The Redbreast(170)

he was in prison. He understood. Perhaps it was

best for Edvard Junior too, not to grow up with a

traitor as a father. Mosken seemed resigned. He

said he wanted to work in transport, but hadn’t

got any of the driving jobs he had applied for.

‘Buy your own truck,’ I said. ‘You should start

up on your own, too.’

‘I haven’t got enough money to do that,’ he

said, with a quick glance in my direction. I had a

vague idea where the conversation was leading.

‘And the banks are not that keen on ex-Eastern

Front men. They think we’re all crooks.’

‘I’ve saved up some money,’ I said. ‘You can

borrow some from me.’

He refused, but I said the matter was closed.

‘I’ll add interest, of course. That goes without

saying,’ I said, and then he brightened up. But he

was soon serious again and said it could be an

expensive time until he really got going. So I

assured him the rate of interest wouldn’t be very

high, it would be more symbolic. Then I ordered

another round of beer and when we had drunk up

and were on our way out we shook hands. We had

a deal.

Oslo. 3 August 1950.

. . . a letter postmarked Vienna in the letterbox. I

placed it on the kitchen table in front of me and

stared at it. Her name and address were written

on the back of the envelope. I had sent a letter to

the Rudolf II Hospital in May in the hope that

someone might know where Helena was in the

world and send it on. In case prying eyes should

happen to open the letter I hadn’t written

anything that could be dangerous for either of us

and, of course, I hadn’t written my real name.

And I definitely hadn’t dared hope for an answer.

Well, I don’t even know if, deep down, I wanted

an answer, not if the answer was the one you

might expect. Married and mother of a child. No,

I didn’t want that. Even though that was what I

had wished her, what I had given my consent to.

My God, we had been so young. She had only

been nineteen. And now, as I held her letter in my

hand, it was all suddenly so unreal, as if the neat

handwriting on the envelope couldn’t have

anything to do with the Helena I had been

dreaming of for six years. I opened the letter with

trembling fingers, forcing myself to expect the

worst. It was a long letter and it is only a few

hours now since I read it for the first time, but

already I know it by heart.

Dear Uriah,

I love you. It is easy to know that I will love

you for the rest of my life, but the strange

thing is it feels as if I have already loved

you for all of my life too. When I received

your letter I wept with happiness. It . . .

Harry went to the kitchen with the manuscript in

his hands, found the coffee in the cupboard over

the sink and put on the coffee pot while continuing

to read. About the happy, though also difficult and

painful, reunion   at a hotel in Paris. They get

engaged the next day.

From here on, Gudbrand writes less and less

about Daniel, and finally it seems as if he has

completely disappeared.

Instead he writes about a couple very much in

love who, because of the murder of Christopher

Brockhard, still feel their pursuers’ breath down

their necks. They have secret trysts in Copenhagen,

Amsterdam and Hamburg. Helena knows

Gudbrand’s new identity, but does she know the

whole truth about the murder at the Eastern Front,

about the executions at the Fauke farm? It didn’t

seem so.

They get engaged after the Allies have left

Austria and in 1955 she leaves the country she is

sure will be taken over again by ‘war criminals,

anti-Semites and fanaticists who haven’t learned

from their mistakes’. They settle in Oslo, where

Gudbrand, still using Sindre Fauke’s name,

continues to run his small business. The same year

they are married by a Catholic priest at a private

ceremony in the garden inHolmenkollveien where

they have just bought a large, detached house with

the money Helena received from selling her

sewing business in Vienna. They are happy,

Gudbrand writes.

Harry heard a hiss and to his surprise saw that the

pot had boiled over.

98

Oslo. 17 May 2000.

Rikshospital. 1956.

Helena lost so much blood that her life was in the

balance for a while, but fortunately they acted

promptly. We lost the child. Naturally, Helena

was inconsolable even though I kept repeating

that she was young and we would have many

more opportunities. The doctor was not so

optimistic, however. He said the uterus . . .

Rikshospital. 12 March 1967.

A daughter. She is going to be called Rakel. I

cried and cried, and Helena stroked my cheek

and said God’s ways were . . .