Chapter 9

Alexis Dupreux had arrived in Storesand in 1939. With 10 of his shipmates, he was rescued by pilot Joacim Corneliussen after their fishing vessel had run aground in a storm off the south coast of Norway. The young pilot – only 22 at the time – had been lying on the top of Heia in the middle of Lyholmen island, scanning the horizon with binoculars he had appropriated from his father. He wasn’t looking for fishing boats, far from it. He was searching for a paying vessel that would bring some much-needed coin to the Corneliussen family. With a sinking feeling he observed the hapless fishing boat getting closer and closer to the skerries east of the lighthouse. Damn, didn’t they have enough sense to turn west? The only safe approach to land outside the town of Storesand was through the west channel. It was clearly marked on all charts.

When he saw them hit, Joacim felt a moment’s hesitation. It would do him no good to save them; they surely had no money and would only pay him in gratitude, if that. Since his father had lost what little he owned in the crash of ’29, the Corneliussen family had struggled hand to mouth, with five growing children to feed and his mother getting greyer and smaller every day. At 19, Joacim had sat for and passed the pilot exams, which gave him exactly nothing. He still had to maintain his own boat and compete against all the other pilots to be first on the scene when a paying vessel approached.

He didn’t exactly run down the hill. Untying his boat at the central pier, he reluctantly moved into the lee of the island. All right, he had committed. Let the wind be damned.

Joacim passed Tørnforbi and was instantly hit by the waves and the surge. He scarcely noticed, muttering to himself “You fool, you idiot.” Grudgingly, his wooden boat made its steady way out to the skerries and the shipwreck. They appeared to be trying to set lifeboats on the water, which was as much use as a cork in a maelstrom. They saw him.

An hour later, Joacim has all 11 safely in town. Safe, but now what? He recommended going up to the church. Surely a church would feed and house the shipwreck survivors; who else would? The captain of the vessel had gone overboard and drowned, he had learned, and what he rescued was nothing more than simple sailors and fishermen.

Most of the survivors made it back to Flanders before the war broke out, but one man stayed: Alexis Dupreux. Alexis was handy with hammer and saw and could fix almost anything. What’s more, his dark eyes flashed signals at the local girls that they had never known before. It wasn’t long until the fathers of the town forbade their daughters to see Mr. Dupreux.

Saturdays, the local Kiwanis club arranged dances for the unattached. War or no war, the dances were not cancelled. “Can’t let the filthy Krauts take everything, now can we?” On such a Saturday, Einar Iversen met Alexis Dupreux, in the dubious company of Gunnar Katte Jeltzen. Einar, only 17 at the time, still lived with his parents on Vågen, a large island connected to the mainland by a truss bridge. Einar was a good student at the local high school and had only recently discovered girls. He still blushed when they laughed at him. Gunnar wasn’t quite right in the head. He seemed to have no morals at all: all was equal to Gunnar Katte. Alexis, from a warmer climate to the south, had figured out girls years ago. After dancing and making out with several of the local beauties, Alexis started to get bored and challenged Gunnar and Einar to a poker game in the woods.

It was March of 1942. No time for a friendly poker game. But the boys were bored and gathered on a little hill on Vågen, where there was a clearing and the snow was beginning to melt. They fashioned a table from their skis. That stupid little girlfriend of Einar’s, Nora, showed up after a while, but they largely ignored her. She tiptoed around them and finally sat down behind Einar. Whispered something to him. His face turned red.

“You’re cheating!”

“What? Just because you’re a fool at poker ……”

“We’ll just see, won’t we? Give me the deck. I’ll deal.”

Alexis gave him the deck of greasy cards missing two jokers. Einar shuffled, shuffled, and shuffled. He dealt the cards. Alexis grinned at him.

“Let’s make it interesting, shall we? Have you seen that German whore of Frank Åge’s?”

“What about her?”

“She has to come out some time. Loser takes her.”

Takes her how? Gunnar snickered, but Einar was dumbfounded.

“OK,” he said.

Nora had whispered to him that Alexis dealt from the bottom of the deck. With the deck under his command, Einar was sure to win.

But Lady Luck is fickle. Even at honest cards, Alexis held the winning hand: a straight flush. One in a million; no one ever draws straight flush from one deck. Gunnar had bowed out early.

“So, little boy,” said Lexis. “What do we do now?”

Einar threw the cards in the melting snow. “I don’t give a fuck. I’m going home.”

“Oh, no, scout. Giving a fuck is exactly what you’ll do. You lost fair. Don’t know what to do, little man?” Alexis’ voice was cruel and bitter.

Both Gunnar and Einar got up to leave, but Alexis stopped them with a finger to his lips. They listened. In the brittle air, soft words reached them “Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten, dass ich so traurig bin …..”

“There she is, that little whore,” hissed Alexis. “German bitch. Let’s show her we’re not cowards, right boys?”

One man has a conscience, but a mob of three has none. Alexis had had her first, while Gunnar gave encouraging shouts. When he took Lexis’ place, he came in a few thrusts. Pulled out and wiped himself on her dress. She was strangely still. When she felt the second rapist leave, she opened her eyes a bit and made to get up. She was bleeding, Einar saw. He wanted to cover her and carry her home. But the boys would have none of it. In spite of his disgust, Einar had grown ready and they could see it. Lexis pinned his arms behind his back and Gunnar opened his fly. He should have struggled, but he didn’t. Lise Lotte saw the hunger in the eyes of this dark haired boy, so handsome and so unlike her gimpy rescuer. She lay back down.

“She’s inviting you, the bitch. I told you she was a whore,” Alexis said, his voice raw with anger. She hadn’t invited him. They pushed Einar down on his knees between hers. She didn’t move. He couldn’t, but he did. He did. In less than a few heartbeats, Einar convulsed inside her. He fell over her, shame boiling his blood. The other two pulled him off. She got up, slowly. Pulled her skirts down; didn’t look at any of them. Started walking with a strange, wide gait down the hill to the shack. Never looked back.

That was Einar’s first time.

Alexis and Gunnar seemed to have had the wind knocked out of them. Silently, the three boys picked up their cards and went their separate ways. Nora had been watching from behind a tree, but she never told anyone.

That night Einar broke into a grocery store and stole six beers. Joacim Corneliussen found him on the dock in Vika, quietly getting as drunk as he could. It didn’t take much to make Einar spill his despair. At 22, Joacim was already a seasoned resistance fighter, one of the most trusted “boys in the woods.” Yes, this was rape, but rape in wartime in normal practice. Joacim helped Einar down the last beer, then towed Einar’s small rowboat out to Vågen and made sure he got in his house with no one noticing. Joacim decided to forget the enemy skirmish, as he called it to himself.

Seven years later, the war had been over for 4 years. June 1949. Joacim had recruited Einar to the resistance and Gunnar had invited himself. There was always something about Gunnar Katte Jeltzen, something that made them not talk openly when he was around. But he was there when the word was passed that Alexis had been held for “questioning,” and none of them believed he would stay silent. They were sure they would be next. Quietly they started arranging “transport” to Sweden. Their guide was the eccentric woodsman who had played cards with them now and then. He never said his name; they didn’t tell theirs. A group of 17 began the journey north and east; 15 made it across. Gunnar and Einar were two of the lucky ones. They had separated in Sweden and Einar had come back alone in the summer of 45. Gunnar returned in 48, bigger, fatter, and with a petite Swedish wife.

By 49, it was safe to celebrate. The Kiwanis held a bryggedans (dance on the docks) in their honor as heroes of the resistance. The local paper interviewed them. Gunnar had lots to say about his own heroism and feats; most everyone else said little. Time passed.

Einar, as a son of the ocean, had jumped on the chance to learn deep sea diving with the coast guard. With the guard, he traveled up and down the long coast of Norway, from the south to the frigid north. Whenever a boat had gone down, it was Einar’s sad task to dive for the bodies of the shipwrecked. He often accompanied the guard officer and the police to the home of the family, who wanted to see anyone on the world but them. For Einar, it was penance.

He met his wife-to-be in a small town north of Bodø. Anne Lise Helene Grensvik was the youngest daughter of a fisherman. He could not get her eyes out of his mind after bringing the news of the shipwreck to the grieving family. There were 5 daughters in the family; they were relieved when he asked for her hand in marriage. She accepted.

When his father passed away, Einar and Anne Lise settled into a quiet life on Lyholmen. Einar fished for a living. Sometimes he looked at the diving gear the coast guard had let him keep, but it didn’t call to him. They had no children, which was fine with Einar: he didn’t want to share his Anne Lise, his angel. In the fall of 1949, he happened to catch a story on NRK about German shipwrecks along the Norwegian coast. The “Sieg” was mentioned. Einar vaguely remembered it. It was rumored – said the breathless announcer – that the German warship had also carried bullion, gold or silver to buy what could still be bought and not looted from the occupied Norwegians. Unlikely.

Still, the story stayed on Einar’s mind. One day he brought the now cracking and rusting gear in his fishing boat out past Ørneredet to Hysebåene, where they said the warship had sunk. He suited up and dived. It took several tries, but he did locate the wreck. There were no bodies; all the men who had gone down with her had long since been nibbled and turned into the day’s catch. He swam into the ship, knowing that it was crazy dangerous. Found the hold, and was able to open it. 15 iron chests, too heavy to hold only seaweed. He brought three of them up to his boat and opened the first one.

It was early morning and the sun was just rising. When he pulled up the lid of the first chest, he felt blinded. The sun’s rays hit something that shone back with a hellish brilliance. Silver. Kilos and kilos of silver.

Gunnar, Alexis, and Einar had kept up their “poker club” after the armistice, playing for pennies. But Einer, a poor fisherman, wanted to raise the stakes. Where he got the money, no one knew, but the boys were soon deep in debt to him, Gunnar in particular. His Swedish wife had champagne tastes on a beer budget. Einar never collected what they owed him; he just lent them more.

Frank Åge was not invited to the poker club, but Einar saw him regularly. After the war, Frank Åge had taken a job at the local sawmill. All his earnings went to beer. Einar quietly paid his electricity bill on many occasions. Frank Åge didn’t seem to notice.

By 1953, the world had resumed its normal rotation and times were getting better. Rationing was a memory. Grocery stores were laden with produce (oranges in January!), meat, and toilet paper that didn’t take the skin off your bum. One day, a big man was waiting for Einar outside Fiskebrygga where he had delivered his catch.

“Oswald Kampainen.” He held out his hand.

It was their guide from the Sweden transport, a few years older but unforgettable.

“Herregud, mann, I never knew your name.”

“Now you do.”

“What can I say? I owe you my life.”

“Well, that’s as it may be. Not why I sought you out. I have discovered something.”

They went to a dockside café for coffee and the local version of donuts.

After three cups of coffee and equally many home-rolled cigarettes, Kampainen pulled out a tan envelope and gave it to Einar.

“He was working for them.”

“Who?”

“Open it.”

In the envelope were documents in German, which Einar didn’t read. But Oswald did. He translated:

Gunnar Eigil Katte Jeltzen brought information about four hidden radios in town. Seek and imprison.

Gunnar Jeltzen believes Hans Smeåsen is an important member of the unlawful resistance. Find and execute.

Gunnar Katte Jeltzen indicated that there was to be a resistance meeting at the home of Doctor Jonassen. Take all participants prisoner and execute.

God almighty. It went on in that vein, every document a nail in Gunnar’s coffin. Gunnar had been an informer, a collaborator. In 1953, Nazi collaborators were treated to brief prison sentences. Norway did not have capital punishment, with the one exception of Vidkun Quisling.

Einar started at Kampainen. The answer was obvious, but he didn’t want to say it aloud. He said, “I need to talk to Los Corneliussen.” Kampainen nodded.

A week later, Einar had invited to another poker game. Present were himself, Gunnar, Joacim, and Alexis. Oswald was hiding in the trees just beyond, a strong rope looped over an oak branch.

After he dealt, Einar threw the envelope in the center of the group. “Open it,” he said to Gunnar, who paled.

“It’s not how you think it is.”

“How is it then? Smeåsen was executed at Grini; Doctor Jonassen was transported to Treblinka with his wife and three sons. How many people have you killed, Gunnar?”

Gunnar got up and started running. Ran right into the arms of Oswald Kampainen.

“I have a wife and two children! Dag Eigil is only seven! I only did what I had to do. They were going to take my father because of his radio. My mother and sisters would have starved!”

It didn’t take long. The three men dragged and half carried Gunnar to the waiting tree. No one spoke. Kampainen lowered the noose around his neck and pulled, sudden and hard.

Gunnar’s body was found a week later. On his chest was pinned a note which said “I’m a traitor and a collaborator.”

The next time Einar saw Frank Åge, he told. Frank Åge felt cheated. “That one should have been mine,” he thought. “He was mine.” But he said nothing to Einar. They had a few beers and then a few more. When Einar made his wobbly way down to his boat, Frank Åge whispered to the wind “You think I don’t know, don’t you? You think I don’t know who killed my baby. Gunnar was one and he’s lost to me now. Surely he’ll burn in hell, but that’s not enough. I’ll get you, too, Einar. And the holier-than-thou pilot, and that darkling Frenchman, and even the guide that brought you to safety when you should have had none. You will all suffer and die.”

Twenty-seven years passed. Einar lost his Anne Lise to cancer. Alexis Dupreux had moved to Havnsheia with his only daughter, Toril. On a January afternoon in 1983, Alexis Jean Dupreux had just left his doctor’s office with a verdict of skin cancer, melanoma. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that right away,” said the physician cheerfully; he couldn’t have reached 30 years of age. Alexis didn’t worry. Life was short and brutal. That he had achieved 63 years was a downright miracle. He stopped in at his usual café downtown and ordered a cappuccino – his stomach couldn’t handle raw coffee anymore. An older gentleman asked if he could sit down at his table, the café being as crowded as it was. Alexis waved his hand in acceptance.

He barely glanced at the man, who was slight and stoop-shouldered. However, the man’s accent reminded him of something. “Not from here?” he asked pleasantly.

“I was born on Vågen,” the man said. His eyes didn’t seem to point in the same direction.

“Vågen? Outside Storesand? I lived there for a while. I don’t think I know you, though, do I?”

“You knew her,” said the man. “You knew my wife. You knew her in the most evil sense, I might add.”

“Excuse me?”

The older man looked up. “My name is Frank Åge Samuelsen. In 1942, you raped my wife. She died. You are responsible. For that, you will also die.”

Alexis was confused and alarmed. “You must have me confused with someone else. I have no idea what you are talking about. Good bye.” He got up to leave. The strange man grabbed his coat sleeve.

“I promised her,” he said simply. Alexis left.

Three days later, the same man showed up at his door. Ms. Dupreux, Toril, answered. She stared at the apparition, shocked.

“What the glowing hell are you doing here?”

“You remember me,” the old man said, satisfied.

“You made our lives miserable in Storesand. Because of you, we moved up here to Havnsheia. What do you want?”

“I want your father. Yes, you are a spawn of his seed and by that you carry his guilt, but it is he I want.”

“He is resting.”

“Tell him Frank Åge Samuelsen wants retribution.”

A week later, the obituary in Aftenposten read “Alexis Jean Dupreux, 63 years of age, apparently killed himself while cleaning his shotgun at his residence in Havnsheia. He is survived by his daughter, Toril Dupreux, 46, and his grandchild, Olav.” A slightly more extensive obituary ran in the renowned Storesand newspaper, the Courier.

In April 1983, Einar Iversen went over to Vågen to bring Frank Åge some herring. Frank Åge hadn’t been looking good lately; he probably needed some food other than potatoes. Frank Åge wasn’t at home. Einar took the path up the hill without thinking as his feet set themselves down one before the other. At the top, he heard a sound the like of which he never wished to hear ever again. A man, grieving.

In the clearing where so many years ago Einar had lost his virginity to the German girl, Frank Åge was kneeling. He had brought a posy of the spring’s first flowers. They were sprinkled over a cairn of stones.