The Last Pilgrim (21 page)

Agnes opened the menu as she distractedly ordered a glass of champagne. “A
bottle
!” she heard Schreiner exclaim. He had that look in his eye this evening. He almost always had that look in his eye. Soon the rest of their dinner party—a bunch of naïve and gullible Norwegian Nazis—would arrive . . . God help her, she was really in a quandary now. The Pilgrim had mentioned traveling to England via Stockholm.
Maybe I could do that too,
she thought, giving Schreiner one of her phoniest and most convincing smiles as he offered her one of his Turkish cigarettes.

The band started playing a jazz number that Schreiner described as “Negro music.” Yet it still seemed to have an energizing effect on him. He grabbed his glass by the stem and downed the contents, then refilled both their glasses, an unambiguous leer on his face. As she listened to the jazzy riffs, Agnes thought it was a miracle that the Germans hadn’t yet shut this place down, though it might be only a matter of time before they threw out all the Norwegian patriots.
That’s it!
she thought grimly. That was the sort of intelligence she could offer the Pilgrim and Number 1. The Rainbow would soon be closed. There would be only military marches and creamed cabbage at the Rainbow from now on! Tell Churchill and Trygve Lie at once. Agnes almost giggled at the thought, but she restrained herself as the rest of the guests were arriving.

Schreiner stood up abruptly and began effusively greeting his colleague, Rolf Jordal, and his dim-witted girlfriend, Bjørg, showering them with compliments. It was enough to make Agnes sick, but she had to make the best of things. She thought how similar she must appear to Bjørg as she played the role of an empty-headed young woman who gladly accepted the money and worldly ways of middle-aged Nazis.

Agnes surveyed the room, which was now nearly full. The tables were positioned on several tiers, with the band taking center stage along one wall. The crowd consisted of a mixture of Norwegian Nazis, a few decent Norwegians who had scraped together enough money to spend a Friday evening in the city’s best dance club, and a small group of German officers with girls like herself in tow.

Lately she’d occasionally had to resist an intense and irrational urge to stand up and scream to the non-Nazis that she wasn’t who they thought she was and she was here to help them. But of course she always managed to suppress the shame she couldn’t help feeling, and it no longer really mattered anyway. The few old friends she had in Oslo no longer spoke to her, and the only family she had was her sister, who was crazy enough to admire Agnes’s decision to become an ardent Nazi. Although a man who claimed to be her cousin had spat on her in this very place a year ago, she hadn’t seen any other relatives since she’d arrived in town. Her father had become estranged from his family when she was a child. Although she wasn’t sure why, it made her current situation somewhat easier. So many years had passed since she lived in Oslo that only a handful of people even knew who she was. Besides, almost no true Norwegian patriots could afford to go out on the town anymore.

She was listening to the conversation at the table with only half an ear, occasionally interjecting a remark, but mostly thinking about other things. She poked listlessly at her food and finally gave up trying to look interested.

The Pilgrim,
she thought.
London.
Imagine living—and loving!—in London with him. No Germans, just the two of them. For nearly two years she had managed to resist him, but it had eventually become too much. It had just been a matter of time before they fell into each other’s arms. One morning last fall they’d woken up in bed together. They’d had too much to drink with Number 1 in a safe house the night before. It was one of the few times she’d seen Number 1 since April of 1940, when she’d been questioned. He had seemed depressed and neurotic, but she hadn’t really been paying attention. The only thing she could think about was getting the Pilgrim into bed after Number 1 fell asleep on the sofa. And it had proved to be so easy. The Pilgrim said that he’d loved her ever since the first time they met at the Floris. Agnes was old enough to know that men often said such things, but she wanted to believe him, and he actually seemed to mean it.

What a fine mess,
she thought to herself now. Two men. The damned war. And she hadn’t seen the Pilgrim in two months. Two whole months without him. The first month had been almost unbearable. She’d had to sleep with Schreiner every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. And no Pilgrim. Not a single word from him since March. And she couldn’t very well ask Number 1 where he was.

Maybe it was best if he stayed away. Their relationship was sheer madness. It was suicide.

The worst part was that she’d started to get used to the idea that they might never see each other again. For all she knew, he might be dead.

“Darling, what is it?” Schreiner asked when dessert had been served. The lights had been dimmed, and the dance floor was crowded with women in evening gowns, a few men in tuxes, and the Germans in uniform.

The chocolate cake tasted strongly of some kind of ersatz butter, no doubt whale blubber, which the chef had tried to disguise under a deluge of vanilla sauce that tasted nothing like vanilla.

“It’s nothing,” said Agnes, pushing the cake away and reaching for Schreiner’s cigarettes. He held up his lighter, feigning concern and giving her a sheepish smile. As she took her first drag, she suddenly sensed that someone was staring at her. Without changing her expression she leaned back and squeezed Schreiner’s hand, which he had clearly placed on the table in the hope she would do exactly that.

Agnes discreetly surveyed the various tiers, which were arranged in a horseshoe shape around the dance floor. Their table was close to the wall, so she didn’t have a very good view, but she remained convinced that someone was watching her. She was used to men staring at her, but this felt different.

“Come on,” she said to Schreiner. “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” She stood up, pulling him with her. Although much could be said for Supreme Court Advocate Schreiner, he would never be described as a great dancer. In fact, he was terrible. But Agnes didn’t intend to dance with him for long. After a few bumbling rounds on the dance floor, with Schreiner’s hand indecently planted on her lower back, she spotted the man who was practically staring her down.

He was sitting at a table on the other side of the room with a large group of German officers, a couple of civilians, and some young Norwegian women. His graying hair was slicked back and his tux was so new that the lapels gleamed. He sat there, motionless, watching her every move. Every time Schreiner swung her in the man’s direction, she met his gaze. Even through the haze of cigarette smoke hovering over his table, she could see that he looked terribly sad. Agnes tried to step back from Schreiner a bit so she could get a better view of her admirer. He looked a little gloomy for someone sitting in the Rainbow Club, but his face seemed to brighten every time she looked at him. And the German officers at his table wore insignia proclaiming ranks that Schreiner’s Teutonic acquaintances could only dream of. Something made her think that the officers were deferential to the man in the tux, and not the other way around. He might be a German himself, but that was of little importance. What mattered was that he was taking a discreet and yet obvious interest in her. This was an opportunity she ought to seize.

When the music stopped they remained on the dance floor for a few seconds until Schreiner decided he’d had enough. Agnes was facing the man’s table, with her arm around Schreiner’s back. The man in the tux raised his glass, and for a moment it looked as if he might smile, but then he changed his mind. Agnes gave him a quick smile before Schreiner led her from the floor.

Agnes felt disappointed at having to sit down at the table with the attorney again.
This could be my big chance,
she thought.
That man over there is not just anybody.
She lowered her eyes and evaded Schreiner’s attempt to start up a lengthy conversation. A few minutes later, the band took their second break of the evening, giving her just the opening she was looking for. While some people headed back to their tables, others went up to the bar on the uppermost tier. Suddenly Agnes had a clear view from her table to where the man in the tux was sitting. He met her eyes as he raised his glass. This time he did smile. Although the German seated next to him was clearly speaking to him, he kept his gaze fixed on Agnes.

Finally, even Schreiner noticed that Agnes was exchanging glances with another man. He placed his hand on hers. She turned to look at the dim-witted Bjørg, who stared at her and frowned, as if she couldn’t understand how Agnes would be interested in anyone but Helge Schreiner.

“You’re here with me,” said the attorney between clenched teeth. “Yet you’re sitting here making eyes at another man.”

“Who is he?” asked Agnes, unfazed. She leaned across the table and motioned toward the other side of the smoke-filled room, where two high-ranking German officers had gotten up from the table and were now escorting their young dates over to the bar.

Schreiner’s expression turned surly, as if he could read her thoughts. All she could see were the officers’ insignia and the patently attractive man in the tux.
If you only knew,
thought Agnes as she took his hand. He was twenty years her senior. If he’d looked in her purse, he would have found a cyanide capsule wrapped in toilet paper. She’d hidden it in her panties several times when she was panicked. Fortunately he was enough of a gentleman that he never put his hands between her legs until after she’d undressed.

“It’s a tragic story,” said Rolf Jordal. “That’s Gustav Lande. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Lande’s wife died in childbirth a few years back. Now he lives alone with his daughter and all his money in that big house in Vinderen.”

Agnes tried to hide her glee, but she felt goosebumps appear on her arms. She’d heard Lande mentioned several times at the countless NS meetings she’d had to attend over the past two years. Mostly it was just a lot of sentimental gibberish, but Agnes had understood that Lande was a man whom every Norwegian Nazi admired. He didn’t allow anyone to take advantage of him, not even the Germans. He’d helped the Party through difficult times several years ago when nothing was going Quisling’s way, and now he was apparently on familiar terms with Terboven and everyone who came to beg for the scraps from his table.

So that was Gustav Lande smiling at her. His face had regained some of its spark. Though he wasn’t exactly handsome, he was far more dapper than Helge Schreiner.

“You’re here with me,” said Schreiner, putting his hand on her thigh and squeezing so hard that it hurt. When she tried to move her leg away, he just squeezed even harder.

“We’re going for a walk,” said Rolf, pulling Bjørg out of her chair.

Agnes lifted Schreiner’s hand off her thigh. Strangely enough, he offered no resistance.
This is an opportunity I can’t pass up,
she thought.

“Helge,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “We can’t go on like this anymore. You know that.”

She didn’t how he would react. Schreiner had been increasingly worried lately that his wife was getting more suspicious.
As if she doesn’t know,
thought Agnes.

His eyes filled with tears. It looked like he was about to cry like a boy.
Amazing,
she thought. Maybe she should try to hold onto him a little longer. Schreiner blinked and then apologized. But it was too late. Gustav Lande was already heading over to their table. Agnes felt her heart pounding under her black dress. As he approached, she saw that he was more attractive than she’d thought.

“Would you mind if I invited your friend here to dance?” Lande asked Schreiner when he’d reached their table. Lande held out his hand to Agnes without waiting for a reply.

She felt relieved when Lande’s hand grasped hers. But suddenly—as she had done so many times before—she wondered what the cyanide would taste like the day she got caught. Because surely she would get caught. No doubt it would taste awful, but it would spare her so much pain. Briskly she dismissed the idea, as if it were too dangerous to even contemplate, as if it might actually come to pass if she thought about it too long.

“Isn’t he too old for you?” said Lande when they were out on the dance floor. The band was playing a waltz, probably requested, or maybe even ordered, by some German officer. He gave her a smile, well aware that he wasn’t much younger than Schreiner.

They danced in silence for a while. Unlike Schreiner, Lande was a good dancer who confidently led her across the floor. Agnes stopped thinking about what would happen if he searched her purse and found the cyanide capsule. She stopped thinking about the fact that Schreiner might fire her on Monday. Instead, she closed her eyes, leaned close to him, and imagined that all this was over, that she was with the Pilgrim and not Lande, that her own mother was not her mother, that her father was still alive, and that she and the Pilgrim lived in a small house out in the country, maybe in Kent or out near Westerham Ponds.

“I haven’t danced in years,” Lande said in her ear as the music was coming to an end. He smelled of aftershave and cigars and alcohol, but she almost found it attractive.

“I couldn’t tell,” she said.

“Would you dance the next tune with me?”

Agnes nodded.

“I have a strange feeling that I’ve seen you before,” said Lande.

God have mercy,
thought Agnes.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Maybe in my dreams,” said Lande. Strangely enough, she found his smile appealing, even disarming; it was as if he wanted to show her that he wasn’t dangerous. That she didn’t need to be afraid.

Fifteen minutes later Schreiner was gone, and Agnes told herself that she didn’t need to be scared as she sat down at Lande’s table and conversed with an
SS-Sturmbannführer
about the importance of deporting the Jews from Norway too, in order to cleanse the country of all internal enemies. Lande kept his hand discreetly resting on her back the whole time.