one family member was found helping with the Resistance, the whole family was usually killed.

Still, they were due for a letter soon. As each third month arrived, the wait for their letter became unbearable, her worries torture. If Olaf's parents could side with the Nazis, then there had to be others, too. What if her parents had been reported by a neighbor for helping the Resistance? If arrested, they would face torture, reeducation camps, or death. She wanted to believe that
Norwegians were quietly winning the war through underground methods. But were they? With each passing day, ordinary people seemed to lose more of their freedoms.

She whispered again to herself, "Mama and Papa are fine." Teardrops fell from the corners of her eyes and into her ears. She didn't bother to wipe them away.

***

Later that month, icy winds turned to gales as Marit walked with Aunt Ingeborg and Lars to church, their heads bent into the wind. Bestefar, who usually didn't miss a service, was away fishing for a few days.

Pastor Ecklund stood before his congregation. His usually blotchy red face was as pale as a peeled potato. He clung to the edges of his simple podium, as if to hold himself upright. His normally long-winded sermon ended abruptly. For a long moment he was silent, and when he started again, his voice carried determination.

"My dear friends, this will be my last service here. Bishops and pastors across Norway have decided to resign their posts, and I am resigning as well, as a matter of conscience. We will not be under the Nazis' authority—only God's. And I cannot in good faith lead you if I must bear a Nazi yoke."

A rush of whispering swept through the church, but Pastor Ecklund raised his hand, bringing quiet again.

"To agree to partner with the Nazis would mean to be puppets in their service. They would approve or disapprove of sermons. They would command us how and what to teach. And I know it would not be a message of God's love, forgiveness, and goodwill toward others. It would be to further their cause of racism, fear, and intimidation. Services here will henceforth be led by Nazi-appointed pastors. I will, therefore, not meet in this building," he said. "Rather, I invite you all to join with me in worshiping in the privacy of our homes."

***

Over the next week, snow fell and blew into drifts around the church building. During breaks at school, Marit and Hanna often took shelter from the wind in a snow fort they'd carved from a deep drift. The half roof and short walls glowed an icy blue and protected their secrets.

Marit clapped her birthday mittens together to warm herself. The sun barely traveled above the horizon, casting long shadows from the gravestones across the snow. From her squatting position, she rose to stretch. The wind, damp from the sea and stiff with cold, slapped her cheeks. She ducked back down, but not before spotting Olaf wandering toward their shelter, his stocking-capped head tucked between his shoulders.

"Olaf. He's coming this way. Do you think he wants to talk to us?"

Hanna shrugged and rubbed her mittened hands together.

In seconds, he was standing there. Wind teased the tufts of sandy hair jutting from his cap. He shifted from boot to boot, his gray eyes downcast.

"Marit, I must talk with you."

She looked at Hanna, whose eyes were determined, reminding Marit of their unspoken decision. Marit wished things were different. They rose in unison from behind their snow wall and walked away.

"I feel bad for him," Marit said under her breath. "Terrible—but we have no choice."

"I know," Hanna replied. "We have to."

That afternoon, before Miss Halversen excused them for the rest of the day, she stood in front of all the students. First, she called toward the balcony, then to the younger students. "I'm speaking for all of the teachers here at Godøy School," she began, a history book clasped against her yellow sweater. "We want you to know that teachers across Norway have been ordered to teach students Nazi propaganda." She paused, as if to make sure they had heard.

Marit couldn't imagine it. Miss Halversen was supposed to teach them how to be Nazis?

"Teachers across Norway are united. We have sent in
countless letters
refusing
to instruct our students in Nazi thinking. And do you know what Nazi philosophy is?" She didn't wait for an answer. "It means believing that you are of a superior race—an Aryan race—superior to anyone who is of Jewish ancestry, superior to anyone who is handicapped or different in any way. It means teaching you to identify and pick out those who don't fit in. It means that you are to follow orders and obey and not to ever,
ever
think for yourselves. We cannot and will not obey this request by the Nazi authorities. To do so goes against our training and conscience as teachers. We're Norwegians. We believe in the God-given worth of every individual. We believe in freedoms for everyone."

The students, like still treetops before an ominous storm, didn't move.

She inhaled sharply, then continued. "We don't know what will happen next. And so, I wanted to warn you. If anything should happen to teachers, should any of us suddenly disappear or be replaced, you will know the real reason. For now, teachers across Norway stand together."

Teachers disappearing or replaced.
Marit's mind teetered at the edge of a possibility she hadn't considered. Would the Nazis stop at nothing? Marit drew a
V
in her notebook and followed the lines with her pencil—over and over until the paper ripped.

She was sick with worry for her goodhearted aunt.

***

That night, Aunt Ingeborg added corrections to a stack of papers. With school under way, she didn't have as much free time to knit or sew. Bestefar's disapproval must have stopped her from working on the
bunad.
Or maybe when she considered the risk of getting caught, she decided the
bunad
wasn't worth the price of Gestapo punishment.

Seated by the wood stove, like a tailor with an oversize needle, Bestefar pushed a metal fid through strands of thick rope, creating a loop for a mooring line. "For the teachers to openly defy the Nazis," he said, "it will cost many lives. The Nazis do not tolerate disobedience." He flashed Aunt Ingeborg a look of grave concern.

Her reply was resolute silence.

"But Bestefar," Marit said, taken aback by his response. "Don't you understand how brave the teachers are?"

He looked at her, but his blue irises were as unreadable as the sea, and his lips were closed maddeningly tight.

Of course he didn't understand! And now in his tightmouthed way, he wouldn't say another word on the subject. She found her rucksack and settled at the table to do her homework. As she opened her mathematics book, the numbers on the page blurred. Her thoughts wandered, but slowly came into alarming focus.

In the past year, Bestefar had worked increasingly long nights. Once, he had been at sea for over a week. While he was gone, Aunt Ingeborg spent more time than ever embroidering the
bunad,
and often her eyes were red from fatigue.

"When will Bestefar return?" Lars asked after six days of their grandfather's absence.

Aunt Ingeborg cast her gaze beyond them. "Fishermen. They have minds of their own." That was all she would say on the subject.

Increasingly, though Marit hated to even think it to herself, Bestefar seemed less and less a
jøssing
—and more and more a
quisling.

***

In mid-February, as welcome as the winter sun climbing above the eastern peaks, another letter finally arrived—three and a half months since the last one. Bestefar read it aloud. Like the previous letters, this one was written in Mama's hand, but signed Mr. and Mrs. Siversen.

Dear Ingeborg and Leif,

Months have passed and our hearts break with missing you, our most precious friends. You're lucky to have the company of grandchildren to help you on your farm. We hope they're a blessing to you.

Our work continues. Very difficult, but making progress. We trust the Lord to help us and everyone these days. Difficult times, yet the mountains are as beautiful as ever.

Hope your fishing is successful, despite the dangerous activities at sea these days.

Hearty Greetings!
Mr. and Mrs. Siversen

It wasn't much, but Marit clung to the words of the letter, repeating them over and over to herself until she had memorized them. Every night, Marit repeated the letter to herself before asking the Lord to keep Mama and Papa safe. And every morning, on her walk to the church for school, she recited the letter in her head, trying to stretch the meaning of each sentence, trying to hear Mama's voice in every word.

"Marit," Aunt Ingeborg called upstairs, "before you get dressed, try this on."

Lars was already up and feeding the chickens. But this morning, Marit was in slow motion. She didn't feel like getting dressed. Despite the recent letter, she didn't want to be helpful. Every chore was set against a hopeless, gray backdrop of never seeing her parents again, of a world where war never ends. In her nightgown, Marit peered from the top of the stairs.

Draped across Aunt Ingeborg's arms, brilliant threads of blue, red, and orange joined in flowers and swirls across the black fabric of the
bunad.
"Surprise!"

"Oh," Marit said, reaching for the
bunad.
"You finished it! I thought you had given up."

A smile flickered over Aunt Ingeborg's face before her stern expression returned. Marit knew her aunt was pleased but didn't want to appear boastful of her handiwork. Then she handed Marit a white blouse, a pair of silver-buckled black shoes, and red anklets.

Marit was stunned. "This is too much. When did you work on it? Where did you get—"

Aunt Ingeborg waved her concerns away. "I had a little savings. I worked on it when I couldn't sleep. We must
never
let some traditions die. And the
bunad
is much more than just clothing. Sorry it took me so long."

In no time, Marit slipped the white blouse over her head, pulled on the vest and skirt of the
bunad,
and adjusted the front ties. It
was
more than clothing. This particular embroidered design and style had been passed down from the Sunnmore region, east of Ålesund, and home of her ancestors.
Bunads
were worn with pride at every important event and celebration. She smiled as she pulled on the socks—red in color, because she wasn't married, of course—and then the shiny buckled shoes, which had been worn before but had recently been buffed to a high polish with cod liver oil, the only oil to be found.

Marit twirled until her skirt billowed.

She touched the neck of her blouse. A round
sølje
with dangly silver—that was all that was needed to make her
bunad
complete. Some things were too expensive, too much to hope for. She hardly recognized herself in the mirror. She saw less of the girl she had been in Isfjorden and—in the rise of her cheekbones, the set of her jaw, the arch of her eyebrows—more of Mama.