The Quisling Orchid Read online

  The Quisling Orchid

  Dominic Ossiah

  Contents

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  The Friends of Fólkvangr (8th April 1940)

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Friends of Fólkvangr (12th April 1940)

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  The Orchid (1st June 1940)

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  The Orchid (16th February 1941)

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  The Quisling Orchid (8th March 1941)

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  The Quisling Orchid (9th September 1941)

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  The Quisling Orchid (13th September 1941)

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Friends of Fólkvangr (28th September 1941)

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Dominic Ossiah

  Also by Dominic Ossiah

  Copyright © 2016 by Dominic Ossiah

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-0-9568829-9-8

  * * *

  There was once a maid

  who loved a man

  with but a sliver of her heart;

  her soul she gave

  to the village she adored

  and the blind Jewess

  she took to the mountain.

  * * *

  a poem by Erik Brenna

  Chapter 1

  My interview with Oscar Strande lasted for three minutes and four questions. While he interrogated me, he drank a mug of espresso, sweat waterfalls, and injected himself from the insulin syringe he kept in a shoulder holster.

  Can you make real coffee?

  How about tea?

  Ever used a typewriter?

  Can you make coffee, or did I ask you that already?

  He thought he was a journalist of the old school: a white pin-striped shirt, bright red braces, and a cigar he rolled from one side of his mouth to the other. He carried his girth and his failing pancreas like a boxer carries a prize belt; they were his rite of passage, the sacrifices he’d made in return for his position at the Trondheim Echo.

  He gave me the job without listening to a single reply or sparing me a look. He scribbled down notes, which I’m sure had nothing to do with the interview, and told me I could start that afternoon if I wanted.

  ‘I am warning you though, Miss…?’

  ‘Ersland.’

  He looked up, staring at me over the top of his spectacles. He knew the name was a lie, so it was down to how much he cared. For the first time since I’d stepped into his office he took a good look at me and found things that didn’t seem to fit: I wasn’t wearing makeup; my shoes were scuffed and worn, and the dress – my only dress – had faded with age.

  ‘Ersland,’ he said.

  I nodded.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you like to try again?’

  I shook my head.

  His brow furrowed and he tapped his teeth. His eyes dipped so he could look at my legs.

  Monica was right; this was a terrible idea. I was about to get up and leave when Strande leaned forward with his hands clasped in front of him.

  ‘I will do you the courtesy of being honest. Only three people applied for the job: a woman in her forties, a man – if you can believe it – and you. If there were someone more suitable, I’d take them in a heartbeat. But let me warn you, young lady, you will find this the dullest, most unrewarding job you will ever have. I should know; I was doing it at your age.’

  And look at you now.

  ‘I only need to know one thing: would it be a mistake to hire you. Think carefully. I am not a forgiving man.’

  I told him I was hardworking, didn’t have a criminal record and wasn’t wanted by the police. I think that’s all he wanted to know.

  He stared into my eyes; I stared back without blinking. Finally, he sniffed loudly and sat back in his seat. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Mine’s black, four sugars.’

  * * *

  Strande hadn’t lied. The work was dull, repetitive and mostly unappreciated. Only Rodrek, a junior reporter, ever thanked me for the coffee. But I did like being there. There are few places I can go where I just fade into the wallpaper.

  ‘You take far too many risks,’ Monica said over a late breakfast. We were sitting in a small café, a short walk from the Echo, at the table closest to the door. Monica kept one eye on the entrance and berated me again for my spectacularly poor judgement. ‘A newspaper? I think you’ve lost your mind.’

  ‘I’m hiding in plain sight; that’s what you called it, isn’t it?’ I smiled and spooned ice cream into my mouth. ‘No one recognised me. The biggest paper in Trondheim and not one journalist, photographer or editor has looked at me twice.’

  She lit a cigarette and craned her neck to blow smoke at my eyes. ‘You think we’re forgotten, don’t you?’ She put the cigarettes back into her bag without offering one to me. ‘And you’re looking at me like that again.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like this is all my fault.’

  ‘I never said that. I have never said that.’

  ‘You never say half the things you’re thinking.’

  ‘Would it make any difference if I did?’

  ‘A newspaper for God’s sake. I mean, you can barely read.’

  ‘Now that is your fault,’ I said, lighting a cigarette of my own.

  Monica widened her eyes. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re my mother. If not you, then who?’

  ‘Well – how about your fucking father!’

  The other customers stopped eating to look at us.

  ‘We have to fly low, Brigit,’ she whispered, her eyes searching for an assault from any quarter. ‘One day we won’t have to. One day, Norway will—’

  ‘Yeah, I know. “Norway will forget.”’

  The mantra changed a while ago. She used to say ‘Norway will forgive.’ But it’s been thirty years since the war ended, so forgiveness was cl
early off the table.

  ‘We could leave,’ I said. ‘We could just leave and settle somewhere where they’ve never heard us. Switzerland maybe. Or America.’

  ‘America? You’re joking. They’re up to their necks in Viet Nam, and don’t get me started on all that “free love” crap…’ She stubbed out the cigarette with the same gravity someone else would use to load a gun. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Norway is our home.’

  ‘Norway doesn’t seem to think so.’

  ‘Then Norway will have to learn.’

  ‘Mrs Quisling must’ve said the same thing.’

  She looked at me as though I'd accused her of drowning kittens. ‘You’re comparing me… to her.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Fine.’ She stood up, threw her napkin on the table and walked out. The other customers were staring at me; some smiled sympathetically, some shrugged – others frowned while they backtracked through our conversation, perhaps trying to piece together our lives from a single snatched word:

  Quisling.

  An old man, sitting alone in one corner, gripped the arm of a passing waiter. He whispered in his ear and pointed in my direction. I guessed he was a Survivor. We ran into them frequently, or their relatives, or their descendants, or people with no lives of their own and nothing better to do than hound us. Strange when you consider there were only a few hundred people in that village to begin with.

  I’d been recognised so it was time to leave. I left money next to the ice cream dish and hurried back to the Echo.

  A shame – I really liked that café.

  * * *

  Back at the Echo, Oscar Strande was throwing chairs.

  ‘Impact!’ he screamed.

  Another chair bounced off the wall.

  ‘Where is my fucking impact?’

  The editors and journalists crammed into his smoke-filled office looked at each other and then back at Strande. He was purple, a very deep purple. I moved amongst the rigid bodies, quietly taking orders for the afternoon coffee run.

  ‘We are three days out from the new year,’ Strande said, pressing his fists into his desk. ‘Three days from the most significant event in—’

  ‘A year,’ said Marte Henning, and I was so glad I wasn’t her. She smiled weakly and a ripple of laughter flowed around the office. Oscar Strande stared at her and rolled his cigar from the left side of his mouth to the right – the angry side.

  The ripple stopped.

  ‘We’ll speak later, Marte,’ he said. ‘But for now, just get out.’

  ‘Oh come on, Oscar. She was just trying to lighten—’

  ‘And you can go too, Thomas. In fact, both of you, leave the building and don’t think of coming to the New Year party. Now does anyone else have a little year-end humour they’d like to share? No? Good, I thought not.’

  Marte left in tears, and Thomas slammed the door on his way out.

  ‘Quite honestly people, the Special, as it currently stands, is shit. It is worse than shit.’ Strande looked to the ceiling for a suitably barbarous metaphor. ‘If shit stepped in our Year-End Special then shit would hop to the nearest patch of grass and scrape its shoe.

  ‘There is nothing emotional here, people. Norway during the war – check. Norway and its nascent welfare system – check. Norway’s future oil wealth – check. Yes, we know all that! All you idiots have done is add “as the end of the year approaches” in front of every sentence! And that, dear friends, is shit.’

  ‘Oscar, if I may speak—’

  ‘No Jens, you may not. Norway is just a slab of land which God saw fit to place next to an oil slick. What makes our country is the people who built it. Did no one think to speak to the family of Edvard Grieg? What about Quisling’s relatives? Yes, he is the most reviled man in Norwegian history, but his actions lit a fire of righteousness that still burns in every one us. You! Yes, you – coffee girl.’

  I hiccoughed, dropped my pad and stood to attention.

  ‘You’re young,’ he said accusingly. ‘What will 1969 mean to you, and don’t you dare mention free love or the fucking Beatles!’

  Rodrek pushed the notepad back into my shaking hand and whispered in my ear: ‘Say something. Anything.’

  ‘Don’t help her, Rodrek. She’s not a retard. You’re not a retard, are you?’

  ‘It’s the year I stop waiting for things to change,’ I said with nothing to follow it with.

  ‘And can you tell me what the fuck you mean by that?’

  I swallowed so loudly I swear everyone heard it.

  ‘Well,’ I began, ‘it’s just another year, isn’t it?’

  Strande’s cigar returned to the angry side of his mouth.

  ‘Korea’s ongoing,’ I said. ‘Viet Nam is heading towards another fuck-up that’ll cost millions of dollars and millions of men. We might put a man on the moon, we might not. Even if we do, the aliens won’t drop by and Jesus won’t come back.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is…?’

  ‘What I’m saying is that I don’t care about any of that. I just want to know how to get out of this crappy job and get one like yours. I want to know where I’ll find a man when they’re still in short supply, and when I’ll have babies. I want to know how I can have a career while I’m caring for my family. I think I want it all, Mr Strande, and I think the New Year Special should tell me how can I get it.’

  The silence wasn’t quite what I’d hoped for. The journalists looked at each other. I think the women wanted to applaud. Most of the men probably wondered if Strande would fire me with violence, or just fire me.

  ‘The youngsters will love it, Oscar,’ Rodrek ventured.

  Strande rolled the cigar to the left side of his mouth. ‘Have something that ends with “this year I’ll change things myself” on my desk by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You do want to be a journalist, don’t you? I mean that’s why you took this crappy job, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can—’

  ‘Good, an article by tomorrow morning, and if you value your life, I’d better not see the phrase “as the new year approaches”.’

  I nodded while everyone stared at me.

  ‘You’d better get started then, Coffee Girl, and before you do, mine’s a double espresso, four sugars. The rest of you should take a cue from her. Now fuck off back to your desks, and give me people, not bullshit.’

  * * *

  Around nine o’clock, after the rest of the newsroom had gone home, I realised Monica had been right all along.

  Write a piece on the coming year from the perspective of a twenty-three-year-old Norwegian woman. It would have been easy except for one small problem: I can’t write. When you spend your life running from one town to the next, things suffer. You make no friends, develop no social skills. You don’t spend long in school so you say goodbye to college, university – you say goodbye to pretty much everything.

  I looked at the blank paper; it looked back. I glanced at the clock: nine-forty-six. I turned around and snatched a glance at Oscar Strande sitting in his office. He was reading from a brown folder, his eyes scanning quickly across the pages, stopping every so often to look at me. He smiled, and not in an endearing way.

  I desperately rattled out a few words on the keys, hearing the door to his office open then close. When I turned around again, he was perched on the edge of a desk six or seven feet away. The folder was resting against his thigh, the rictus smile stretched across his jowls. I could hear him wheezing.

  Seven words altogether. The journalist’s equivalent of ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘I can’t do this. I just can’t.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘If I had some more time, and a little help – from Rodrek maybe…’

  He dropped the folder on my desk.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Take a look.’

  He licked the perspir
ation from his upper lip. He looked nervous, and that made me nervous. I opened the folder. Inside it were a few sheets of paper, copies of old documents from the Nuremberg trials, and a large photograph. The black-and-white picture was of Erik Brenna, taken just before the end of the war. He was dressed in black woollen trousers and a chequered shirt. He was smiling. I’d never seen the picture before. My mouth went dry and my hands started to shake. It occurred to me that I had his nose.

  ‘I didn’t know who you were at first,’ Strande said. ‘Which begs the question, what sort of reporter am I? I mean, the daughter of the second-most reviled man in the history of Norway walks into my humble establishment, and I don’t even recognise her.’

  ‘Mr Strande, I—’

  ‘Just be quiet.’

  He closed in behind me, pressing down on my shoulder with one hand. ‘I gave you a chance, Brigit. I asked you if I could trust you.’

  ‘You can. What my father did has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Can you see how embarrassing this is for the Echo, for me personally?’

  I said I was sorry, and he started massaging my shoulder, pushing his thumb into my collarbone.

  ‘I’m sure you are. I mean, you’re not a bad person, are you, Brigit?’

  I heard him undo his zip.

  ‘No, I’m not. I should have told you.’

  ‘Yes, and now we have to think of a way to make this right, don’t we?’ His hand left my shoulder and I could breathe again. Then it snaked inside the collar of my dress. I froze. He leaned closer. He smelled like raw onions. ‘When people find out that I’ve taken on the daughter of a missing war criminal, I’ll be a laughing stock.’ He started kneading my breast. ‘But I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that’ll benefit us both.’ He used his free hand to draw my dress to the top of my thighs. I tried to pull at the hem to cover myself. He gently moved my arm out of the way. ‘We can say that you came here to tell your story, to see justice done, to see your father answer for his crimes.’ He pressed his hand between my thighs and spread his fingers, forcing my knees apart.