The Redbreast(167)

could do. I had already seen a human skeleton

standing in the bright flames on the top floor,

trapped with one leg on either side of the window

ledge. But the girl continued to follow me,

screaming her desperate pleas for me to help her

mother. I tried to walk faster, but her small

child’s arms held me, would not let go and I

dragged her with me towards the great sea of

flames below us. We went on, a strange

procession, two people shackled together on our

way to extinction.

I wept, yes, I wept, but the tears evaporated as

soon as they had come. I don’t know which of us

it was who stopped but I lifted her up, and I

turned, carried her up to the dormitory and

wrapped my blanket round her. Then I took the

mattresses from the other beds and lay down

beside her on the floor.

I never found out her name, or what happened

to her, because she disappeared during the night.

But I know she saved my life. I took the decision

to hope.

I awoke to a dying city. Several of the fires were

still ablaze, the harbour buildings were razed to

the ground and the boats which had come with

provisions or to evacuate the wounded stayed out

in the Außenalster, unable to dock.

It was evening before the crew had cleared a

place where they could load and unload, and I

hurried over. I went from boat to boat until I

found what I was looking for – passage to

Norway. The ship was called Anna and was

taking cement to Trondheim. The destination

suited me well since I didn’t imagine that the

search papers would have been sent there. Chaos

had taken over from the usual German order, and

the lines of command were, to put it mildly,

confused. The SS on my collar seemed to create a

certain impression, and I had no problem getting

on board and persuading the captain that the

orders I showed him implied that I had to find my

way to Oslo via the most direct route possible.

Under the prevailing circumstances, that meant

on Anna to Trondheim and from there by train to Oslo.

The journey took three days. I walked off the

boat, showed my papers and was waved on. Then

I boarded a train for Oslo. The whole trip took

four days. Before getting off the train I went to

the toilet and put on the clothes I had taken from

Christopher Brockhard. Then I was ready for the

first test. I walked up Karl Johans gate. It was

warm and drizzling. Two girls came towards me,

arm in arm, and giggled loudly as I passed them.

The inferno in Hamburg seemed light-years

away. My heart rejoiced. I was back in my

beloved country and I was reborn for a second

time.

The receptionist in the Continental Hotel

scrutinised my ID papers before looking at me

over his glasses.

‘Welcome to the Continental Hotel, herr Fauke.’

And as I lay on my back in bed in the yellow

hotel room, staring at the ceiling and listening to

the sounds of the city outside, I tried out our new

name on my tongue, Sindre Fauke. It was

unfamiliar, but I realised that it might, it could,

work.

Nordmarka. 12 July 1944.

. . . a man called Even Juul. He seems to have

swallowed my story whole, like the other Home

Front men. And why shouldn’t they, anyway? The

truth – that I fought at the Eastern Front and am

wanted for murder – would be even harder to

swallow than my deserting and returning to

Norway via Sweden. They have checked their

information with their sources and have received

confirmation that a person by the name of Sindre

Fauke was reported missing, probably a

defection to the Russians. The Germans have

order in their systems!

I speak fairly standard Norwegian, a result of

my having grown up in the USA, I imagine, and

no one notices that as Sindre Fauke I have

quickly got rid of my Gudbrandsdal dialect. I

come from a tiny place in Norway, but even if

someone I met in my youth (Youth! My God, it

was only three years ago and yet a whole lifetime

away) were to turn up I am positive they would

not recognise me. I feel so totally different.

What I am much more frightened of is that

someone should turn up who knows the real

Sindre Fauke. Fortunately, he comes from an

even more isolated place than I, if that is

possible, but of course he has relatives who could

identify him.

I walk around chewing on these things, and my

surprise was therefore immense when today they

gave me orders to liquidate one of my own

(Fauke’s) Nasjonal Samling brothers. It is

supposed to test whether I have really changed

sides or whether I’m an infiltrator. Daniel and I

almost burst out laughing – it is as if we had

discovered the idea ourselves. They actually

asked me to get rid of the people who could blow

the whistle on me! I’m well aware the leaders of