The Redbreast(103)

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