The Redbreast(164)

before. He brought the Russian’s cap back with

him as a trophy. Afterwards he was in his usual

high spirits and sang and entertained everyone

(apart from a few envious killjoys). I am

extremely proud to have such a resolute,

courageous person as my friend. Even though

some days it seems as if this war will never end

and the sacrifices for our home country are

great, a man like Daniel Gudeson gives us all

hope that we will stop the Bolsheviks and return

to a safe, free Norway.

Harry checked his watch and read on.

Leningrad. New Year’s Eve 1942.

. . . when I saw the fear in Sindre Fauke’s eyes I

had to say a few reassuring words to him to relax

his vigilance. It was just us two out there at the

machine-gun post; the others had gone to their

bunks, and Daniel’s body lay rigid on top of the

ammunition boxes. Then I scratched more of

Daniel’s blood off the cartridge belt. The moon

was shining and it was snowing, an extraordinary

night, and I thought that now I would collect the

remains of Daniel and put him together again,

make him whole so that he could stand up and

lead us. Sindre Fauke didn’t understand this. He

was a hanger-on, an opportunist and an informer

who only followed those he thought would win.

And the day things looked darkest for me, for us,

for Daniel, he would also betray us. I took a swift

pace back, so that I was behind him, seized his

forehead and swung the bayonet. You have to be

fairly deft to get a deep, clean cut. I let go as

soon as I had sliced him for I knew the job was

done. He turned round slowly and stared at me

with those small piggy eyes of his; he seemed to

want to scream but the bayonet had severed his

windpipe and only a whistling sound came from

the gaping wound. And blood. He grabbed his

throat with both hands to prevent his life running

out, but that only made the blood squirt out in

fine jets between his fingers. I fell and had to

scrabble backwards in the snow not to get it on

my uniform. Fresh bloodstains would not look

good if they decided to investigate Sindre

Fauke’s ‘desertion’.

When he no longer moved, I turned him on his

back and dragged him over to the ammunition

boxes on which Daniel was lying. Fortunately,

they had a similar build. I found Sindre Fauke’s

ID papers. (We always keep them on us, day and

night, because if we are stopped and have no

papers on us saying who we are and what our

orders are (infantry, Northern Front, date, stamp

and so on) we risk being shot on the spot as

deserters.) I rolled up Sindre’s papers and

stuffed them into the canteen attached to my

cartridge belt. Then I took the sack off Daniel’s

head and wrapped it round Sindre’s. Next I put

Daniel on my back and carried him out into no

man’s land. And there I buried him in the snow,

as Daniel had buried Uriah, the Russian. I kept

Daniel’s Russian cap. Sang a psalm. ‘A mighty

fortress is our God’. And ‘Join the circle of men

round the fire’.

Leningrad. 3 January 1943.

A mild winter. Everything has gone according to

plan. Early in the morning of 1 January the

corpse-bearers came and took away the body

from the ammunition boxes as they had been

instructed. Naturally, they believed it to be

Daniel Gudeson they were dragging on the

sledge to the Northern Sector. I still have to

laugh whenever I think about it. I don’t know if

they took the sacking off the head before dumping

him into the mass pit; it would not have bothered

me anyway as the corpse-bearers knew neither

Daniel nor Sindre Fauke.

The only thing that bothers me is that Edvard

Mosken seems to suspect Fauke did not desert

and that I killed him. There is not a great deal he

can do. Sindre Fauke’s body is lying with

hundreds of others, burned (may his soul burn for

ever) and unrecognisable.

But last night when I was on watch I had to

undertake the boldest operation so far. Gradually

I had come to realise that I couldn’t leave

Daniel’s body buried in the snow. With the mild

winter there was a good chance the body could

become exposed at any moment and reveal the

switch. And when I began to dream at night about

what foxes and polecats would do with Daniel’s

body as the snow melted in spring, I decided to

dig up the body and have it put in the mass grave

– after all, that was consecrated ground.

Of course, I was more frightened by our own

sentry posts than by the Russians, but fortunately

it was Hallgrim Dale, Fauke’s slow-witted

comrade, sitting in the machine-gun nest. On top

of that, it was a cloudy night and, even more

important, I felt that Daniel was with me, yes,

that he was in me. And when I had finally