The Redbreast

  Toll Barrier at Alnabru. 1 November 1999.

  THE GREY BIRD GLIDED INTO HARRY’S FIELD OF VISION and was on its way out again. He increased the pressure on the trigger of his .38 calibre Smith & Wesson while staring over the edge of his gun sights at the stationary back behind the glass. Someone had been talking about slow time on TV yesterday.

  The car horn, Ellen. Press the damn horn. He has to be a Secret Service agent.

  Slow time, like on Christmas Eve before Father Christmas comes. The first motorcycle was level with the toll booth, and the robin was still a black dot on the outer margin of his vision. The time in the electric chair before the current . . .

  Harry squeezed the trigger. One, two, three times.

  And then time accelerated explosively. The coloured glass went white, spraying shards over the tarmac, and he caught sight of an arm disappearing under the line of the booth before the whisper of expensive American tyres was there – and gone.

  He stared towards the booth. A couple of the yellow leaves swirled up by the motorcade were still floating through the air before settling on a dirty grey grass verge. He stared towards the booth. It was silent again, and for a moment all he could think was that he was standing at an ordinary Norwegian toll barrier on an ordinary Norwegian autumn day, with an ordinary Esso petrol station in the background. It even smelled of ordinary cold morning air: rotting leaves and car exhaust. And it struck him: perhaps none of this has really happened.

  He was still staring towards the booth when the relentless lament of the Volvo car horn behind him sawed the day in two.

  Part Two

  GENESIS

  9

  1942.

  THE FLARES LIT UP THE GREY NIGHT SKY, MAKING IT resemble a filthy top canvas cast over the drab, bare landscape surrounding them on all sides. Perhaps the Russians had launched an offensive, perhaps it was a bluff; you never really knew until it was over. Gudbrand was lying on the edge of the trench with both legs drawn up beneath him, holding his gun with both hands and listening to the distant hollow booms as he watched the flares go down. He knew he shouldn’t watch the flares. You would become night-blind and unable to see the Russian snipers wriggling out in the snow in no man’s land. But he couldn’t see them anyway, had never seen a single one; he just shot on command. As he was doing now.

  ‘There he is!’

  It was Daniel Gudeson, the only town boy in the unit. The others came from places with names ending in -dal. Some of the dales were broad and some were deep, deserted and dark, such as Gudbrand’s home ground. But not Daniel. Not Daniel of the pure, high forehead, the sparkling blue eyes and the white smile. He was like a recruitment-poster cut-out. He came from somewhere with horizons.

  ‘Two o’clock, left of the scrub,’ Daniel said.

  Scrub? There can’t be any scrub in the shell-crater landscape here. Yes, there was because the others were shooting. Crack, bang, swish. Every fifth bullet went off in a parabola, like a firefly. Tracer fire. The bullet tore off into the dark, but it seemed suddenly to tire because its velocity decreased and then it sank somewhere out there. That was what it looked like at any rate. Gudbrand thought it impossible for such a slow bullet to kill anyone.

  ‘He’s getting away!’ yelled an embittered, hate-filled voice. It was Sindre Fauke. His face almost merged with his camouflage uniform and the small, close-set eyes stared out into the dark. He came from a remote farm high up in the Gudbrandsdalen region, probably some narrow enclave where the sun didn’t shine since he was so pale. Gudbrand didn’t know why Sindre had volunteered to fight on the Eastern Front, but he had heard that his parents and both brothers had joined the fascist Nasjonal Samling Party, and that they went around wearing bands on their arms and reporting fellow villagers they suspected of being partisans. Daniel said that one day the informers and all those who exploited the war for their own advantage would get a taste of the whip.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Daniel said in a low voice, his chin against his gun. ‘No bloody Bolshevik gets away.’

  ‘He knows we’ve seen him,’ Sindre said. ‘He’ll get into that hollow down there.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ Daniel said and took aim.

  Gudbrand stared out into the grey-white dark. White snow, white camouflage uniforms, white fire. The skies are lit up again. All sorts of shadows flit across the crust of the snow. Gudbrand stared up again. Yellow and red flashes on the horizon, followed by several distant rumbles. It was as unreal as being at the cinema, except that it was thirty degrees below and there was no one to put your arm around. Perhaps it really was an offensive this time?

  ‘You’re too slow, Gudeson. He’s gone.’ Sindre spat in the snow.

  ‘No, he hasn’t,’ Daniel said even quieter and took aim, and then again. Almost no frost smoke was coming out of his mouth any longer.

  Then, a high-pitched, screaming whistle, a warning scream, and Gudbrand threw himself into the ice-covered bottom of the trench, with both hands over his head. The ground shook. It rained frozen brown clumps of earth; one hit Gudbrand’s helmet and he watched it slide off in front of him. He waited until he was sure there was no more to come, then shoved his helmet back on. It had gone quiet and a fine white veil of snow particles stuck to his face. They say you never hear the shell that hits you, but Gudbrand had seen the result of enough whistling shells to know this wasn’t true. A flare lit up the trench; he saw the others’ white faces and their shadows as they scrambled towards him, keeping to the side of the trench and their heads well down, as the light gradually faded. But where was Daniel? Daniel!

  ‘Daniel!’

  ‘Got ’im,’ Daniel said, still lying on the edge of the trench. Gudbrand couldn’t believe his own ears.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Daniel slid down into the trench and shook off the snow and earth. He had a broad grin on his face.

  ‘No Russian arsehole will be able to shoot at our watch tonight. Tormod is avenged.’ He dug his heels into the edge of the trench so he didn’t slip on the ice.

  ‘Is he fuck!’ That was Sindre. ‘You didn’t fucking hit him, Gudeson. I saw the Russian disappear down into the hollow.’

  His small eyes jumped from one man to the next, as if to ask whether any of them believed Daniel’s boast.

  ‘Correct,’ Daniel said. ‘But it’ll be light in two hours and he knew he’d have to be out before then.’

  ‘That’s right, and so he tried it a bit too soon,’ Gudbrand added smartly. ‘He popped up on the other side. Isn’t that right, Daniel?’

  ‘Too soon or not,’ Daniel smiled, ‘I would have got him anyway.’ Sindre hissed: ‘Just shut that big gob of yours, Gudeson.’

  Daniel shrugged, checked the chamber and cocked his gun. Then he turned, hung the gun over his shoulder, kicked a boot into the frozen side of the trench and swung himself up over the top.

  ‘Give me your spade, will you, Gudbrand.’

  Daniel took the spade and straightened up to his full height. In his white winter uniform he was outlined against the black sky and the flare, which hung like an aura of light over his head.

  He looks like an angel, Gudbrand thought. ‘What the fuck are you doing, man!’ That was Edvard Mosken, the leader of their section, shouting. The calm soldier from Mjøndøl seldom raised his voice with veterans like Daniel, Sindre and Gudbrand in the unit. It was usually the new arrivals who received a bawling out when they made mistakes. The earful they got saved many of their lives. Now Edvard Mosken was staring up at Daniel with the one wide-open eye that he never closed. Not even when he slept. Gudbrand had seen that for himself.

  ‘Get under cover, Gudeson,’ the section leader said.

  But Daniel simply smiled and the next moment he was gone; the frost smoke from his mouth was left hanging over them for a tiny second. Then the flare behind the horizon sank and it was dark again.

  ‘Gudeson!’ Edvard shouted, clambering out of the trench. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Can you see him?
’ Gudbrand asked.

  ‘Vanished.’

  ‘What did the nutter want with the spade?’ Sindre asked, looking at Gudbrand.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Gudbrand said. ‘To shift barbed wire maybe?’

  ‘Why would he want to shift barbed wire?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Gudbrand didn’t like Sindre’s wild eyes. They reminded him of another country boy who had been there. He had gone crazy in the end, pissed in his shoes one night before going on duty and all his toes had had to be amputated afterwards. But he was back home in Norway now, so maybe he hadn’t been so crazy after all. At any rate, he’d had the same wild eyes.

  ‘Perhaps he’s going for a walk in no man’s land,’ Gudbrand said. ‘I know what’s on the other side of the barbed wire. I wonder what he’s doing there.’

  ‘Perhaps the shell hit him on the head,’ Hallgrim Dale said. ‘Perhaps he’s gone ga-ga.’

  Hallgrim was the youngest in the section, only eighteen years old. No one really knew why he had enlisted. Adventure, Gudbrand thought. Dale maintained that he admired Hitler, but he knew nothing about politics. Daniel thought that he had left a girl in the family way.

  ‘If the Russian is still alive, Gudeson will be shot before he gets fifty metres,’ Edvard Mosken said.

  ‘Daniel got him,’ Gudbrand whispered.

  ‘In that case one of the others will shoot Gudeson,’ Edvard said, sticking his hand inside his camouflage jacket and pulling out a thin cigarette from his breast pocket. ‘It’s crawling with them out there tonight.’

  He held the match in a cupped hand as he struck it hard against the crude matchbox. The sulphur ignited at second attempt and Edvard lit his cigarette, took a drag and passed it round without saying a word. All the men inhaled slowly and passed the cigarette on to their neigh-bour. No one said a word; they all seemed to have sunk into their own thoughts. But Gudbrand knew that, like him, they were listening.

  Ten minutes passed without a sound. ‘They say planes are going to bomb Lake Ladoga,’ Hallgrim Dale said.

  They had all heard the rumours about the Russians fleeing from Leningrad across the frozen lake. What was worse, though, was that the ice also meant that General Tsjukov could get supplies into the besieged town.

  ‘They’re supposed to be fainting in the streets from hunger over there,’ Dale said, indicating the east.

  But Gudbrand had been hearing that ever since he had been sent there, almost a year ago, and still they were out there shooting at you as soon as you stuck your head out of the trench. Last winter the Russian deserters – who’d had enough and chose to change sides for a little food and warmth – had come over to the trenches with their hands behind their heads. But the deserters were few and far between now, and the two hollow-eyed soldiers Gudbrand had seen coming over last week had looked at them in disbelief when they saw that the Norwegians were just as skinny as they were.

  ‘Twenty minutes. He’s not coming back,’ Sindre said. ‘He’s had it. A goner.’

  ‘Shut it!’ Gudbrand took a step towards Sindre, who immediately stood up. Even though Sindre was a good head taller, it was obvious that he had no stomach for a fight. He probably remembered the Russian Gudbrand had killed some months ago. Who would have thought that nice, gentle Gudbrand had such ferocity in him? The Russian had sneaked unseen into their trench between two listening posts and had slaughtered all those sleeping in the two nearest bunkers, one full of Dutch soldiers and the other Australians, before he had got into their bunker. The lice had saved them.

  They had lice everywhere, but particularly in warm places, such as under the arms, under the belt, around the crotch and ankles. Gud-brand, who lay nearest to the door, hadn’t been able to sleep because of what they called louse sores on his legs – open sores which could be the size of a small coin, the edges of which were thick with lice feeding. Gudbrand had taken out his bayonet in a futile attempt to scrape them away when the Russian stood in the doorway to let loose with his gun. Gudbrand had only seen his silhouette, but knew instantly it was an enemy when he saw the outline of a Mosin–Nagant rifle being raised. With just the blunt bayonet Gudbrand had sliced the Russian’s neck so expertly that he was drained of blood when they carried him out into the snow afterwards.

  ‘Calm down, boys,’ Edvard said, pulling Gudbrand to one side. ‘You should go and get some sleep, Gudbrand. You were relieved an hour ago.’

  ‘I’ll go out and look for him,’ Gudbrand said.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Edvard said.

  ‘Yes, I will, I —’

  ‘That’s an order!’ Edvard shook his shoulder. Gudbrand tried to break free, but the section leader held him in a tight grip.

  Gudbrand’s voice went higher and quivered with desperation; ‘Perhaps he’s wounded! Perhaps he’s caught on the barbed wire!’

  Edvard patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll soon be light,’ he said. ‘Then we can find out what happened.’

  He shot a quick glance at the others, who had followed the scene in silence. They began to stamp their feet in the snow and mutter to each other. Gudbrand saw Edvard go over to Hallgrim Dale and whisper a few words in his ear. Dale listened and glowered at Gudbrand. Gudbrand knew very well what it meant. It was an order to keep an eye on him. A while ago now, someone had spread a rumour that he and Daniel were more than simply good friends. And that they couldn’t be trusted. Mosken had asked straight out if they were planning to desert together. Of course they had denied this, but Mosken probably thought now that Daniel had used the opportunity to make a run for it. And that Gudbrand would ‘look for’ his comrade as part of the plan to go over to the other side together. It made Gudbrand laugh. True enough, dreaming about the wonderful promise of food, warmth and women the Russian loudspeakers spewed out over the barren battlefield in ingratiating German was attractive, but to believe it?

  ‘Shall we take a bet on whether he comes back?’ That was Sindre. ‘Three food rations. What do you say?’

  Gudbrand put his arms down by his sides and could feel the bayonet hanging from the belt inside his camouflage uniform.

  ‘Nicht schießen, bitte!’

  Gudbrand spun round and there, right above his head, he saw a ruddy face beneath a Russian cap smiling down at him from the edge of the trench. Then the man swung down over the edge and performed a soft Telemark landing on the ice.

  ‘Daniel!’ Gudbrand shouted.

  ‘Da da da dum!’ Daniel sang, doffing the Russian cap. ‘Dobry vyecher.’ The men stood rooted to the spot, staring at him. ‘Hey, Edvard,’ Daniel shouted. ‘You’d better tighten things up with our Dutch friends. They’ve got at least fifty metres between the listening posts over there.’

  Edvard was as silent and stunned as the others.

  ‘Did you bury the Russian, Daniel?’ Gudbrand’s face was shiny with excitement.

  ‘Bury him?’ Daniel said. ‘I even read the Lord’s Prayer and sang to him. Are you hard of hearing or something? I’m sure they heard it on the other side.’

  Then he jumped up on to the top edge of the trench, sat with his arms raised in the air and began to sing in a deep, warm voice: ‘A mighty fortress is our God . . .’

  The men cheered and Gudbrand laughed so much he had tears in his eyes.

  ‘You devil, Daniel!’ Dale exclaimed. ‘Not Daniel . . . Call me . . .’ Daniel took off the Russian cap and read the name on the inside of the lining. ‘Uriah. He could bloody write as well. Well, well, but he was still a Bolshevik.’

  He jumped down from the edge and looked around him. ‘No one has any objections to a common Jewish name, I hope?’

  Total silence followed for a moment before the outburst of laughter came. Then the first of the men went over to slap him on the back.

  10

  Leningrad. 31 December 1942.

  IT WAS COLD IN THE MACHINE-GUN POST. GUDBRAND WAS wearing all the clothes he possessed. Nevertheless, his teeth were still chattering and he had lost the sensation in his fingers and toes. The
worst was his legs. He had bound new rags around his feet, but that didn’t help much.

  He stared out into the dark. They hadn’t heard much from the Ivans that evening. Perhaps they were celebrating New Year’s Eve. Perhaps they were eating well. Lamb stew. Or ribs of lamb. Gudbrand knew, of course, that the Russians didn’t have any meat, but he couldn’t stop thinking about food nevertheless. As for themselves, they hadn’t had much more than the usual lentil soup and bread. The bread had a green sheen to it, but they had become accustomed to that. And if it became so mouldy that it crumbled, they just boiled the soup with the bread in it.

  ‘At least we got a sausage on Christmas Eve,’ Gudbrand said.

  ‘Shh,’ Daniel said.

  ‘There’s no one out there this evening, Daniel. They’re sitting eating medallions of venison. With a thick, light brown game sauce and bil-berries. And almond potatoes.’

  ‘Don’t start talking about food again. Be quiet and see if you can spot anything.’

  ‘I can’t see a thing, Daniel. Nothing.’

  They huddled together, keeping their heads down. Daniel was wearing the Russian cap. The steel helmet with the Waffen SS badge lay beside him. Gudbrand knew why. There was something about the shape of the helmet which caused the eternally ice-cold snow to pass under the rim and create a continual, nerve-grinding whistling sound inside the helmet, which was particularly unfortunate if you were on duty at the listening post.

  ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Nothing. I just have quite bad night vision.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘And then I’m a little colour blind.’

  ‘A little colour blind?’

  ‘Red and green. I can’t tell the difference. The colours seem the same. I never saw any berries, for example, when we went into the forest to pick cranberries for the Sunday joint . . .’

  ‘No more talk about food, I said!’

  They were quiet. In the distance a machine gun chattered. The thermometer showed minus twenty-five. Last winter they’d had minus forty-five several nights in a row. Gudbrand consoled himself with the thought that the lice were less active in this cold. He wouldn’t start itching until he went off duty and crept under the woollen blanket in his bunk. But they tolerated the cold better than he did, the beasts. Once he had carried out an experiment: he had left his vest out in the snow in the biting cold for three consecutive days. When he took the vest into the bunker again, it was a sheet of ice. But when he thawed it out in front of the stove, a teeming, crawling mass came to life and he threw it into the flames out of sheer disgust.