She could have been his sister. He tried to repeat
to himself what the Prince had instilled in him: he
was a soldier, it was for the Cause.
He looked at the picture he had pinned on the
wall under the flag with the swastika on. It was of
the Reichsführer-SS und Chef der Deutschen
Polizei Heinrich Himmler speaking on the rostrum
when he was in Oslo in 1941. He was talking to
the Norwegian volunteers taking their oaths for the
Waffen SS. Green uniform. The initials SS on the
collar. Vidkun Quisling in the background.
Himmler. An honourable death, 23 May 1945.
Suicide.
‘Fuck!’
Sverre placed his feet on the floor, stood up and
began to pace restlessly.
He stopped in front of the mirror by the door.
Clutched his head. Then he searched through his
jacket pockets. Damn, what had happened to his
combat cap? For a moment, panic seized him as he
wondered if he might have left it beside her in the
snow, but then he remembered he had been
wearing it when he went back to the Prince’s car.
He breathed out.
He had got rid of the baseball bat, as the Prince
had said. Wiped off the fingerprints and thrown it
in the Akerselva. Now it was just a question of
lying low and waiting to see what transpired. The
Prince had said he would sort everything out, as he
had done before. Sverre didn’t know where the
Prince worked, but it was obvious he had good
connections with the police. He undressed in front
of the mirror. His tattoos were a grey colour in the
moonlight as it shone in between the curtains. He
fingered the Iron Cross hanging around his neck.
‘You whore,’ he mumbled. ‘You fucking commie
whore.’
When he finally fell asleep, it had already begun
to cloud over in the east.
51
Hamburg. 30 June 1944.
MY DEAREST BELOVED HELENA,
I love you more than I love myself. You know that
now. Even though we had only a short time
together, and you have a long and happy life in
front of you (I know you will have!), I hope you
will never forget me completely. It is evening here.
I’m sitting in sleeping quarters by the harbour in
Hamburg and the bombs are falling outside. I’m
alone. The others are sheltering in bunkers and
cellars. There’s no electricity, but the raging fires
outside give more than enough light to write by.
We had to get off the train before arriving in
Hamburg as the railway tracks had been bombed
the night before. We were loaded on to trucks and
taken to town. It was a terrible sight that met us.
Every second house seemed to be in ruins, dogs
slunk alongside the smoking debris and
everywhere I saw emaciated children in rags
staring at the trucks with their large vacant eyes. I
travelled through Hamburg on my way to Sennheim
only two years ago, but now it is hardly
recognisable. At that time I thought the Elbe was
the most beautiful river I had seen, but now bits of
planks and the flotsam from wrecked shipping drift
past in the filthy brown water, and I heard someone
say that it has been contaminated by all the dead
bodies floating in it. People were also talking
about more night-time bombing raids and getting
out of the city by any means possible. My plan is to
take the train to Copenhagen tonight, but the
railway lines to the north have also been bombed.
I apologise for my awful German. As you can see,
my hand is a bit uncertain too, but it’s because the
bombs are making the whole house shake. And not
because I’m afraid. What should I be afraid of ?
From where I’m sitting I am witness to a
phenomenon I’ve heard about, but I’ve never seen
– a firestorm. The flames on the other side of the
harbour seem to be sucking everything in. I can see
loose timber and whole lead roofs taking off and
flying into the flames. And the sea – it’s boiling!
Steam is rising up from under the bridges over
there. If some poor soul were to try jumping into
the water to escape the bombs, they would be fried
alive. I opened the windows and it felt as if the air
had been deprived of oxygen. And then I heard the
roar – it’s as if someone is standing in the flames
shouting, ‘More, more, more.’ It is uncanny and
frightening, yes, but also strangely attractive.
My heart is so full of love that I feel invulnerable
– thanks to you, Helena. If one day you should have
children (I know you want them and I want you to
have them) I want you to tell them the stories about
me. Tell them as fairy tales, for that is what they
are – true fairy tales. I have decided to go out into
the night to see what I will find, who I will meet.
I’ll leave this letter on the table in my metal
canteen. I’ve scratched your name and address into