We watched her disappear before our eyes. She refused to see a doctor and ate only when we became so distressed, she felt she had to please us. The nightmares got worse, and finally she told us the whole story.”
Louise was venomous. “She was a child herself. Barely sixteen, high-spirited, and restless living on the farm. There was only hard work and boredom. Oscar Eriksen was a neighbor, handsome and with some money. Not a jarl’s family, but not a cotter’s, either. He began to court my mother and convinced her to run away with him to Bergen. Once there, he took her to a rooming house. He raped her, then explained that she was to make herself available to the German officers who came. No decent Norwegian man would have her now, he said, and it was her duty to produce a child for the new world order, the Third Reich. She was terrified, but knew she could not go home. Her parents were very strict, very religious. When she did get pregnant, he arranged for her to go to Stalheim, where she received very good care. Then the baby was taken from her and Oscar himself drove her to her village, pushing her out of the car in front of the church. He’d made sure everyone knew what she had done. He portrayed himself as her rescuer, bringing her home to ‘good’ people.”
“A sadist,” whispered Ursula. It was worse than she could have imagined. How had the woman managed to keep the will to live?
“It wasn’t until much later that the truth about Oscar Eriksen came out—his lucrative business in supplying healthy, beautiful young Norwegian women for this experiment. By then, it was too late for my mother.”
“What did she do?”
“She ran—living in the forest for a while, then did whatever she could to earn enough to feed herself for the rest of the Occupation. It couldn’t have been much. There was very little food in Norway for anyone. She was never strong afterward. She married a man from the northern part of Norway and they lived there. We were born. She thought she was safe, but it is a small country, after all, and the story came out. So she had to leave for good.”
What kind of man abandons his wife and children over something like this? Ursula wondered. A proud man. A narcissistic man. A hard man.
“What are you going to do?” Erna whispered, her voice barely audible. Louise didn’t ask. She sat straight and looked Ursula in the eye. It was not a challenge, nor did she beseech. It was a look of resignation.
“Do?” Ursula repeated. “I think quite enough has been done already, don’t you? Evil will out.”
Louise nodded. Some strands of her straight gray hair fell across her face and she pushed them back. “I believe that, but we had to do it—for her.”
“And for Norway.” Erna’s voice was firm.
They could hear Marit and Pix laughing in the kitchen, the bright lights from inside the house streaming out to the terrace, sending their faces alternately into shadows and brightness.
Louise asked Ursula, “How did you guess?”
“I have spent the whole trip watching. I’m not as active as I once was. I leave that to my daughter. I came to Norway to help my friend find her daughter and the best way I could think of was to try to keep a close eye on everyone on the tour. You two were different. You appeared to be having a good time, caught up in the discovery of your roots, but I soon detected a carefully concealed anxiety below the surface. What are these women so worried about? I wondered. And I kept watching. In the days following Eriksen’s death, the worry began to lift. You weren’t euphoric, but you were calm. A job accomplished.
I talked to Marit, who is also a keen observer. She told me that she had noticed red paint under Erna’s fingernails and it seemed odd for a beautician. They weren’t paper cuts. They had to be from the swastika, and whoever painted that was linked to Melling. Tonight I took a chance.”
Louise nodded and reached for her sister’s hand.
Marit came out onto the terrace, bringing an old bottle of cognac with the coffee. She carefully filled five delicate handblown glasses, so thin, the liquor seemed to quiver in the air. Ursula nodded slightly at her old friend and smiled. Marit stood up. “I wish to make a toast. To the new generation of ‘Cartwright sisters.’ We may not have crossed the
As is the toasting custom in Norway, she selected one individual and looked straight into her eyes before taking a drink.
She picked Pix.
“Didn’t you tell me there was someone named Sidney Harding on your trip?”
Faith Fairchild, carrying a newspaper, walked into Pix Miller’s kitchen late one afternoon a week after Pix’s return from Norway.
“Yes. Why?” Pix had to get Danny to soccer and drop off Samantha’s bathing suit, which she’d forgotten, for a pool party. She was also trying to think of something she could feed her husband for dinner that did not have red sauce or come with chopsticks.
“He’s mentioned in the business section of the
Pix was two days behind in reading her
“‘Oil Company Reels at Unexpected Exec Departure.’ It looks like he suddenly decided to resign what has been a key position in the research and development of Norwegian oil fields. ‘When asked the reason for his departure, Mr. Harding issued no comment.’”
“So he
Pix remembered she had a meat loaf in the freezer. Her postpartum Norway blues were beginning to lift. Soon she’d set out for the summer on Sanpere Island in Maine’s Penobscot Bay. It was very beautiful there, too, but the water wasn’t that incredible color and there weren’t any mountains. Yet she knew everybody, as she did in Aleford—and they knew her. Good old dependable Pix.
Maybe it was time for another trip.
EXCERPTS FROM
HAVE FAITH
IN YOUR KITCHEN
BY Faith Sibley Fairchild A WORK IN PROGRESS
A sign in a Norwegian restaurant:
CONSUMPTION OF ALCOHOL IS FORBIDDEN UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY FISH. ALL FOOD IS CONSIDERED FISH, EXCEPT SAUSAGES. IF SAUSAGES ARE ORDERED, MAY GOD FORBID, SAUSAGES CAN BE CALLED FISH.
FISKEPUDDING WITH SHRIMP SAUCE
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Melt the butter and coat the inside of a mold, such as a pudding mold or Bundt pan. The mold should be large enough to hold six cups. Set aside. Start boiling enough water so that the mold will be covered by water three quar- ers of the way up when placed in a large baking pan during cooking. Cut the raw fish into small pieces, approximately one-inch squares. Mix the creams together in a measuring cup with a spout or a pitcher. Using the sharp blade on a food processor or a blender, blend the fish with the cream, one batch at a time. Don’t overfill the container of the blender or food processor. Transfer the mixture to a bowl and add the salt and cornstarch. Beat
