‘That’s right.’
‘So why mention Gudeson in particular?’
Edvard Mosken stared at Harry. Then he shifted
his gaze into a void. ‘Because he was with us for
such a long time. We thought he would survive.
Well, we almost believed Daniel Gudeson was
indestructible. He was no ordinary person.’
‘Do you know that Hallgrim Dale is dead?’
Mosken shook his head. ‘You don’t seem very
surprised.’
‘Why should I be? Nowadays I’m more surprised
to hear who is still alive.’
‘What about if I tell you that he was murdered?’
‘Oh, well, that’s different. Why are you telling me
this?’
‘What do you know about Hallgrim Dale?’
‘Nothing. The last time I saw him was in
Leningrad. He was suffering from shell-shock.’
‘You didn’t travel back together?’
‘How Dale and the others got home I have no
idea. I was wounded in winter 1944 as the result
of a grenade thrown from a Russian fighter plane
into the trench.’
‘A fighter plane? From a plane?’
Mosken smiled laconically and nodded. ‘When I
woke up in the field hospital the retreat was in full
swing. Later that summer I ended up in the field
hospital in Sinsen School, Oslo. Then came the
capitulation.’
‘So you didn’t see any of the others after you
were wounded?’
‘Just Sindre. Three years after the war.’
‘After you had served your time?’
‘Yes. We ran into each other in a restaurant.’
‘What do you think about him deserting?’
Mosken shrugged. ‘He must have had his reasons.
At least he took sides at a time when no one knew
how the war would end. That’s more than you can
say about most Norwegian men.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There was a saying during the war: Those who
decide late will always decide right. At Christmas
in 1943 we could see that our front was moving
backwards, but we had no real idea how bad it
was. Anyway, no one could accuse Sindre of
changing like a weather-vane. Unlike those at home
who sat on their backsides during the war and
suddenly rushed to join the Resistance in the last
months. We used to call them the “latter-day
saints’’. A few of them today swell the ranks of
those who make public statements about the
Norwegians’ heroic efforts for the right side.’
‘Is there anyone in particular you’re thinking
about?’
‘Of course you always think about the odd person
who has been given the shining hero treatment
afterwards. It’s not that important, though.’
‘What about Gudbrand Johansen? Do you
remember him?’
‘Of course. He saved my life at the end there. He
. . .’
Mosken bit his lower lip. As if he had already
said too much, Harry wondered.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Gudbrand? Damned if I know.The grenade
...Gudbrand, Hallgrim Dale and I were in the
trench when it came bouncing across the ice and hit
Dale on the helmet. I can only remember that
Gudbrand was closest to it when it exploded. I
came out of the coma later and no one could tell
me what had happened to Gudbrand or Dale.’
‘What do you mean? Had they disappeared?’
Mosken’s eyes searched for the window.
‘This happened the same day the Russians
launched their full offensive. It was chaotic, to put
it mildly. Our trenches had long since passed into
Russian hands when I woke up and the regiment
had been transferred. If Gudbrand survived, he
would probably have ended up in the Nordland
regiment field hospital, in the Northern Sector. The
same would be true of Dale if he had been
wounded. I suppose I must have been there too, but
when I woke up I was somewhere else.’
‘Gudbrand Johansen’s name isn’t in the Civil
Register.’
Mosken shrugged. ‘So he must have been killed
by the grenade. That was what I assumed.’
‘And you’ve never tried to trace him?’
Mosken shook his head.
Harry looked around for something, anything, that
might suggest Mosken had coffee in the house – a
coffee pot, a coffee cup. There was a photograph
of a woman in a gold frame on the hearth.
‘Are you bitter about what happened to you and
the other Eastern Front soldiers after the war?’
‘As far as the punishment goes, no. I’m a realist.
People had to be brought to justice because it was
a political necessity. I had lost a war. I’m not
complaining.’
Edvard Mosken suddenly laughed – it sounded
like a magpie’s cackle. Harry had no idea why he