The Klipfish Code (7 page)

***

Soon, warnings were posted all around the island, with notices such as "If you remove public notices, you will be severely punished." And the list of warnings grew longer every day:

•
IF YOU RISE FROM A SEAT WHEN A GERMAN SITS DOWN, YOU SHALL BE SEVERELY PUNISHED.

•
IF YOU WEAR SIGNS OF STANDING WITH THE ENEMY, INCLUDING WEARING PAPER CLIPS, RED HATS ... YOU SHALL BE SEVERELY PUNISHED.

•
IF YOU CLEAR YOUR THROAT WHEN A GERMAN APPROACHES, YOU SHALL BE SEVERELY PUNISHED.

On one such list posted on a dock pier, someone had boldly added in pencil: "If you breathe, you shall be severely punished."

One Year Later

It was Marit's second Christmas Eve on the island, and she felt like a prisoner in her own country. Not only was every window on the island darkened with black paper or fabric, but now anyone caught trying to
escape
Norway would be imprisoned or put to death. This night, more than ever, she missed the cheerful flicker of the season's lights when candles filled everyone's windows.

But not even Nazis had stopped Aunt Ingeborg from preparing for
Juletid.
Since soap was scarce, Marit had helped wash the floors with water and sand. They washed the cotton and lace curtains on the scrub board and hung them to dry. Then they starched, ironed, and put them back up again. Aunt Ingeborg set out bright
green, red, and blue table runners, while Lars and Marit polished a few pieces of silver and copper. Together they decorated a pine bush with paper-woven baskets, but this year they would have to skip the tree candles. Candles were too valuable. After the
requisition
—the fancy word the Nazis gave to making every Norwegian turn in their blankets, gum boots, tents, rucksacks, and the like to help the German army—it was surprising that anyone had anything left. Aunt Ingeborg had insisted that the children keep one
dyne
hidden away during the day and take it out only at night. "Paper blankets are not enough to keep children alive in the winter," she'd said angrily.

Unlike other years, when baking had filled the air, they merely talked about their favorite cookies:
sandkaker, krumkake,
and
fattigmann.
Herring and salted cod were stored in the cellar—Bestefar made sure of that—but sugar and white flour were impossible to come by.

"Christmas isn't the same without Mama and Papa," Lars kept saying, as if by saying so he could make them magically appear.

If he said it only their first Christmas apart, it wouldn't have bothered Marit so much. But this year, she couldn't stand it any longer. "Stop!" Marit blurted, turning on him. "If they really cared about us, they wouldn't have sent us away!" Her angry words flew out. "They don't even remember they have children!" She cupped her
hand lightly over her mouth. To her own surprise, her words had come seemingly out of nowhere.

Aunt Ingeborg spun around, holding a wooden spoon in the air. It dripped batter. "They sent you away for your safety, Marit. Don't say such things!"

For a few long moments, Marit studied the floor. It seemed that lately every word and thought about Mama and Papa made her angry. Though they'd received a few vaguely worded letters in the past year—it was a comfort that they were alive—it would be so much easier to go through the hardships of war together with her parents than apart from them. If she were a parent, she would never send her children away to be cared for by others. In a time of war, didn't kids need their parents more than ever? And yet, beneath her burst of anger, she really
did
understand that Mama and Papa were doing what they had to do. On Christmas Eve especially, she knew they'd rather be together as a family, too.

"I'm sorry," Marit said quietly, glancing up at her aunt and then at Lars. "I know they care. It's just so hard sometimes."

Her aunt hugged her. "I know."

After Marit bathed with the last bit of soap, Aunt Ingeborg wrapped Marit's hair around narrow strips of paper, just as Mama would have done. That night, with knots all over her head, she struggled to sleep. She
wanted Christmas to come, but another year without Mama and Papa made her almost wish away the holiday.

On Julften—Christmas Eve—they sat down after their chores to the traditional dinner of boiled potatoes, brown goat cheese, mashed green peas, and
lutefisk.
Aunt Ingeborg had worked many days soaking the dried cod first in water and then in a lye solution to soften the fish, then in water to remove the lye. The fish filled the house with a nose-pinching odor, worse than Papa's socks after a long day of skiing.

"
Lutefisk
stinks!" Lars complained.

"Wouldn't be
Julaften
without it," Aunt Ingeborg replied.

Even without sweets—or Mama and Papa—Christmas was under way.

After dinner, they put on their cleanest clothes—no new outfits. Not even the
bunad,
which her aunt had apparently lost courage to work on. Marit brushed out her curls and tied her hair with the red taffeta ribbons Aunt Ingeborg had saved for her.

Although
risengrot
—the traditional porridge of white rice, cinnamon, sugar, and a little butter—wouldn't await them after church this year, Aunt Ingeborg had promised them something made out of millet. And whoever found the almond—this year it was a button instead—was assured a good year ahead.

"To church," Bestefar said, and held the door open.

In wool scarves and coats, boots and mittens, they trekked to church, each wearing a required "blackout mark." With the small illuminated tag on their coat lapels, the Germans could see them moving about after the six-o'clock winter curfew.

Nearly everyone on the island was at church and wished one another "
God Jul!
" and sang Christmas hymns. In the back, in a row all by themselves, sat Olaf and his family.

Though Pastor Ecklund's skin was splotchy red and his hair thinning and stringy, his voice was as soothing as dark honey. He spoke about God's love and the gift of sending His son to die for everyone's sins—a message Marit had heard many times before.

As they quietly stepped outside, the stars pierced the sky with a thousand lights. Marit listened to her breath as they walked along the snow-covered road toward home.

Halfway there, a set of car lights suddenly switched on, startling them. They jolted to a stop. Aunt Ingeborg squeezed Marit's shoulder, and Marit clutched Lars's hand.

A car door opened. "
Halt!
"

Marit blinked in the lights' blinding glare, unable to see. A wave of nausea passed through her. Was this to be
one of those unexpected arrests she'd heard about? Would they all be hauled away—or shot? She braced herself for the worst possible outcome.

"Marit," Bestefar whispered, "not a word."

He didn't have to warn her. Even if she had wanted to, she wouldn't have been able to speak.

"Identity cards," the soldier ordered.

Aunt Ingeborg and Bestefar reached in their pockets and held out the mandatory identification cards. Anyone fifteen or older who was stopped without identification could be sent to reeducation camps in Norway or Germany—or worse. Executed.

The soldier turned his flashlight on the documents, studied them, and then waved them away.

"And these children?" His flashlight drilled into Marit's eyes, as if the car lights were not enough. Blinded, she looked at the snowy ground. Her hands trembled in her mittens.

"My grandchildren," Bestefar said. "And my daughter Ingeborg's niece and nephew."

"They live here on the island?"

"
Ja.
"

"And their parents? Why are they not with their children on Christmas Eve?"

"They were killed when their village was first bombed." Marit squeezed Lars's hand tighter, trying to let him
know that Bestefar was telling a lie. Lars squeezed her hand in return.

Like a hound losing the trail of a promising scent, the soldier sniffed, seemingly disappointed. "I see," said the soldier. "On your way then." He snapped a salute, arm extended. "
Heil Hitler!
"

The car rolled on, crunching over snow and abandoning them.

The stars had dimmed and the darkness seemed menacing and endless. Could the Nazis not allow them a moment of peace?

With her heel, Marit carved a large
V
in the road.

January 1942

On the first school day in January, Marit watched through a stained glass window as a German officer approached on his black horse. He tied his mount to the gate, then eased open the entry door and slipped into the church. No one else noticed. Marit nudged Hanna, who sat beside her in the pew. "Look!"

His was like all the other uniforms, swaths of gray-green with moving limbs. Marit did her best to ignore them. But she remembered this one. He was the same one who had grabbed Mama's letter and put it in her hand at the general store.

Boots clicked across the floor—six paces—then
stopped. The officer passed his walking stick back and forth from hand to hand. From the back of the church, he watched Miss Halversen as she taught. Her sweaters and skirts curved softly over her tall frame. In the past months, her gray lisle stockings were increasingly ridden with snags. Everything, it seemed, was in shrinking supply or completely gone from store shelves.

After that, the officer started to show up nearly every day, sometimes on horseback, sometimes riding in the side wagon of a motorcycle, at other times in a vehicle, but always just minutes before lunch. Lately, when he visited, Miss Halversen had started to behave oddly. She dropped her pencil. Her hands trembled. She stopped in the middle of the lesson, told them to take out paper, and gave them an assignment. Then she would sit stiff-spined in the front pew beside her pile of textbooks and face the cross above the altar. The officer used to leave when she turned her back to him, but now, more often, he lingered to speak with her during the students' break.

One day, Hanna sat down next to Marit and cupped her hand to her ear. "Maybe he's in love with her."

Just then, Miss Halversen stopped speaking, crossed her arms over her buttoned sweater, and looked at them. "Marit? Hanna? Do you have something you'd like to share with the class?"

Heat surged to Marit's face. This was the first time her
aunt had scolded her like any other student. Along with Hanna, she shook her head and studied the open book in her lap.

In late January, they decided to spy. After lunch, when all the students trailed outside and only the teachers stayed in, they found their chance. The officer hovered in the foyer as students left, and when he was completely focused on Miss Halversen, they crept up the stairs to the empty balcony and ducked down. Marit felt giddy, tucked behind the banister with Hanna. They exchanged smiles. She hadn't done anything this daring in a long time. Her heart pattered as she peered over the top.

"Miss Halversen," the officer said striding up the aisle, his black riding boots gleaming and a small package tucked under his arm. "You look lovely today." His Norwegian was broken. "I must speak with you. Alone."

At the front of the church, Miss Halversen turned hesitantly toward him. Mrs. Hammer and Mr. Moe sat together on the opposite side, going through their lunch tins. Heads together, they appeared lost in their own conversation, though Marit was certain they were listening, too.

"I have told you,
Herr
Schmitz, I will
not
be alone with you."

"Very well," he said, and glanced over his shoulder at the other two teachers, then up toward where Marit and Hanna were hiding. "I would prefer discretion, but if you
insist, then let everyone hear, including your two students spying from the balcony."

Marit was aghast at being discovered. She ducked down farther, shoulder to shoulder with Hanna, and froze.

She was sure her heart had stopped beating. What would he do to them? What would Miss Halversen say? She hadn't thought of getting caught. Neither she nor Hanna moved. They weren't going to stand up unless they were asked to. Maybe they could slip back down the stairs and outside before Miss Halversen saw them. But could they get past the Nazi officer?

Miss Halversen stood firm. "May I eat my lunch in peace, please?" Her voice strained with an anger Marit had seen only once at school, and that was when she'd caught Edvarg, the eighth-grader, with his hand in the cupboard. She'd shouted at him for stealing, but when Edvarg said he needed aspirin for his sick mother, she marched back to the cupboard and dropped something into his hand. "Here, leave a little early," she told him. "I hope they help. Next time, ask."

Below them, the officer removed his cap, his short, honey-colored hair combed back in waves. "There's an officers' party tonight. Perhaps you'd care to accompany me?"

Miss Halversen shook her head.

"Other girls and women, up and down the coast," the
officer said, "they've taken German boyfriends. I assure you, it will be all right." He paused, and then continued. "Perhaps a party is the wrong thing. A movie in Ålesund, would that suit you better? I could arrange it. Please." He stepped closer to her, as if to take her hand, but she backed up, out of reach.

"Very well." From under his arm he produced a shiny gold package. "I had to go through some effort to get these, but thought you might enjoy them." He lifted the box's lid, displaying its contents.

"Chocolates?" Miss Halversen's tone was one of disbelief. She looked at the box and then at him. A tremor crossed her face.

Marit's mouth watered. She hadn't tasted chocolate since her last visit with Mama to the milk shop in Isfjorden. Nearly two years! If only Miss Halversen would share the chocolates with her class after the officer left. Or better yet, bring them home to share.

"Everyone is sacrificing," her aunt said angrily. "Even milk is increasingly in short supply. You Nazis take
everything
and leave us nothing. And in the past weeks, many of the children are complaining of hunger." Her voice was quiet but powerful, as if she were holding back an ocean of injustice. "Do you know what it's like to teach when their bellies are rumbling for food? And you bring me
chocolates?
"