Chapter 11

When Gerd opened her eyes and saw the time on her cell phone, she felt disoriented. 9 o’clock? Not 9 in the evening, surely? She couldn’t have slept all day. She remembered having gone to bed very late the night before. She had been weaving, and oblivious to the time. Tonje needed about 2.5 to 3 meters per wrap; she already had almost 12. Each length had subtle variations. No two pieces would be the same. Some day she would learn to design and sew herself; no, probably not.

If it was 9 in the morning, why hadn’t Nurket woken her up? She peeked over the edge of her bed. There he was, fully awake and waiting for her. “You let me sleep, didn’t you? What a good boy you are,” she said and he wagged his tail in agreement. Bamse, however, was of a different opinion. An earsplitting yowl came from below.

Having fed King Ursus (“Bamse” meant “Teddy Bear”), Gerd and Nurket sat down to their individual leisurely breakfasts. She decided it was late enough in the day to make an espresso. Drinking the tar dark brew made her feel like she was mainlining caffeine: ah, the nirvana of drug addiction. In her wild teens and 20’s Gerd had tried every drug there was with the exception of heroin. She had loved every one of them. Well, maybe not coke, she thought. Cocaine made her nervous.

What a thing to be thinking of on a late February morning. She had missed all the marine forecasts; they began at 3am and continued on the hour until 7. After that, only sluggards would not be up and they didn’t deserve to know. No need for a forecast, though; she looked out the living room windows. Her red, white, and blue winter banner was waving languidly in a south breeze from the top of the flagpole. The cloud cover was breaking up. It would be a beautiful day. What would be her guess: minus 2, minus 3? It surprised her a little to look at the indoor-outdoor thermometer and see that it registered minus 6. Well, that barely seen cloudbank to the southwest meant a freshening breeze in the afternoon and more snow tonight. Perfect.

Gerd checked her rakørret on the porch. It was in no danger of freezing yet; in the lee of the wind on her porch bench and warmed by the house wall it probably held about zero or a degree above. The liquid formed by the salt-brining fish would also keep it at a higher temperature that its surroundings. Salt water began to freeze at minus 4 and would take its good sweet time about it. Time to delete some email and see what comments she had gotten on her blog.

Looking up the police roster of South Coast County (Gerd wasn’t about to reveal how she got into the classified roster), she did indeed find a Dag E.K. Jeltzen as a police detective in Storesand. He had made detective that very year, in January. A check of his record gave her a little pause: his recommendations from his superiors were carefully worded. He had passed the police exams while still in high school and spent his required 3 years at the academy in Havnsheia. Had entered Storesand PD in 2006 as a beat cop. Spoke middling good Farsi. Farsi? From his thuggish behavior she would have pegged him as a racist and immigrant-hater.

She had 47 comments on her blog but wasn’t up to reading them yet. Her mind was meandering around in a past she had never known: the occupation, the secret resistance, the devastating choices that men and women had made. She put that aside and thought of what she needed in town.

She was running out of coffee, that much was certain. Gerd got out a piece of paper and started making a list.

Coffee (Santos)

Rice

Sea salt

Veggies (nothing was in season, so it was all imported from Israel and Chile, anyway)

Wine (Vinmonopolet)

Beer for Jonas

Milk? She checked her fridge and found something that looked a lot more like clotted cream.

Kefir

Coffee cream

Yeast (she felt like baking)

Flour? (No, there was plenty. She crossed that out.)

Knekkebrød

Raisins

Meat of some kind? Gerd wasn’t a vegetarian, but she rarely ate meat.

Orange juice

Maryland Cookies

Carnation evaporated milk

OK, enough. Oh, chocolate. She had had ideas of making brownies at about 2 o’clock in the morning but chocolate was not to be found. She added sugar to the list.

After her third espresso, Gerd found some clean jeans (got to do laundry), a blue mock turtleneck, and a white shirt she had forgotten to iron. She reverently took down the grey-and-white sweater Jutta had knitted for her. It almost made her want to learn to knit. There would be no rain today so she skipped her rain gear and pulled on sturdy leather boots. They were lined with sheepskin, totally decadent.

Nurket was waiting by the door, keenly sensing that a trip was being proposed. Gerd pulled out the long leash she had bought in town and said “Let’s go!” Nurket didn’t let himself be asked twice.

On her slow way in to town, Gerd was surprised by a call on her cell from Elsa Mattias, the proprietor of the 2 Nøster yarn store.

“Hei Gerd, I’m sorry I was out when you came in last.”

“Oh, no worry, the girl who served me did beautifully.”

“I’m glad. She may look a bit scary, but she really is a good girl.” The tattooed and pierced girl in question didn’t look at all scary to Gerd, but she kept quiet.

“Are you coming to town any time soon?” Elsa and Gerd were not friends, more acquaintances really, so the question was unexpected.

“Actually, I’m on my way to town right now,” Gerd replied, wondering what the other woman wanted.

“Do you think you could meet me for coffee?”

The two women had never socialized before, Elsa Mattias being at least 15 years older than Gerd.

“Sure,” she said. “Where do you want to meet?”

“How about Kaffekoppen at REMA?”

“I’ll be there by about 11:30, how does that work for you?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.” Mrs. Mattias rang off.

Gerd made a soft landing in Vika and tied up her boat, the “Illiad.” Nurket watched approvingly as she threw out the anchor and made it fast. It was almost 11:30 now; she might as well get her social responsibilities over with.

Elsa Mattias was all apologetic about being absent from the store when such an important customer had arrived, but what she really wanted to talk about was her son, Sigurd. She yakked on and on about how motorcycles were good for young people and that they learned so much messing around with engines and that people didn’t understand that at least they were outside and not hunkered over a game controller playing sadistic video games, and on and on and on. Gerd tuned out about half-way through.

“Are you coming to Einar’s funeral?” Somehow the topic had changed. Gerd collected her thoughts.

“It’s the day after tomorrow,” said Mrs. Mattias as she ate the last of the coconut macaroons. “Thursday. At the Our Savior church up on the hill.”

Gerd knew the church and was positive Einar had not wanted his earthly remains in that hypocritical ground.

“Yes. Of course I’ll be there.”

“And make sure you bring that young man of yours,” Mrs. Mattias smiled at her. Young man? First of all Jonas was 38 and second of all it was nobody’s business. Gerd smiled through clenched teeth.

“I’ll ask him, of course. I’m sorry, Elsa, but I have a long list of things to do in town. If you would excuse me?”

Elsa Mattias excused her, saying to herself that one must give allowances to artists. They being somewhat peculiar, and all. They shook hands; it didn’t seem right to hug the redoubtable Mrs. Mattias.

Nurket gave a human-sounding sigh of relief when released from under the table. Out into the clean, cold air he started regaining his composure as the important animal and Gerd Ljoset’s protector that he was. He fairly strutted as they arrived at Østerås Daglivare, Gerd’s favorite grocery store.

Østerås Daglivare was a throwback. Unlike REMA, RIMI, and its thousand cousins, Østerås Daglivare was an old-fashioned grocery store. You couldn’t check yourself out: the brothers Østerås did that for you, personally. The three brothers were Anders, Bertil, and Carl. A fourth brother, Daniel, had died young. No one knew what their mother would have done had she arrived further up the alphabet.

Anders Østerås was the oldest. Born in 1930, Anders was a permanent bachelor. Now 80 years old, nothing escaped him. No one shoplifted at Østerås Daglivare; even the worst thugs in town feared a run-in with Anders Østerås.

Bertil Østerås was born exactly a year after Anders. Their mother must have been mightily surprised. Didn’t they say you couldn’t get pregnant while you were nursing? Phah!

Bertil had married in the early 50s and soon produced a litter of kids. All were now grown and had moved away, to Oslo, to Havnsheia, to New York, and to Abu Dhabi.

The youngest of the brothers was Carl, a war baby. He had married his high school sweetheart Margrete as soon as it was legally allowed. Year after year they had waited, but no stork showed up on their roof. In the 60s and 70s, it was popular to adopt Korean orphans. In 1975, they were finally able to hold out their parental arms to ……. a 10-year old girl who only spoke Korean and very little of that. Her papers said her name was Sang-Hee. They named their nearly adolescent daughter Janicke Sang-Hee Østerås. The very same year, Mr. and Mrs. Østerås were informed that another Korean orphan girl needed their loving home, and they adopted a 4-year old, Min-Ho. Eva Min-Ho Østerås grew up speaking Korean with her unfamiliar “sister” in this small town by the Atlantic ocean. She never recovered from the shock. While Janicke adapted rapidly, learned the local language and dialect, and aced high school, Min-Ho never adjusted. At 15, she was involved in a prostitution raid. At 16, she was booked on possession of crystal meth. Carl and Margrete looked in stupefaction at this strange bird in their nest. Eva Min-Ho was a ho.

Gerd left Nurket tied up outside, which he accepted with good grace. She entered the lovely old store with oiled oak counters and pine shelves. It smelled of dried herbs and apple-seasoned tobacco smoke. Anders smoked a pipe. Ever since she had arrived in this town seven years ago with suicide on her mind, the smell of Anders’ pipe smoke had calmed Gerd’s demons.

“Ms. Ljoset.”

“Mr. Østerås.” They were formal here in the Østerås grocery store. Gerd appreciated it.

“What can we help you with today?” It would never have occurred to the Østerås brothers to wade in and ask about uncomfortable things like death and murder before having served their customer’s needs, and probably not then. Gerd produced her list. Bertil Østerås sent a young woman in a pale blue apron scurrying around to supply Gerd.

Only when she had her purchases lined up to perfection on the oak counter did Bertil broach the subject on everyone’s minds.

“It was sad about Mr. Iversen.”

“It was. He was a rock on the island, someone we all counted on.” Now that wasn’t exactly true. Einar had been distant, cat-loving, and beer-seeking, but none of that mattered now.

“I hear the funeral is Thursday.” This was Anders. Four score years old and upright as a flagpole.

“Yes. At Our Savior’s at noon. Please come,” said Gerd whose business it wasn’t to invite anybody.

“I was 15 at liberation,” said Anders, his eyes in the past. “I remember it like it was yesterday. Iversen, Katte, and that Flemish guy were gone. We all hoped they had made it to Sweden. Then two years later they show up. What a time it was.”

“I don’t think Katte returned until 49,” Bertil corrected him. “Or was it 48? He brought a Swedish wife, I remember. What was her name again? They lived here a while, I think, she and her son. It was difficult for them after the unfortunate incident.” Thus, delicately, did Bertil Østerås refer to Gunnar Katte’s suicide in the woods.

“Awful times,” agreed his older brother, and they packed up Gerd’s groceries. Anders called a sullen teenager and told him to carry Gerd’s purchases to her boat. Gerd protested that her boat was tied up practically at their doorstep, but this made no difference to the two old gentlemen. They waved goodbye and bade her greet every single person on Lyholmen by name. It took a while.

Nurket, Gerd, and the unnamed teenager walked the 20 steps to her boat. She offered him a 20 kroner piece for his trouble, but he declined. “The old geezers won’t let me,” he murmured, and retreated to the dim store.

Gerd cast off. The sun was setting over Vågen in brilliant shades of green and orange. By the time they made fast at her dock, it was already dark.

Her house should have been shining like a beacon. Gerd knew she had left the lights on, the electricity bill be damned. As they hauled groceries up the dark path, Nurket began to growl. What was going on?

Gerd never locked the door. No one did on Lyholmen. There was a lock and there was a key but she had no idea where. Probably another power outage, what was the county up to?

Someone was sitting in her best leather chair. Bamse had made himself scarce.

“Who are you?” No one on the island would have been sitting in her chair, saying nothing.

“I have been waiting for you.” It was that ambulance driver, that police detective. Jeltzen.

“Is there a power outage?” Gerd’s mind was on practical things. He laughed. Not a happy laugh.

“No. The light hurts my eyes. I pulled the main fuse.”

“You couldn’t just turn out some lights?” Now Gerd was getting irritated. This man had invaded her space twice now. She had no more patience.

“Gerd Ljoset, all I want from you is what belongs to me. You have it. Give it to me.”

“Give you what?” Gerd was truly discombobulated. What on earth could she have that this man could want?

“Elspeth Torkjeldsen is a chatterbox, like all women,” he said. “I told her I was interested in researching local war history, and she showed me books, photographs, even an old amateur film. She also said she had given you a box of some old letter that belonged to Einar Iversen. I want that box.”

Gerd stood her ground, not afraid yet.

“What is Einar Iversen to you? He was old enough to have been your grandfather,” she said, confidently.

“That is none of your business. Just give me the box and I’m out of here. You are messing with police business, Ms. Ljoset.”

“Then let the police come and ask me,” said Gerd as she turned to the fuse box to flip the main switch back again. In a breath, he was at her side. His hands rested around her throat. Nurket went ballistic.

“The letters belong to me,” he said, more menacingly than before. “My grandfather was Gunnar Katte, Gerd. He didn’t commit suicide. I have reason to believe he was summarily executed by your fine upstanding friends. I want the evidence. It’s mine.”

“Hallo the house!” A loud voice broke the silence. Gerd started and Dag stepped back.

Anita Vadoma was coming up the stone stairs, shawls and scarves trailing in the wind. She carried something in her hands.

“Eigil Katte, as I live and breathe. What are you doing here? Apologizing to Gerd for your uncouth behavior?” Anita was no one’s fool. Nor was she to be fooled with when the gypsy was up in her. Dag Eigil stood down.

“I was just leaving,” he muttered as he squeezed by the two women.

“Give my regards to your father!” shouted Anita as he beat a hasty retreat down the path. Gerd flipped the main fuse switch back on.

What Anita had in her hands was a freshly baked blackberry pie. She placed it on the counter. The two women first put away the groceries before conversation could commence. Nurket trailed Anita around as if she were an angel of doggie god.

Gerd ground coffee beans and made a fresh pot. Put out her grandmother’s good cake plates on the dining room table and the China mocha cups. Silver cake forks. They sat down.

“Tell me the whole story,” Anita said simply.

Gerd did. Finding Einar’s body, los Joacim beaten up, this ambulance driver / detective that stalked her. Everyone muttering, half-whispered stories of war and treachery told sub-voce. Gerd didn’t give a shit what Einar had done in a war that ended 65 years ago. Who the hell was Frank Åge, who was Katte, and what was this about a Frenchman and a Finn?

Anita started telling Gerd what she knew.

“What do you know of the coastal gypsies? There used to be convoys of families living on boats and making their living sharpening knives and repairing copper kettles all up and down this coast,” Anita began. “Most of that died out with the century, but a few families were still plying these waters in the years before the war. My mother’s name was Lala Vadoma. She had been affianced against her will and when she discovered herself pregnant, she jumped ship. She never told me very much about it all, but my aunt Maia let something slip now and then. I was born here on Lyholmen in 1939, in the very house I own now.” The old lady seemed lost in memories. Gerd couldn’t see what all this had to do with that man Eigil whatshisname, but she wisely kept quiet. She poured more coffee.

“I don’t remember the war, of course. But when I was 14, there was a big uproar about a war hero that had been found hanging in the woods. I was feeling sad for him, as a teenager would, when Aunt Maia set me straight. ‘Don’t cry for that man,’ she said. ‘That man was no good. He was an informer and he drove many innocent men to their graves.’ I didn’t know what an informer was, but I knew it was bad. That man was Gunnar Katte Jeltzen. He had a son with his war trophy wife from Sweden, Harald. Harald grew up totally different from his father, meek, kind, and generous to a fault. As God be my witness, Harald didn’t deserve his fate. He married a slut from Jonsstrand and together they had Eigil. Eigil was bad news from birth. He was the kind of boy that set fire to cats and pulled the wings off butterflies. The grandfather comes back true in Eigil. That’s who bedeviled you tonight.”

“But tante,” Gerd protested. “That man says he is a police officer. His name is Dag.”

“Yes,” Tanta Anita nodded sadly. “Dag Eigil Katte Jeltzen. Spawn of evil.” She spat on the floor and Gerd didn’t even move. “Katte Jeltzen?” All of a sudden the pieces of the puzzle arranged themselves. Dag was the grandson of Gunnar Katte, the collaborator. The man mentioned in the documents in the box. The man the Courier said had committed suicide in 1953. Had he really hanged himself?

Their coffee had grown cold. Neither noticed. Both were wandering in their own memories, memories of good, of evil, of treachery, and of forgiveness.

Finally, Anita picked up Gerd’s cell phone from the table. “You need your man with you tonight,” she said authoritatively. Gerd protested weakly. Anita looked at the strange contraption, figured it out in less than a minute, and dialed Jonas.

“Hello, darling.”

“Jonas van der Linden, this is Anita Vadoma.” The voice in his ear was a shock.

“How did you get Gerd’s phone? Where are you? Is she OK?” Jonas’ sentences stumbled over one another.

“She is alive. She has been seriously disturbed by an evil man. I want you to come out here to stay with her tonight.” Tanta Anita’s voice could not be refused. Not that he was trying to.

“What the hell ……..” Jonas began.

“You come. Now.” Anita ended the call.

11 minutes later, Jonas was at Gerd’s dock. 12 minutes later, he was at her side. Anita smiled at the enraged man wanting only to protect the woman he loved. Nurket barked to explain the situation. Bamse just smiled his cat smile, expecting all to be well tomorrow morning, with herring and cream.

Gerd was being a little difficult, so Anita had to intervene. “You stay,” she pointed at Jonas. “You listen to him,” she told Gerd. With that, Anita felt she had completed her mission and started to gather her shawls and wraps.

“Ms. Vadoma, would you like me to walk you home?” It was Jonas. Anita was mightily surprised that he knew her family name.

“No, thank you young man. The light of the Lord shines on my path, and besides,” said the ever-practical Anita, “I brought a flashlight. Good night.”