The Courier Read online

  THE COURIER

  KJELL OLA DAHL

  Translated by Don Bartlett

  Revenge is a faithless servant

  Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Oslo, August 2015

  Oslo, October 1942

  Oslo, October 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Oslo, October 1942

  Oslo, October 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, October 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Oslo, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Fagernes, November 1967

  Stockholm, December 1942

  Fagernes, November 1967

  Oslo, November 1967

  Oslo, November 1967

  Oslo, November 1967

  Oslo, November 1967

  Oslo, August 2015

  Oslo, November 1967

  Oslo, November 1967

  Oslo, November 1967

  Oslo, November 1967

  Oslo, August 2015

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Copyright

  Oslo, August 2015

  Turid switches off the radio. She revels in the silence and places her hand on the tablecloth where the morning sun shining through the window has formed a square. It is hot. She likes the feel of it. Robert has left the newspapers on the table. She pulls the Aftenposten over. Leafs through. News, travel, articles about new TV series.

  Her eye is caught by an article on what you can pick up at auctions. At first she focuses on the photo, then she skims the text: ‘You can still find treasures at Norwegian auctions. The unique bracelet pictured is valued at more than a hundred thousand kroner.’ She looks at the photo again. Turid sits up, removes her glasses, cleans them on her sleeve and puts them back on. ‘Auctioneer Guri Holter makes no secret of the fact that her firm is proud to be able to display this attraction. The piece of jewellery is expected to exceed the estimate. “We’ve already received some serious offers,” Holter says.’

  This is crazy, Turid thinks. Price is one thing, but putting it up for sale?

  It is forty-eight years since she last saw her bracelet. She had been wearing it on her wrist then.

  Turid gets up from the kitchen chair. She looks at the wall clock over the stove. It is ten o’clock. She faces the window and looks outside. She can see Robert’s back, bent over the flowerbed in front of the laburnum by the fence. She is upset, but doesn’t want to tell Robert, not yet. She goes upstairs and into her old study. She makes for the filing cabinet squeezed against the wall beside the desk. Robert always complains that she never throws anything away. Hmm, Turid says to herself. Let’s see if this quirk of mine can come in handy. It takes her only a few minutes to find the document she is after.

  She sends herself a critical glance in the mirror. She can’t go out looking like this.

  Half an hour later she meets Robert in the doorway. She had hoped to avoid him; when he works in the garden he generally uses the veranda door. But today, for some reason, he has chosen to walk around the house to come in. His gardening gloves are filthy with soil and he wipes his face with his forearm. ‘Are you off out?’

  ‘A little trip to town,’ she says.

  ‘Have you been texted some offers again?’

  She nods with a smile. ‘Christmas presents, Robert. Sale on woollen undies.’

  Resigned, he shakes his head and goes inside.

  Turid walks to the metro station, angry with herself because she so often decides to lie to Robert in such situations. But he wouldn’t have accepted a short explanation. He would have started to ask questions. She has no answers and so wants to avoid the questions.

  When she sees a couple of familiar faces in the crowd waiting on the platform she realises she still wants to be alone. She crosses the rails and heads towards the single taxi at the rank nearby. She opens the rear door and gets in. The driver folds the newspaper he has been reading and looks at her questioningly in the mirror. ‘Tollboden offices please,’ she says, taking out her phone where she has the address. ‘In fact, it’s in Tollbugate.’

  Guri Holter turns out to be a woman between forty and fifty. She is wearing a grey woollen dress – which is a bit tight, considering how many kilos she is carrying around her stomach – and a pink, faux-silk shawl. Obviously chosen to add colour, Turid thinks, and considers it a poor decision. Pink is too insistent. The shawl lies on her shoulders and screams out that she is covering her double chin and wrinkled neck. Her hair is cut into a fringe but is bristly on top. Probably the latest fashion, Turid thinks. Guri Holter looks modern to the nth degree. The rings on her fingers are adorned with large, amorphous gems. Works of art. Then she sees that Guri Holter has long nails, filed round, varnished in the same shade of pink as her shawl. Guri, it seems, is the punctilious type, with an eye for detail, Turid concludes.

  The immense hall in Tollboden has a high ceiling, so every sound echoes. Doors slam. Turid’s heels click-clack on the floor as though she were a freshly shod horse on its way across cobblestones. A pneumatic drill is making a racket outside the open window. As if thinking the same, Guri Holter closes the window and with her back to Turid asks how she can help.

  Turid explains that she has come about the bracelet pictured in the Aftenposten.

  Guri Holter says she can tender an offer on the phone or via the internet.

  Turid shakes her head. ‘The bracelet was stolen. This is theft. You can’t sell items belonging to someone else.’

  Now Guri has nothing to say. She looks at her with a serious, quizzical expression.

  Turid opens her handbag and passes her the papers.

  But Guri Holter refuses to take them. She looks back up at Turid. ‘I don’t understand. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘This is a police report. I reported the jewellery stolen at the end of the 1960s. I had no real hope of ever getting it back, but I reported the theft, thinking that a situation like this might arise.’ Turid shakes the papers to encourage the woman to take them. ‘There’s a detailed description in these documents from back then. Also of the engravings.’

  Guri Holter casts a glance over the papers again, still without taking them. Looks up. She deliberates. ‘I don’t know enough about this,’ she says. ‘If you want us to withdraw this item from the auction, I think you’d better contact the police.’ Again she deliberates. ‘Or a lawyer.’

  Turid eyes her wearily. Considering whether to tell her or not, whether to embarrass Guri Holter by telling her she is a lawyer. Retired, it is true to say, but nevertheless. Turid decides to remain silent. Instead she wonders what the smartest thing to do would be – beyond what she has already done. Report the incident? Next step: demand the bracelet back? Not right here, though. That would be too hysterical. Let Guri Holter do a bit of investigation first.

  ‘Yes,’ Guri Holter says. ‘Perhaps a lawyer is best. I don’t know what the police can do really in this sort of case. In fact, I’ve never been involved in a situation like this before. And you claim the jewellery’s yours? Did you buy it?’

  Turid shakes her head. �
��It’s an heirloom. One of the very few things I was left by my mother.’

  Turid has nothing else of any value to add. She knows only that she wants to get to the bottom of this. And she wants to stop the sale. The two women stand staring at each other.

  At length it is Guri Holter who speaks up. ‘I think the best option for you is to contact a lawyer. I’ll take up the matter with management, and we’ll get in touch with you in the next day or so.’

  Turid looks at this woman and has the same feeling she has when she goes to her GP and tells him about her dizzy spells. The doctor doesn’t believe her. The doctor interrupts her. This woman doesn’t believe her. Guri Holter interrupts her. Guri Holter wants her out of the room, out of the office, out of this dreadful building. Turid passes the papers to her again.

  Guri Holter holds up her hands in defence. ‘I don’t know if…’

  ‘Take them, if you want my name and address.’

  Guri Holter takes the papers and Turid turns without another word. She thinks of her mother and all the injustice that has never been redressed. As she carefully descends the staircase, step by step, she knows she has made up her mind. This time she is going to win. For her mother’s sake.

  Outside, she stands squinting into the bright light. Strolls down to the renovated Oslo East station, which is now home to shops, restaurants and bars, enters and finds a free table. She calls up the contacts list on her phone. There is only one person she knows who can make things happen in a case such as this. She rings Hans Grabbe and can hear from his answer that he is driving.

  He shouts and his voice sounds euphorically happy. Turid realises it is Friday. Presumably Hans is on his way to his beach chalet in Tjøme.

  ‘Jewellery? Can’t you get someone in the office to deal with this, Turid?’

  Turid won’t take no for an answer, however. She insists she wants Hans to take the case. ‘This is about my mother.’

  Hans whinnies. ‘Which one of your mothers, Turid?’

  ‘My biological mother, Hans. The one who was murdered.’

  Oslo, October 1942

  1

  Her front wheel is stuck in the tram rail. She wiggles the handlebars, but it is too late. She is going to fall. The wheel continues to follow the rail, her bicycle tips to the side, and she jumps off, runs a few steps so as not to lose balance, slips and almost lands on her backside, but manages to stay on her feet as her bike clatters onto the cobblestones. What a fool I must look, she thinks. The silence behind her tells her everyone is watching, all the passengers waiting at the tram stop. Ester brushes down her clothes without taking any notice, without looking at them.

  Then a hand lifts her bicycle. A green sleeve. A uniform. A soldier. A gun barrel points over his shoulder, straight at her. Ester’s attention is drawn to the round hole in the barrel. He speaks, but she doesn’t catch a word of what he says. At last he stands up. The barrel points upwards. She takes her bike and says thank you, first in Norwegian, then in German and finally in English. Apparently the last causes some merriment. In German he says: ‘Can’t you see that I’m German?’ He laughs. Odd laughter. His wide mouth produces brief squeaking noises, like a bike wheel rubbing. He looks pleasant enough. Innocent, she thinks. Bit stupid. If only he knew who he was wasting his gallant manners on.

  She places her left foot on the pedal, pushes, sits on the saddle and freewheels down to the Royal Palace without a single glance behind her. Approaching the crossroads by Parkveien, she brakes in case there are cars coming. None she can see. Bears left, pedals harder, rounds the park, has to brake for a man running across the street, then continues into Sven Bruns gate with the wind in her hair. Brakes on the descent. Slows down to take the bend to the right in Pilestredet. The clouds part so she now has the sun in her face. It is low, an October sun. She glances down at her skirt. A stain. She folds the hem over to hide it, baring her legs to above the knee; she hears a wolf whistle. She turns her head. Sees two German soldiers on the corner, whooping. She almost falls off again, but regains control and lets go of her hem. More wolf whistles. She turns towards her block of flats. Brakes. Gets off her bike. Leans it against the wall. Breathes hard through her mouth and listens. She counts in her head while looking at the piles of wet leaves and inhaling the smell of burnt coke. A magpie is on the rubbish bins, hopping from lid to lid. It flaps its wings and flies off. Ester holds her breath to make sure she captures all the sounds. Nothing happening in the entrance, no footsteps – nor in the block. She does a quick scan then walks over to the nearest bin and the brick behind it, against the wall. She holds her breath again, this time to avoid the stench coming from the bin. Then she flips off her shoe and takes out the papers; she hides them under the brick, puts her shoe back on and can’t get away fast enough.

  Pedalling has become harder. She should have gone to Kirkeristen first. She would have had the whole day to deliver the papers then. It was the practical Ester who told herself the papers had to be delivered and that as the block of flats in Pilestredet was on the way, she could go there first. But now her fears are mounting. The fears that she doesn’t have enough time. There are very few people in the streets. It is early. Perhaps not early enough, though. Ester sees clocks everywhere. Above jewellers’ shops, on church towers. On the neon sign advertising Freia chocolate. She tries to concentrate on other matters. Cycles up Apotekergata and turns down to the marketplace. Soon she is racing along towards the cathedral. Her eyes are drawn by the clock on the tower. She jumps off her bike at the corner of Glasmagasinet, the department store. Glances both ways and runs across the street, dragging her bike. Pulls up sharply when she sees uniformed men outside the shop. Hovers for a moment, then continues walking. Pushes her bike past the shop windows, slowly, so as not to attract attention. Squeezes the brake as the road slopes downwards. One of the soldiers is sticking a poster to a shop window. He runs his hand across the poster and is satisfied with the result. Steps back.

  Jüdisches Geschäft. Jewish shop.

  Ester screws up her eyes and reads the poster again. And once more. Then loud shouts are heard from inside the shop. A man wearing civilian clothing – it is Dad – is dragged through the door. A man in a dark-blue uniform is hauling him outside. Ester stands watching. They are shouting in Norwegian. They tell him to be still, even though he isn’t moving. He looks lost. His jacket is open and he is bare-headed; his hat is in his hands. As the policeman lets go he totters. Falls to his knees. He gets up and tries to brush the dirt from his trousers. The second policeman grabs him again and shoves him into the back of the police van by the kerb. The rear door slams shut. As though he has been swallowed by iron jaws.

  Ester can see part of her father’s face through the bars on the window. The hairline, the fringe over his forehead and the top of his glasses. That is when he sees her. They exchange looks. His hand grasps a bar on the door. She closes her eyes and regrets that she has seen this. She wishes she had spared him the humiliation.

  So she doesn’t immediately hear the policeman shouting. The man in the dark-blue uniform points. She doesn’t understand. Takes one hand from the handlebars of her bicycle and points to herself. Me?

  ‘Yes, you!’

  Ester is rooted to the spot. All she can do is stand and stare at the man waving his arms. Then she clicks.

  ‘Get out of the way!’

  The police van is trying to reverse and she is in the way.

  Lowering her head, she pulls her bike up onto the pavement. The mudguards clattering. The van sets off in the direction of the eastern railway line, rounds a corner and is lost from view. She casts a glance over her shoulder. A small group of police officers is still outside the shop. One of them pushes inquisitive onlookers away. Another seals the shop entrance with chains and a padlock. A third paints something on the door in white:

  Closed (Jew).

  Ester trundles her bike down Torggata. Stops. She has no idea where she is going. Someone behind her almost collides with the bike, curses and ca
rries on. Ester looks around. The world hasn’t changed. People on the pavement are scurrying to and fro. Outside the entrance to Christiania Steam Kitchen a woman is sweeping. A barber is putting a sign outside his shop. This is what dying is like, she thinks. You have gone and the world doesn’t care. You die and others eat pastries. She keeps walking with her hands on the handlebars, and all she can feel is that she is cold. She leans her bike against her hip and lets go of the handlebars. Her hands are trembling. She has stopped by the kiosk with the Tenor throat pastilles advertisement on the roof. A woman carrying a shopping net emerges from the subway under Folketeateret. Out of the corner of her eye Ester registers the buxom figure. A familiar sight. The waddle, the arm outstretched as if for balance, and the funny hat. It is Ada, who lives across the corridor from her.

  Ada approaches, clasps her arm and tells Ester not to go home. Ester answers like a machine. She knows. She was there when they turned up early this morning. Ada looks around to check no one is listening. ‘Have you got somewhere to go?’ she whispers. ‘To hide from the police?’

  Ester racks her brain, nods. ‘I think so.’

  Ada gives her a hug. Her body is large and soft. The embrace prevents Ester from moving and her bike clatters to the ground. She bends down and lifts it up, nods again and assures her: ‘I know where I can go.’

  2

  The bike clanks as she pedals. The incline in Uelands gate gets steeper and steeper, but Ester stays seated on the saddle, pumping hard with both legs. She approaches the camp filled with lorries and German soldiers. Looks down at the front wheel and mudguard, which is askew. The pedal scrapes against a bump in the chain guard every time her foot goes round. She hasn’t noticed it before. It must have happened in Youngstorget when Ada hugged her and the bike fell. She is hot. The hill is getting even steeper. She is moving more and more slowly. But she doesn’t want to dismount; she doesn’t want to stop in front of the soldiers.