The Body in the Fjord

some of the women went to Germany. Some stayed where they were and had the children, yet that was very hard. You have to understand, I make no judgments of them, but others did, often their own parents, and it was terrible for them. Most went to have the babies in these homes.”

“But what would happen to all these babies? Who would raise them?” Pix asked.

“They were sent to Germany or in some cases adopted by parents here, people who were sympathetic to the Germans. We were not all in the Resistance, remember. Quisling had his supporters.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Ursula asked quietly. She had taken her friend’s hand again when they had entered the room, and she still held it.

“After the war, the children who remained in the homes were claimed by their mothers or adopted by Norwegian families. Some of the children who had been sent to Germany were traced by refugee organizations and brought back here for adoption if the mother did not want them, which was usually the case. The fathers, of course, were known only to the mothers, and mostly their names were not recorded. The children were given two names at birth, a Norwegian one and a German one. They used to have mass christenings, twenty-five babies at a time. The babies were well looked after, but it was horrible—the whole idea and raising them like so many prize sheep. There is a story that one of the women soldiers assigned to Stalheim refused to be there and ended up at the bottom of the canyon.” Marit stopped speaking and seemed to be gathering energy to go on. Pix was trying to blot out the image of a body spiraling down, down to the river that looked like a snake.

“Hanna was a Lebensborn baby. She was born at Stalheim.”

“Oh, Marit, you should have told me years ago. It wouldn’t have made any difference!” Ursula cried out.

“I know that, yet Hans and I thought it was something we shouldn’t talk about. Nobody mentioned these children. Of course, our families knew we had adopted a baby. We knew when we got married that we couldn’t have children. The war years were so hard and Hanna seemed like our reward for getting through them. No one asked us where she had come from, and she looked just like us. Not a very large gene pool,” she said, glancing at Pix.

“Did Hanna know?”

Marit nodded. “We were stupid there, too. We should have told her as soon as she was old enough to understand, first that she was adopted and later how—but we waited until she was fifteen. I sometimes wonder about how our memories work. She was eight months old when we got her, but she was always asking questions. Where was she born? Why didn’t we have other children? When we made our first trip to the west coast and came by Stalheim, she was very small, but she cried and said the big mountains frightened her.”

Fifteen, Pix thought. Between the ages of her own Danny and Samantha. The time when adolescents are forming the identities that will travel with them throughout their lives, making the choices that determine the journey’s path. Hanna must have been so confused. To find your mother was not your mother and your father not your father. And later she did virtually the same thing to her own daughter, not providing her with a father, then abandoning her.

“Nothing was ever right after that. We never should have told her,” Marit said bitterly.

“It would have come out,” Ursula said. “These things always do.”

“And Kari?” Pix was asking all the hard questions. “Did she know about her mother?”

“This winter, there was a show about the Lebensborn babies on television. Now fifty years later, it’s out in the

open—all the problems these children have had, how they have searched trying to find out who they are. I wanted to change the channel, but Kari wanted to watch it. I had to leave the room, and she followed me out to the kitchen. Before I knew it, I was telling her everything. I thought she was old enough, that she could accept it. Kari is not Hanna. Emotionally, they are very different.”

“What did she say?” asked Pix.

“She said, ‘Then you’re not really my bestemor?’”

Marit had wanted to lie down and reluctantly they’d left her, but not before she’d told them that Kari wanted to find her mother’s family and that Marit had agreed to help her. “I don’t want another grandmother,” she’d told Marit. “It’s a matter of the truth. I have to find out the truth.”

Pix and Ursula were walking into the dining room at Kvikne’s, passing through several pretty Victorian-style sitting rooms all oriented toward the view and, unlike most Victoriana, comfortable-looking—inviting couches, light- colored walls, and the drapes pulled back. Oil paintings, genre landscapes of what appeared out the windows, hung in tiers on the walls. The surfaces of many of the tables were crowded with bric-a-brac, potted plants, and dozens of signed photographs dating back to the hotel’s early years. In pride of place stood those of the Norwegian royal family, starting with King Haakon VII, the Danish prince Karl, whom the Norwegians elected as their first constitutional monarch when they broke away from Sweden in 1905. He took a Norwegian name and reigned for fifty-two years. His grandson, Harald V, is king now. Small Norwegian flags on silver flag posts stood by the photographs. Bright red, with a blue-and-white cross off center, it seemed admirably suited to its surroundings, streaming out in a long banner from the porch at Kvikne’s, picking up the breeze from the fjord, or flying high in front of most houses all over the country, plus being scattered

throughout Norwegian interiors as an indispensable objet d’art. The Norwegians are exceedingly proud of this flag.

“My God, Mother, did you ever see so much food!” It was the smorgasbord to end all smorgasbords. There wasn’t one long table, but many—and side tables—one just for cheese, one for non-alcoholic drinks, a very large one just for desserts.

“Where should we start?” Pix was bewildered, a feeling intensified by the behavior of the diners, who were descending on the food like predators, the only variation being in motion: Some were piling their plates as rapidly as possible; others were circling quietly before pouncing.

“With a seat,” Ursula suggested, and led the way to the tables with the Scandie flags.

“We have the window seats tonight,” Carol Peterson called out triumphantly as they passed. Her table was full. There was to be no tete-a-tete for the newlyweds.

“Would you care to join us?” Louise Dahl asked.

“Thank you so much,” Ursula responded, and motioned toward the groaning boards. “It’s hard to know where to begin.”

“We start with herring, then a plate of other fish—shrimp and laks—there’s also gravlaks here. Do you know what that is? Fresh salmon is cured with dill and a mixture of salt, sugar, and white peppercorns, then placed under a weight for some days and—oh, maybe it’s simpler if I come with you. Everything is delicious and you may not know what it is.”

“I don’t want to trouble you,” Ursula protested.

“It’s no trouble. I want to get some smoked eel before I have my meat course.”

“This is the food we grew up with and we still cook it, although nothing so elaborate as these dishes. Kvikne’s is known for its koldtbord—that’s what it’s called in Norwegian, although most use the Swedish word, smorgasbord. Anyway, it’s the best food in the world to me! Let Louise show you what to do,” her sister, Erna, advised.

Pix was only too happy. She’d eaten her share of Norwegian food, but this was a whole new level. Even Faith would be impressed by Kvikne’s.

“We start with the herring by itself, because it’s salty and we don’t fill our plates too full, so we can appreciate the flavors.”

And not look too greedy, Pix thought. Nothing in excess.

As they strolled by the tables, Pix was delighted to see how much the Japanese were enjoying all the Nordic variations on sushi.

“After your herring, I’d advise some laks and a little of this smoked eel, which is eaten with a bit of scrambled egg at room temperature. Maybe some shrimp, and the mussel salad looked good.” She then pointed out the enormous variety of cold meats, ranging from pates to slices of ham, salami, and roast beef. There were also salats—thinly sliced cucumbers with dill, cabbage with caraway, beets and sardines.

“The last course before dessert is hot. I’m not sure I’ll have more than a meatball—they’re made of veal and beef, bound with egg and bread crumbs, a little nutmeg, and fried in salt pork—but you should definitely have some fiskepudding.”