The Klipfish Code (4 page)

For what seemed like a decade, Aunt Ingeborg held the letter, and then she set it on the woven table runner. "We'll read it when Bestefar returns."

"But—" Marit started to protest.

"Bestefar will be home soon." Aunt Ingeborg set her jaw, as she often did when asked questions that were too personal or important.

"But I can't wait!" Marit said.

"You have to." And with that, Marit knew the discussion was over.

The cookstove and counter boasted jars and jars of rhubarb-strawberry jam and four pies with lightly browned edges, which Marit had shaped with her thumb and forefingers before they'd left to meet the mail boat. Aunt Ingeborg hung up her apron.

"
Tusen takk,
you two. Your mother would be proud of you for all your help today. Let's put all this away to keep busy until Bestefar comes home."

Finally, the door rattled and Bestefar stepped in, his face etched from the wind and sun. Before Marit could reach for the letter, Aunt Ingeborg grabbed it from the table. "It looks like Kirsten's writing."

Bestefar studied the print, and they followed him as he settled on the back steps. He read the letter aloud.

It was from his "old friend Mrs. Siversen," whose house had been bombed and who was working with her husband in the mountains.

We're keeping in touch with our new friends and working hard these days. We think of you always and hope you understand our need to work toward the best country possible for our children.

"It's like a message in code," Marit said. "It's Mama, for sure, and Papa, but they don't want to use their real names. And the British—those must be the 'new friends.' The mountains must mean up at the
hytte,
or somewhere away from Isfjorden. And the children—that's me and Lars."

As Bestefar sat reading, Aunt Ingeborg stood aside; they maintained their usual distance from each other. "Marit and Lars," Bestefar said, "you must not say a word about this letter to anyone."

"But why? I don't understand why—"

"Marit." Bestefar's brows hooded his eyes like an owl's. "It's dangerous. The Nazis are opening mail before it reaches its rightful owner. If anyone involved in Resistance activities is caught ... well, I don't expect you to understand."

She crossed her arms against her chest—and against
him. He treated her worse than he treated his farm animals. At least he talked to them. She was a smart, hardworking student, yet he spoke to her only when he had to, as if she didn't have a brain in her head.

A gray goat wandered over to the back steps. Lars grabbed a curved horn and scratched the tuft of fur beneath the goat's chin. "The letter means they're all right," he said.

This time, her little brother had been quicker to grasp the heart of things.

"That's right, Lars," Bestefar said.

Aunt Ingeborg smiled faintly, clasped her hands beneath her chin, and whispered, "Thank God they're alive."

The next morning, after milking, Marit let Big Olga out to pasture. As soon as Lars finished scattering feed for the chickens, they joined Aunt Ingeborg and Bestefar for coffee and a heart-shaped
vaffel
with a dab of jam. Marit loved coffee with lots and lots of cream and sugar, but now with shortages, she stirred only a spoonful of milk in hot water instead.

They couldn't afford to waste a crumb or drop of anything. In cities, even eggs and milk were hard to come by. At least on the farm, they could produce much of their own food.

The familiar rumble of a wood-fired German truck
engine rolled into the farmyard. Marit hated these visits the Germans made to collect their "daily donation."

Bestefar snorted, cup in hand. "
Ja
—produce for the Germans. They get fed first from Norway's food supply. We get the crumbs." Bestefar pushed back his chair. "Stay inside."

Marit jumped from her chair to the window. From the back of the canvas-topped truck, a soldier, not much older than a schoolboy, hopped out. He straightened his
jakke
and touched the gun in his holster. He spoke a word or two to Bestefar, who disappeared into the barn and returned with two baskets of produce.

Like a fog suddenly lifting, Marit's sense of caution evaporated. She bolted toward the door, turned the handle, and bravely stepped out.

"Marit," Aunt Ingeborg scolded, "what are you doing?"

But Marit was already closing the door behind her and walking straight toward Bestefar, who held out a basket full of strawberries and lettuce to the soldier. He tossed her a warning glance. The soldier waited as Bestefar went back into the barn.

Marit's feet became rocks. She was standing alone with the soldier, something she hadn't intended. Through his wire rims, he studied her. "Have you a name,
Fräulein?
"

She stared at the ground.

"You needn't be afraid," he said. "We're not monsters."

Nei,
she screamed inside,
you're worse than monsters!

Seconds seemed to expand into hours, and to her relief, Bestefar returned, this time lugging a basket of brown eggs and a milk can.

"Is that all?" the young soldier demanded, as if he were suddenly ruler and king. How dare he come and demand food, then act as if their hard-gathered donations weren't enough! She glared at the soldier.

"I'm a fisherman-farmer," Bestefar said evenly. "We have only a few chickens, goats, and cows—and only one milking cow."

"We ask the animals to speed up their production," Marit added with an exaggerated shrug, "but they just continue at their same slow pace." Then she shook her head side to side and kept a straight face, just the way Papa would after making a joke. Inside, she felt boldly triumphant.

Bestefar froze. Only his fingertips twitched at his sides.

The soldier glared at her, then turned on his heels and strode to his supply truck with the goods. He returned with empty baskets and an empty milk can to be filled again on his next visit. Then he jumped in the truck, rapped his knuckles on the door panel, and the vehicle rumbled on to the next fisherman's farm.

Marit waited, her shoulders tensed toward her ears.

"Marit!" Bestefar's voice carried the sting of a wasp. He pointed toward the empty road. "What in God's good heaven were you thinking? You could have been arrested and hauled away. Never,
ever
do that again! I told you to stay inside. You're not to speak a word to them. Such joking could get you—and all of us—in trouble."

Bombs had fallen on her village. The smell of smoke over Isfjorden had lingered for days. She had been separated for so long from Mama and Papa. The Germans were the cause of all of it. Yet Bestefar gave the Nazis everything they asked for. He almost made it
easy
for them.

"Walk with me," Bestefar ordered and headed into the pasture. Marit followed reluctantly, picking her path carefully between the cowpies. Grazing along the distant fence, Big Olga lifted her head and stared at them, chewing her cud. Finally, Bestefar stopped beside a large boulder that jutted out of the middle of the field. "Sit down."

She sat cross-legged on the sun-warmed, ancient boulder, her feet dangling. Bestefar clasped his hands behind his back. Marit followed his gaze. The field sloped and ended in a peninsula; from there, the breakwater extended to the lighthouse.

"In Oslo," he said, his voice low and matter-of-fact, "some young men bombed a bridge between the city and the airport. They thought they were hurting the Germans, but what did the Germans do? They posted
threats. Anyone connected with the destruction of the bridge would be executed. Not only that, they warned that the local people would suffer as well." He paused. "It makes no sense to have a whole town suffer for the acts of a few." He turned and looked at her. "Do you see how complicated it gets?"

She couldn't believe he was actually speaking to her. She didn't know if he wanted an answer or not, but she gathered her courage. "But Bestefar, if no one fights back, the Germans will be here
forever!
"

"Perhaps it's better to keep the peace, no matter what, and not put family and friends in danger. We're a peace-loving, neutral country. We've stayed out of wars for many years and we need to stay out of this one, too."

She'd heard that kind of thinking before.

"No good can come of getting involved," he went on. "The Germans will respect our neutrality, you'll see. They're at war with the Allied countries, not with us. They want access to our coastlines, nothing more."

She didn't believe that for a second. Memories of whistling bombs pressed in on her, and she clasped her arms around her waist. Maybe Bestefar was living in a dream.
His
island,
his
home, hadn't been bombed. "And what about Mama and Papa?" she said. "They would rather be with us here, but they're staying in Isfjorden to help the British fight against the Nazis. Should they 'stay out'?"

Bestefar returned his gaze toward the lighthouse where the soldiers kept a constant guard. "Your father has always been a dreamer, Marit. An idealist. He's putting his life and your mother's in danger. It's folly, pure and simple. He's a fool."

Papa a fool? Nothing could be further from the truth. How could Bestefar say such things? "
Nei!
" she said, speaking to his back. "He's brave and so is Mama. At least they're doing
something!
"

Bestefar was silent; his fisherman's sweater rose and fell with his breaths as he looked off to sea.

Without a word or his permission to leave, Marit jumped off the boulder and ran back across the pasture, her throat on fire with all the things she wished she could say.

Boathouses lined the harbor, their slate roofs matching the grayish blue sea. At the last boathouse, Bestefar was bent over nets and glass floats on the dock. After their morning argument, Marit didn't care to talk with him again, but Lars had asked if they could take out the rowboat. And rowing would help clear her mind.

The pea-pod-shaped rowboat was pulled up on shore. Marit ran her hand along the weathered gunwale. The blue seats were in need of painting soon. The ribs of the boat needed a coat of varnish. Still, the memory of rowing with her mother gave her a sharp pang. Mama had taught her to row when Marit was only five years old. They'd pretended they were floating on the water in the
belly of a whale, and that she and her mother were, like Jonah from the Bible story, ready to be spat out onto the sands of a new land. And that's exactly how Marit now felt on this isolated island.

She inhaled the sea-scented air. She wanted to take out the boat—to get away, if only a short distance. But would Bestefar let her? Mama had once explained that long before Marit was born they'd lost Karsten—her mother's and aunt's younger brother—when he was swimming and pulled out by a tide. "Since then," Mama had explained, "Bestefar's been worried about children and water. First he lost Karsten and later your grandmother took ill. Sometimes life is too hard."

"Bestefar, may we take out the rowboat?" she called as sweetly as she could muster.

He lifted his head and didn't answer.

"I used to row with Mama, remember?"

Bestefar dropped his net and crossed his arms. His eyebrows gathered in watchfulness. He opened his mouth.

Before he could say no, she added, "We'll stay close to the shore and not go far. Promise."

He shook his head. "I'm afraid not. There are explosives—floating mines—in the channels."

Marit stood still, her hand stopped on the boat's bow.

"Bestefar," Lars called in his singsong voice. "Please? We'll stay close. We won't go far."

Marit glanced at Bestefar.
Unbelievable!
Lars's dimply
smile softened up Bestefar's stern face every time. That Lars was his favorite was more than obvious.

Bestefar looked to the water, as if considering the sun glinting off the softly rippled surface. "Well, it's a calm day, and if you stay close to shore, between here and the lighthouse, where I can see you ... within sight! Marit, you're in charge."

Favorite or not, she smiled. Soon, she was straining her muscles against the oars as their rowboat furrowed through water.

From the stern seat, Lars faced Marit. With her back to the bow, she rowed, glancing occasionally over her shoulder to make sure she was staying on the course she intended. It would be easier if she could face forward and see where she was going, but rowboats didn't work best that way.

"Marit, look!" Lars pointed over the edge of the rowboat. "A jellyfish! A bluish green one."

"Don't touch it."

"I know, you don't have to tell me."

Jellyfish always reminded her of pulsing raw yolks, and Marit did her best to avoid them if they floated up onshore. She didn't want to get stung.

She leaned forward, oar handles meeting close, then pulled back hard, elbows out, back muscles flexing. Shimmery jewels dropped from the tips of the oars as they swept across the water. Over and over, Marit sliced
into the ocean current, losing herself in the rhythm and occasionally glancing over her shoulder toward the lighthouse. For the first time in months she felt a little like her old self: without a care and ready for adventure. She strained against the oars while Lars faced her from the stern, smiling and humming.

She rowed past farms and toward the lighthouse and peninsula that marked the tip of their pastureland. When she used to row with Mama, they'd stop near the lighthouse at the cove to explore what the tide had left behind. Easing up on the oars, Marit let the boat glide forward onto the gravel shore. She hopped out and pulled the boat up higher on the beach; Lars stumbled out after her.

At the end of the breakwater, three soldiers manned the base of the lighthouse. Marit grabbed Lars's hand, trying to pretend this was like all the other summers—the summers before swarms of gray-green uniforms had descended on the island. With guns angled over their shoulders, the soldiers watched them.

"Remember the time we found that old chain?" she asked Lars.