body could become exposed at any moment and reveal the switch. And when I began to dream at night about what foxes and polecats would do with Daniel's body as the snow melted in spring, I decided to dig up the body and have it put in the mass grave-after all, that was consecrated ground.
Of course, I was more frightened by our own sentry posts than by the Russians, but fortunately it was Hallgrim Dale, Fauke's slow-witted comrade, sitting in the machine-gun nest. On top of that, it was a cloudy night and, even more important, I felt that Daniel was with me, yes, that he was in me. And when I had finally manoeuvred the corpse on to the ammunition boxes and was about to tie the sack around his head, he smiled. I know that lack of sleep and hunger can play tricks with your mind, but I did see his rigid death-mask change in front of my very eyes.
The extraordinary thing was that instead of frightening me, it made me feel secure and happy. Then I sneaked back into the bunker, where I fell asleep like a child.
When Edvard Mosken woke me up an hour later, it was as if I had been dreaming the whole thing and I think I managed to appear genuinely surprised to see that Daniel's body had turned up again. But this was not enough to convince Edvard Mosken. He was sure it was Fauke's body, sure I had killed him and had put his body there in the hope that the corpse-bearers would think they had forgotten to collect him the first time and take him along. Dale removed the sacking and Mosken saw that it was Daniel. They both gaped, open-mouthed, and I had to fight to restrain the laughter inside me from bursting out and giving us-Daniel and me-away.
Field Hospital, Northern Sector, Leningrad. 17 January 1944.
The hand-grenade that was thrown from the Russian plane hit Dale on the helmet and spun around on the ice as we tried to move away. I was closest and was sure all three of us would die: Mosken, Dale and me. It is strange, but my last thought was what an irony of fate it was that I had just saved Edvard Mosken from being shot by Dale, the poor man, and my sole achievement was to extend the life of our section leader by exactly two minutes. Fortunately, however, the Russians make terrible hand-grenades and we all survived with our lives intact. As for me, I had an injured foot and shrapnel had sliced through my helmet into my forehead.
By a remarkable coincidence I ended up in Daniel's fiancee's ward, with Sister Signe Alsaker. At first she didn't recognise me, but in the afternoon she came over and spoke to me in Norwegian. She is very beautiful and I know only too well why I wanted to be engaged to her.
Olaf Lindvig is also in this ward. That white leather tunic of his hangs on a hook by his bed. I don't know why-perhaps so that he can walk right out and back to the duties awaiting him as soon as his injuries have healed. Men of his calibre are needed now; I can hear the Russian artillery fire closing in. One night he was having nightmares, I think, because he screamed, and Sister Signe came in. She gave him an injection of something, morphine perhaps. When he went to sleep again, I saw her stroke his hair. She was so beautiful that I felt like calling her over to my bed and telling her who I was, but I didn't want to frighten her.
Today they said I was to be sent to the west because medicines were not getting through. No one said anything, but my foot is painful, the Russians are coming closer and I know this is my only hope for survival.
Vienna Woods. 29 May 1944
The most beautiful and the most intelligent woman I have ever met in my life. Can you love two women at once? Yes, you certainly can.
Gudbrand has changed. That is why I have taken Daniel's nickname-Uriah. Helena preferred it. Gudbrand was an odd name, she thought.
I write poems when the others have gone to sleep, but I'm not much of a poet. My heart beats wildly when she appears in the doorway, but Daniel says you have to stay calm, well, almost cold, if you want to win a woman's heart. It is like catching flies: you have to sit quite still, preferably looking in another direction. And then, when the fly has begun to trust you -when it lands on the table in front of you, goes closer and finally almost begs you to try and catch it-then you strike as quick as lightning, firm and sure in your convictions. The latter is the most important. It is not speed but conviction that catches flies. You have one chance-and you must be ready for it, Daniel says.
Vienna. 29 June 1944.
… freeing myself from my beloved Helena's arms. Outside the air raid had been over for a long time, but it was the middle of the night and the streets were still deserted. I found the car where we had left it, beside the restaurant Zu den drei Husaren. The rear window was smashed and a brick had made a huge dent in the roof, but otherwise, fortunately, it was unscathed. I drove as fast as I dared back to the hospital.
I knew it was too late to do anything for Helena and me. We were simply two people caught in a maelstrom of events over which we had no power. Her fears for her parents doomed her to marrying this doctor, Christopher Brockhard, this corrupt person who in his boundless selfishness (which he called love!) was an affront to the innermost essence of love. Couldn't he see the love that drove him was the absolute antithesis of the love that drove her? Now I had to sacrifice my dream of sharing a life with Helena to give her a life, if not one of happiness, then at least of decency, free of the degradation that Brockhard would force her into.
The thoughts raced through my mind as I sped along roads which were as tortuous as life itself. But Daniel was in command of my hands and feet.
… discovered I was sitting on the edge of his bed and gave me a look of disbelief.
'What are you doing here?' he asked.
'Christopher Brockhard, you are a traitor,' I whispered. 'And I sentence you to death. Are you ready?'
I don't think he was ready. People are never ready to die; they think they will live for ever. I hope he got to see the fountain of blood stretching up towards the ceiling, I hope he got to hear the splash on the bedding as it came down again, but above all I hope he realised he was dying.
In the wardrobe I found a suit, a pair of shoes and a shirt which I hurriedly rolled up and carried out under my arm. Then I ran out to the car, started it…
… still asleep. I was soaked and cold from the sudden downpour and crept under the sheets towards her. She was as warm as an oven and groaned in her sleep as I pressed myself up against her. I tried to cover every centimetre of her skin with mine, tried to delude myself into thinking it was for ever, tried to avoid looking at the clock. There were just two hours until my train left. And just two hours until I would be a hunted murderer over all of Austria. They didn't know when I would leave or which route I would take, but they knew where I would go-and they would be ready for me when I arrived in Oslo. I tried to hold her tight enough to last me a lifetime.
Harry heard the bell. Had it rung before? He found the intercom and buzzed Weber in.
'Right after sport on TV, this is what I hate most,' Weber said as he stamped in fuming, and slammed a flightcase the size of a suitcase down on the ground. 'Independence Day, the whole country off their heads with national fervour, roads closed so you have to drive all the way round the centre to get anywhere. Holy Jesus! Where shall I begin?'
'There are bound to be some good prints on the coffee pot in the kitchen,' Harry said. 'I've been talking to a colleague in Vienna who is busy looking for a set of prints from 1944. You brought a scanner and a computer, did you?'
Weber patted the flightcase.
'Great. When you've finished scanning in the prints, you can connect my mobile to the computer and send them to the email address listed under 'Fritz, Vienna'. He is sitting ready to compare them with his set of prints and let us know immediately. That's basically it. I just have to read through a few papers in the sitting room.'
'What's the…?'
'POT stuff,' Harry said. 'Need-to-know basis only'
'Is that so?' Weber bit his lip and gave Harry a searching stare. Harry looked him in the eye and waited.
'Do you know what, Hole?' he said finally. 'It's good that someone in this country still behaves like a professional.'
96
Oslo. 17 May 2000.
Hamburg. 30 June 1944.
After writing the letter to Helena, I opened my canteen, shook out Sindre Fauke's rolled-up ID papers and
