Chapter 3: Monday Night

“Cómo quisiera poder vivir sin aire,” Gerd sang along with Pandora radio.

“Cómo quisiera poder vivir sin agua. Me encantaría …….”

And what she would love appeared as a dark shadow outside her kitchen door. She hadn’t heard his steps, hadn’t heard a thing over her own tone-deaf accompaniment to Maná. She turned and smiled as he opened the door.

He walked in, grabbed her around the waist and swung her nearly to the ceiling. Not such a feat: the ceilings were low in these old houses. But for all her 1 meter 68 centimeters, she ducked her head and giggled anyway.

“Jonasito, put me down. I’m making the roux for the soup.”

“The what? I’ll make you rue such a request. And me a starving man.” Jonas bent his tall frame over her and nibbled her neck. “Mmmm. Something smells good. Are you baking?”

Gerd laughed again and turned to the stove.

“Simplest of dinners after a hard night and a long day. Fresh baked bread and fish stew.”

“You had a hard night? Let me tell you ….”

“No,” Gerd interrupted. “Me first. I just need to add some more milk to this, then I can push it aside. Could you get me a glass of wine?”

Jonas loomed tall in her diminutive kitchen, 1m. 90 in his stockinged feet. Tall and somewhat gangly, Jonas van der Linden was a few years older than her 33. Sometimes he grew a brown beard; right now he was clean shaven. Brown curly hair a tad too long (she liked it that way); hair one could run one’s fingers through and hold on to when necessary. Brown eyes. Long face, gentle mouth. Jonas was a teacher at the local high school. He had arrived in Storesand as a substitute teacher a few years ago, not long before they met. And that had been nearly three years ago now, on a cold night much like this one. He had taken one look at the short, plump woman arguing with the fish buyers like a longshoreman and promptly decided to stay. They had offered him tenure soon afterward.

He pulled two glasses off the shelf and filled them both from the wine box. Nearly spilled the wine when something soft touched his leg and tried to lick his pants. “What on earth is that?”

“Does it look like a dog?”

“It decidedly does. Hey little dude, where did you crawl out from?” He gave her one glass, put his on the counter and pretzeled himself all the way down to the floor. He rubbed the little dog’s ears and was treated to ecstatic face-washing.

“Two questions. One, where did he come from and two, how is he holding his own against Bamse?”

The feline in question was glaring at them both from his throne in the living room. Such shenanigans were beneath contempt as far as Bamse was concerned. He has just started getting used to the male human – it had only taken 36 months – but now this almost-respectable human had shown that he would lower himself as far as greeting a stinky dog before coming directly to him to pay his respects. Completely unacceptable.

“Thereby hangs a tale.” Gerd added homemade vegetable stock and a cup of fish stock (her own recipe) to the roux, emptied in the vegetables she had cut up, and put all to simmer. The fish and shrimp would go in last. She added a few sprigs of dried herbs tied with string that she would ladle out before serving the soup. The bread probably had another 30 minutes to go. She brought her wine into the living room and sat down on the couch. Jonas settled in beside her. The as-yet unnamed dog lay down by her feet, another slave to love.

“I went out to empty the salmon nets this morning,” Gerd began. Jonas started to interrupt but thought the better of it. He nodded.

“Over 90 kilos!” Gerd continued proudly. Then a shadow came over her face.

“When I was coming back I suddenly saw some flashes of light over by Treungene. There was barely a cloud in the sky; it couldn’t be lightening. I saw it again, several times. Actually, I thought someone was signaling with something. I was the only one out (Jonas glared at her, but she paid no attention), so I decided I had to go investigate. It was so sad.”

“So? Are you going to make me guess?”

She shook her head. “No, no. I was just thinking ….. When I got out there I saw it was old Einar Iversen’s boat. It was all properly tied up, not shipwrecked. He was inside. Jonas, he was dead.”

“And you were all alone? What’s with you and dead bodies, anyway?”

“It’s not as if I make a habit of this, Johnnie,” Gerd said defensively. Yes there had been that time last year when she had had to help the police interpret graffiti that was continuously sprayed on the wall of the kiosk in the central plaza in town (the language had turned out to be Catalan) and then one of the innvandrer gang members had turned up dead, and ……. Better not to think about that.

“I was about to tow the boat into town with Einar’s body in it when I heard something that sounded like whining. It took me a while to find, but guess,” she looked down with a maternal smile, “Nurket there was hiding in a little cave all wet and hungry and very lost. I brought him home, of course. We’ll find out later who he belongs to.”

Jonas wasn’t going to argue, neither with her grammar nor with her stated intentions. It was obvious that the two had already bonded and Bamse realized it as well. Intruder number two. What was the world coming to?

“That’s his name, Nurket?”

“Well, he’ll need a better name later, but for now he is.”

The object in question was dozing, tummy full to stretching and snuggled up against a warm, human foot. Life was good.

“How old do you think he is?” Jonas looked at the paws so out of proportion with the rest of the furry ball.

“I don’t know. Three or four months, I guess. He still has his milk teeth.”

“So what happened with Einar?”

“When I got within range, I called the hospital and they sent down an ambulance to meet us. An orderly, I think his name was Jenssen, said he’d take care of the boat. I gave them my number; I’m sure the police will need to talk to me. Funny that they haven’t called yet.”

She smelled that the bread was almost ready. “Could you set the table? Plates and the deep soup bowls. I’ll just add the cod and the shrimp to the soup and let it simmer a few more minutes.” She went into the kitchen, lifted the lid off the pot and inhaled the aroma. The lemon verbena she had dried in the fall was heavenly with fish stew. She had steamed the cod pieces and defrosted the shrimp earlier; they would need no more than 5 minutes to warm up.

Gerd opened the oven door and knocked on the bread crust. Nice and hollow. Yes, they were done. She brought out a crock of home-churned butter she got from the Metzinger farm in return for salmon and the occasional woven piece. “Never eat newly baked bread,” her mother had always warned. “You’ll get a stomach-ache.” No, she wouldn’t. Gerd had put that maternal advice into the big basket of “things my mother believes she knows but truly doesn’t.”

Jonas carried the big pot to the table and they ate peacefully, talking of inconsequential things. He was suddenly reminded of their morning, so out of character, but wisely decided that this was not the time to bring it up. More of that later – he smiled to himself.

After dinner they tidied up the dishes. Jonas made two espressos in the fancy machine he had given her (he knew she mostly used the regular coffee side of the machine, but when he was here it was espresso and cake or cookies for dessert). Gerd brought out some coconut macaroons Gamlefru Andresen had baked and they munched happily down to the last coconut crumb.

“Want to go for a walk?”

Well no, that wasn’t what Jonas wanted most, but it was only 6:30 after all. In February the sun at this latitude – when there was sun – rose around 9am and set before 3. But the twilight began before 7 in the morning and lasted well past 5 at night. L’heure bleu. Now, though, it was black as midnight. He glanced out: actually it wasn’t as dark as it should have been. Ah, full moon.

“Yes, let me get a sweater. How cold is it?”

“Not cold at all, 2 above zero. We haven’t had much snow this winter, have we?”

“No, not nearly enough.” Jonas was a skier – only recreational of course – but he did love to stretch out his long legs on cross-country skis and cover the miles. Down here on the south coast of Norway they either got 2 meters of wet snow dumped on them or nothing. This seemed to be a nothing year.

They pulled on sweaters and parkas and headed out. Gerd grabbed two flashlights, but the moon was so brilliant that they didn’t really need them. Halfway down the path, Jonas stopped.

“Something wrong?”

“Not a thing. I just remembered that I hadn’t kissed you properly.”

Gerd smiled and let him embrace her. One of the best things about Jonas, one of the many best things, was the way he kissed. Soft yet firm, insistent but not demanding. Several heartbeats later she was somewhat out of breath. Even through layers of clothing she felt his obvious response. She pulled out of his arms and pointed to the big spruce at the entrance to the path.

“He has grown so big I’m thinking of asking Henkie to cut him down.”

She was thinking what? Oh, the tree. Jonas grinned and offered her his arm. They could barely walk side-by-side on this narrow path, but they made a good attempt.

The beach was breathtaking in moon- and starlight. A few patches of old snow from Christmas lingered in hollows here and there. Not a soul on the water; anyone sensible would be inside, kids probably playing video games and the grown-ups waiting for the news at 7. Waves the color of petroleum and rose pink watered silk lapped the shore and the sand was moon-bleached white. Only a few seagull tracks marred its perfection.

They passed the old customs house and several closed-up vacation houses and cottages. Gerd really did live in the most isolated spot she could have found on this island of less than 50 souls. In the summer of course the population tripled and quadrupled, but for now it was just them. The locals.

In Tante Anita’s window the porcelain dogs turned their eyes to the sea. They had never been turned any other way that anyone could remember. Who was she waiting for? Anita never said and no one dared ask.

Coming down the second hill, Gamlefru Andresen’s house was on the left. It was a huge house, probably built in the 1880s. Two full stories with stone steps down to her docks (there were two) and the boat sheds and other sheds. The story was that Captain Andresen needed two docks so that when he came home the worse for wear, if he missed one of them he could always make the other. Andersen had passed away long before Gerd came to the island.

They saw flickering blue light in the downstairs daily room. As she aged, fru Andresen needed less and less space. She lived in the kitchen, the day room with the sleeping alcove, and– wonder of wonders – the running water bathroom she had installed to everyone’s surprise. A tub for soaking in, a flush toilet, a sink, and even (it was rumored) heating cables in the floor under the marble tiles. She was probably dozing in front of the news; Gerd and Jonas didn’t want to disturb her sherry dreams.

But Jutta Juve was in the window doing the dishes and she noticed the strollers. She waved at them and made gestures for them to come in. Jutta was a delight. Never one to really gossip, she could tell the most hair-raising stories with a look of utter innocence on her wide face. “Come in, come in out of the cold. What are you crazy people doing out at this time of night?”

“Cup of coffee?” Jutta was pouring their cups full. Henrik dozed in front of Dagsrevyen and hadn’t noticed them yet. They didn’t want coffee, but coffee and Maryland Cookies they got. They sipped dutifully.

“What is this I hear about Einar? Is it true you found him Gerd?” Jutta did not go round-about into anything. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes was her way. But it was never unkind.

“Yes. It’s really sad.”

“I don’t know. At his age, I would think a heart attack.”

“I doubt it.” Henrik had come alive in front of the old TV. “He just had a full exam a week ago. Told me his doc said his heart was as strong as a thirty-year-old’s.”

“I think he was murdered,” Jutta said ominously.

“What??”

Jutta considered her words. “So here it was Friday morning. I had just finished a load of laundry and was wondering whether it was warm enough to hang them on the line. So I’m in my back yard, right? In winter with no leaves on the trees, I can see right into Einar’s house. He was in his kitchen window agitated as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Jumping up and down, talking on that old black rotary phone of his. Next thing I see him running toward his boat coat all askew. What am I going to think?”

They stared at her, dumbfounded.

“But …… but you didn’t tell anyone he was gone?” It was Jonas who got his words back first.

“I found him today, Monday,” was Gerd’s low and measured voice. It sounded a trifle icy.

“Didn’t need to, did I? Frank Åge called me around noon to say not to worry.”

“Who the hell is Frank Åge?” Three voices collided together.

Jutta turned to her disheveled husband. “You know Frank Åge Samuelson, Henkie. That old geezer on Vågen. Always telling stories about the war to anyone who will listen.”

“Hmmmmm,” was all her husband could say.

“Why would Frank Åge call you, Jutta?” Gerd’s voice was mild. Jutta blushed a little.

“Well, you see, I knew him back in my younger days. Knew him quite well, actually. Very well.”

Silence. Everyone knew Jutta’s wild past. Even if Frank Åge had been 40 years older than her ……. Jutta had been a kind-hearted whore. She found it very hard to turn down anyone.

They stared at each other. “So,” Gerd started again, “Frank Åge called you – here – to tell you not to worry about Einar. And then what?”

“Well, I assumed that the two of them just went on a bender, that’s all. I couldn’t know someone would do him in, could I?”

“I don’t think anyone did him in, Jutta,” Gerd said soothingly to the upset woman who was about to burst into tears. “But I do wonder,” she continued softly, “what he was doing out at Treungen. And with a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Yes.” She had to tell the story again. “I found a small dog, a puppy with no collar out at Treungen. Cold, wet, and hungry. I took him home.”

“What kind of dog?” This was Henrik.

“A Labrador, I think. Or something like it. He’s a puppy. Someone must have lost him.”

No way they could. You couldn’t accidentally lose a puppy on an uninhabited island miles from shore. But Gerd didn’t want to go into that. Something dark began to shine in her eyes.

They turned the conversation over to more pleasant subjects and, as soon as politely possible, made their farewells. Gerd wound her scarf (woven, not knitted) around her neck as they exited.

Neither wanted to continue their walk. Without a word, Gerd and Jonas started up the hill again. At the beach, they stopped, seeing a lone figure at the end of Patelsen’s dock. The Patelsen family were in Havnsheia; they never set foot on the island if the weather wasn’t perfect. Who was this?

Jonas motioned to Gerd to stay back and he walked a few steps out on the dock.

“Hey there, is everything all right?”

The figure turned and they saw Los Corneliussen. His face was red. Had he been crying out here on the dock?

“Hei, los,” said Gerd, “Shall we help you get home?”

The old man looked at her as if he had never seen her before. “Gerd Ljoset?”

“Yes, los. It’s me. And Jonas. You know Jonas. He’s a teacher in town.”

“Lille Gerd. I’m so sorry,” said the pilot. He started walking past them.

“Los Joacim, we’ll help you get home. It’s late now,” said Gerd.

“No thank you, young folks. I know where I live. I was just sitting here thinking about what these waters have seen. Back in ’43 there was a February just like this one. Mild and soft. But ’42 was the coldest winter in memory. Do you remember 1942?”

No, Gerd couldn’t actually remember, having been born in 1977.

She said, “I have heard about the winter of ’42, los. They say the sea ice went all the way out to Ørneredet.”

“It did,” said the pilot. Meters thick. We drove trucks all the way out there. Couldn’t fish, the ice was so thick. People starved that winter, girl.”

“It must have been terrible,” said Gerd mildly. “Come, los, let us see you home.”

The three of them walked and shuffled up the path and down again toward the pilot’s house. At his door he stopped to thank them, but another thought had formed.

“That was were the Sieg went down, you know. A mile outside Ørneredet. The ice out there was mushy, couldn’t get anything through. Neither trucks nor boats. And their radio had fried. They had no contact with anyone. Starved to death, every one of them.”

“I have heard that story, los,” said Jonas, always interested in history. “Did you see the ship?”

“Oh yes I saw it, young man. I saw it every day for a month. Only one man could make it out to that ship, and he only brought one person back.”

“Who made it out, Los Corneliussen?”

“Don’t you know, girl? Frank Åge Samuelson, it was. And he returned with her.”

With this, the old pilot shuffled into his house. Jonas and Gerd looked at each other, surprised. In the space of an hour, someone’s name had been mentioned twice. Someone they hardly knew and then only as a bitter old geezer slowly freezing to death out at the tip of Vågen. What was the connection? No connection at all? What had really happened here in the winter of 1942, the coldest winter in memory?

Chapter 4: 1942

Thump!

Frank Åge hunched his shoulders a bit more and lowered his head. Any lower and his nose would touch his textbook.

Thump! Thump!!

Pretty soon there would be no school, no books, and no more teachers’ dirty looks. But today, February 9^th, 1942, there was still homework. Had he known that the teachers’ vocal anti-Nazi protests would provoke a month-long “holiday” in less than 3 weeks, perhaps Frank Åge would have been less studious. But the light was fading, there was no electricity today, and other than a borrowed Superman comic book (which he had promised himself he would read burning a precious candle when all was winter quiet in the house), all Frank Åge had to preoccupy himself was an ancient Norwegian history textbook.

Thump!! And a groan, the only shout his bed-ridden father could produce.

If he didn’t go up there soon, the widow Jonsson from across the alley would be here scolding him endlessly. Frank Åge sought the lesser of two evils. He dragged his long limbs from beneath the scarred and wobbly table and started up the stairs with the enthusiasm of a man going to his own execution.

“Father, can I get you anything?”

His father could only whisper, but even that stank of evil. “Come in here, son.”

Frank Åge opened the door a crack. The room was dark, but the smell was unmistakable: his father had pissed himself again. He couldn’t do it; he just couldn’t. “Do you need something, father?” he asked from the doorway.

“Get me a beer.”

Yeah right, sure he could scare up a beer in this winter of minus 20 with no power and barely enough firewood to heat the downstairs so the ice didn’t form on the floor. “I’ll go look,” said Frank Åge and closed the door.

His father had been a strong man, never tall, but with arms of steel. Had been a steel-worker, in fact, a smelter. But around the miserable Christmas with neither tree nor presents, old Samuelsen had suddenly not been able to get out of bed. His left hand dangled over the edge of the bed and his voice had been reduced to a hoarse grunt. The left side of his face slacked like a horror movie and his eyes didn’t focus. Frank Åge had brought a doctor who only said “stroke” and left, not asking for money they didn’t have. Since then, Frank Åge had brought him the bed pan and emptied it behind the shed, and fed him as best he could. They had been alone, father and son, for three years since his mother died. And a blessed death it had been – for her – because Petra Samuelsen had known nothing but abuse and disdain from her husband since the boy had been born so weak. One leg shorter than the other and that right eye that never pointed the same way as the left. But Petra had loved her son as only a mother could and her death was a constant ache in Frank Åge’s chest.

He went outside with the brimming, foul-smelling bedpan. Smash! A snowball hit him square on the head and he dropped the bedpan. The contents ran over his shoes before they froze.

“Åge, Åge, sistemann på toget!”

The taunting of the little kids didn’t bother him so much anymore. He was 16 now, had in fact turned 16 two days ago, not that anyone noticed. He was a man. He could quit school, he suddenly realized. He could just walk out the door and leave. The thought was exhilarating – the best thought he had had in months of cold and darkness. Somewhere, there was light; he was sure of it. Somewhere the other men wouldn’t avert their eyes when they saw him coming. Somewhere there would be a girl, a pretty and quiet girl, who would smile at him and let him hold her hand.

“Pissed on yourself, did you? It’s not easy when it’s so small, that’s for sure.” Einar Iversen stood leaning up against the fence, smoking a home-rolled cigarette. Where he got the tobacco in these rationing times, no one knew. Frank Åge couldn’t tell whether what he had said was a slight on his manhood or just a statement of fact in minus 11. He mumbled something.

“What?”

“I said I just tripped.”

He heard laughter. From behind Einar’s trim frame a girl peeked out. An embroidered shawl covered her hair and she had on at least two coats, but she was still skinny. “Frank Åge, are you coming to the dance this Saturday?”

No, he goddamn well wasn’t going to no dance. With his lame leg he could barely walk straight and he had never danced. Even in the bitter cold, his face flushed in shame. The girl trilled out another laugh and tugged on Einar’s arm. “Come, honey, let’s get away from here. It stinks.”

Einar shrugged and made a face at Frank Åge, but he let himself be pulled away for all that. Frank Åge found the bedpan, which had rolled up against a tree, cleaned it with snow and hurried back in to the little warmth there was in the shack.

In the ancient, sooty fireplace was an iron bar that could be moved back and forth. Frank Åge guessed that in the far past, they had done what he was doing now: fill an iron pot with snow and swing it back over the fire to melt. When the water was boiling, he’d put in three potatoes, just three, and one of the rutabagas Fru Maisen had given him. He’d cut them up first; that way they got softer. Then he’d add the tiniest pinch of salt (salt was precious) and, when the whole mess was softened so his father could masticate it, he’d bring half of it upstairs with one of the salted herrings they had left. “Leave,” he thought, “I can leave.”

After they had both eaten, his father finally fell asleep. Frank Åge lit a stub of a candle and reverently pulled out the Superman comic from under his textbooks. Einar had handed it to him only a few days ago, saying “Hey, check this out. I have read it; you’re welcome to borrow it.”

The cover showed Superman in front of the American flag, the proud eagle looking fierce. Frank Åge wanted to postpone the reading and sat staring at the cover for a long time. Was it an eagle? It looked more like a fish hawk. Frank Åge looked at those strong wings. An airplane pilot, he thought. That’s what I’ll be. A bomber pilot doesn’t need legs. The candle stub sputtered. Frank Åge banked the fire and pulled all the blankets and quilts he had over next to the fireplace. He fell asleep thinking of his mother and dreamed of flying.

In the morning, after a meager breakfast of watery oatmeal, he was about to put his textbooks in his bag when there was a knock on the door. He opened it, cautiously. He had never known any good news to come in that way. It was one of his father’s old buddies from the smelter works.

“Hey, kid. Your father up?”

“No, he’s not feeling well.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you going out to the lighthouse?”

To the lighthouse? Whatever for? Frank Åge just looked at him.

“Didn’t you hear, kid? A German warship went aground on Hysebåene last night. Stuck in sea ice. Theyre waving flags to signal, guess their radio is out.”

This was the first winter in his 16 years that Frank Åge had known the ice to freeze solid all the way out to Ørneredet. He had seen trucks driving past him on the ice and people had skied and pulled sleds as far out as they could, some to gape and some to fish. He could dig out his old skis and join them.

The hell with school, this was something new. Why didn’t the German fleet come to rescue their own? Didn’t they know where it was?

Frank Åge strapped on his old, wide skis and set out. It was probably 5 nautical miles from him to Ørneredet. It took him two hours, but now he was within close reach of the island. He was a bit nervous about the rocky edges; sea ice was especially treacherous there, but there were several dozen people ahead of him and a huge truck had driven all the way out and up the boat ramp in the island itself.

The warship was huge, bristling with guns. But it was also far away – way out at the Hysebåene skerries. He didn’t have binoculars, but someone lent him a pair. At the railing stood a man in the ugly beige German uniform. He seemed to be directing something. They were running different colored flags up and down the lines. No one knew what they meant and if anyone did, they kept silent about it.

A week went by and nothing happened. The ship was still there, but now less of a tourist attraction. The crew had resorted to throwing bottles with messages into the water. Some of them were found. In the beginning the messages were angry orders, “Get your lazy treasonous asses out here and help us!” Another week passed, and the messages became meeker, “We are running out of food, water, and fuel for the stoves. Please help.”

On February 24, Frank Åge found a bottle himself. He had gone out by himself. Out by the lighthouse he ran into a group of boys from school – he rapidly changed direction. Near the eastern side of the lighthouse, the solid ice was turning mushy and he was just about to turn around and go home when he spied the bottle. He picked it up and put it inside his jacket.

At home, he used up another half candle to pry open the bottle and retrieve the message. It was in German. His German wasn’t very good, but he understood a few words.

Todes – hilfen – tochter.

Something about death, help and ….. a daughter? Meines einliche kind. The message was signed Oberst Gernleitner. There was a woman on board?

All night Frank Åge tossed and turned, wondering what to do. That the soldiers and sailors could freeze and starve to death he had no problem with. Invading bastards. But a girl? “My only child?”

In the morning, he had decided. Blind Olav up the hill had a horse, old and decrepit, that was true, but still a horse. Olav had asked him to come cut some firewood many times, and he hadn’t done it. Now he could say that he would cut several cords for him if he could just borrow the horse for a few hours.

No problem – Olav had no use for the horse this winter. Practically no hay left, anyway. It was as good as sausage, or at least glue.

The rowboat was in the falling-down boatshed. In the freezing morning, Frank Åge hauled the boat out on the ice and fixed a kind of rope around the horse’s neck. After a few false starts, the contraption worked. They made progress across the ice.

Frank Åge and the nameless horse pulled the row boat across the ice. It was early and there was no one out. They reached the end of the solid ice and the beginning of the mushy sea ice. Frank Åge released the horse from its harness; he might be here later or he might not, but either way these were end times. He pushed the boat into the slushy water and got on board.

Rowing was a challenge; he kept hitting ice with every stroke. But slowly, he gained on the huge German warship. He said nothing, just looked up at the railing 20 meters above. A haggard face appeared.

They had nothing to say to one another, couldn’t speak each other’s language, in fact. The face disappeared and reappeared with a rope ladder. He threw it over the railing.  A second figure appeared, small and huddled. The face hugged her and kissed her once and then pushed her to descend the ladder to Frank Åge’s boat. She made the boat and cowered on the floorboards.

Frank Åge turned around. He didn’t understand anything, but it seemed that this Oberst Gernleitner was about to release his daughter to the mercy of the enemy. He rowed and pulled and slowly got the boat back within reach of solid ice. Not solid enough; he couldn’t get close. The old horse, the one who was just about sausage, appeared. Frank Åge threw a rope from his boat to the horse in desperation. The horse grabbed it with his teeth and pulled. As they scraped the ice, Frank Åge grabbed the shivering girl and shoved her onto it.

There was no way to get the boat back on the ice. He left it. Showed her onto the back of the ancient horse and began the long trek home.

*************************

Her name was Lise lotte. After she had thawed by the meager fireplace and he had been able to heat some soup for her, she revealed a head of spun-gold hair, a little face, and eyes that already looked on eternity. Frank Åge kept her downstairs; his father never knew they had a guest.

Days passed, then weeks. Nearly a month after he had rescued the girl a storm came up and when it was over, the proud warship was gone. Lise Lotte looked out the window and cried. Frank Åge did everything he could for her: found her food and chopped firewood with abandon to heat their little nest. She never smiled.

A month later, he was about to fall asleep on the blankets he kept near the fireplace when he felt her nearby. She lifted the blankets and rested beside him. A tentative hand came out and stroked his chest. Frank Åge was paralyzed. Some time in the night, he turned to her and began to explore her tiny body under the coats. Without a word, the two became one by ancient prerogative.

All his remaining life, Frank Åge would remember the month of March, 1942. They woke up together in the morning rolled up in blankets and quilts, his dick hard and she soft, warm, and welcoming. They kept house. He didn’t go to school. With gestures, he forbade her to go upstairs. They cooked soup out of what he could fish and spent the long dark evenings exploring bodies and a few, tentative words.

One day, his father fell out of bed. Frank Åge was out fishing. Alarmed at the noise, Lise Lotte ascended the rickety stairs. The old man was lying on the floor covered in filth. She tried to clean him. He asked her something she didn’t understand.

“Wie bitte?”

His eyes grew wide. “German whore,” he muttered. Lise Lotte fled.

She had to go outside sometime. To the necessary, to the woodpile, or to hang their ragged clothing, freshly washed in the freezing water, on the line. Sometimes a few boys would gather across the fence. They stared at her with malicious intent. Lise Lotte bowed her head and escaped inside as soon as possible. One time there were three of them. The dark-haired boy who seemed sympathetic, the fool they called Gunnar, and the brown-eyed Alexis. They decided something among themselves and climbed the fence. Lise Lotte tried to run to the shack, but they were faster and stronger. They dragged her into the woods.

She never told him, her rescuer. She bled a few days, but she smiled and hinted that it was that time of month. By the end of May, the weather had turned and the days were getting long. Lise Lotte realized that her time of month had not come twice. She was innocent, but no fool. She knew.

That morning, she made Frank Åge her best oatmeal, with a dab of precious butter and salt. He was a man in paradise. The fishing had been good and he had even been able to trade cut firewood for a dress for her. It was blue, with little daisies. After breakfast, he went to sea again.

Frank Åge came back late that day. He had hit upon a school of herring and had hauled the boat full to the gunwales. He had sold almost all of it and had actual coin in his pocket. She would be so proud of him.

Opening the door, he knew something wasn’t right. Something was dangling from the rafters, thin, shoeless feet and something blue with flowers. There were small brown drips on the floor. His heart imploded.

Much later, he cut her down. He laid her on the quilts and blankets they had used for a bed and closed her eyes. In the dark of night, he went out with a shovel to do the worst thing in his life. Up on top of the hill there was a little clearing where he thought the soil would be deep enough. Frank Åge dug with the strength of Hercules. An hour later, he went back down to the shack to collect her. He gently rolled her into the blankets, and for the last time, carried her close to his heart up the merciless hill. The dirt hit her face like thunder. Then he went back home, up to his father’s bedroom, and put a pillow over the old man’s face until he stopped struggling.

The grave remained unmarked. Only Frank Åge knew where it was, and he brought her fresh flowers every Sunday.

Two weeks later, Einar and Lexis showed up while he was chopping wood.

“Where’s your girlfriend?”

Frank Åge only shrugged.

“Tyskertøse,” said Alexis, and spat. “Only good for one thing.” Frank Åge kept chopping. Einar looked a bit shameful.

“We didn’t mean any harm, you know,” he finally muttered.

“Oh, fuck you Einar,” said Alexis. “You had her, too.”

Frank Åge stared at them as realization dawned. “What did you do to her?”

“She had it coming, filthy German whore.” This was Alexis.

“What did you do?” he shouted. “What did you do to Lise Lotte?”

The two shook their heads and walked away. Frank Åge started after them along, long while.

They would die, every one of them. They had killed the only woman he had ever loved and who had loved him back. They would die, and slowly.