Dark Full of Enemies(52)

Petersen fell silent. McKay looked at him, and then back at the village. He said nothing.

“You know what they do in the east, in Poland, the Ukraine.”

“I’ve heard stories.”

Petersen did not reply for a moment. “They are not stories.

“In the lamps of the trucks they shot all the men of the village. Twenty in all. Not with a volley, but with pistols, in the head. They shot them in front of the women. They left the bodies there and marched all the women and children out of the village before putting them on the lorries. They took all the livestock and food, everything they could use. Then they burned everything. The church and all the houses. They set the fishing boats alight and pushed them out into the fjord. They put bombs in some of the houses to make sure they left only ash and rubble. The ruins smoked and glowed for a week. I could see it, always, from my house. The Nazis announced that—” Petersen assumed a stilted, official voice, remembering the decree “—access to the former site of the village Hallensnes is strictly forbidden.” He looked at McKay. “Anyone caught in the ruins would be shot.”

McKay said nothing. He waited.

“They put the women on trains at the Grettisfjord dam railhead. I am not sure, but—I think they were sent into camps, in Germany.

“My nephew is dead, you see? His father as well. My sister I cannot hope to see again. And I had many friends in Hallensnes. And what, Captain McKay—”

But Petersen said nothing more.

The village had passed them by, silent on the strand, as Petersen spoke. McKay had watched it go until it lay astern, and then he stared out over the fjord and listened. Neither said anything for a while, and finally Petersen turned and walked back to the wheelhouse, climbed up, and shut the door. McKay stood alone.

He watched the water glide up to them and the prow part and turn it like furrows. He wondered idly how deep the black water plunged at this spot, how far down the Hallensnes fishermen’s boats sank once their heathen pyres had destroyed the decks and gunwales and welcomed the water.

Ollila was beside him. It did not surprise him.

“How long you been there?”

“Not long.”

“Sure.” McKay ached all over. “You hear any of what Petersen told me?”

“No,” Ollila said. “I heard you talking, but heard none of it.”

“That village—”

“Yes. The Nazis burned it.”

McKay looked at Ollila. Ollila shrugged.

“I guessed.”

McKay looked ahead. The lights of Grettisstad, visible as a glow against the mountains from a long way off, had hardened into shapes and motes of yellow. They would be back at Petersen’s soon.

“We have to get this job done somehow,” McKay said. “And if the Norwegians won’t help us…”

“I can march,” Ollila said.

McKay grinned. “We need more men like you.”

“What about the sick one?”

“Who? Stallings?”

Ollila took out and lit a cigarette. He paused a moment, and finally spoke in German. “He is not as well as you think. I am sure of it.”

“We could leave him with Petersen.”

“We may never come back for him—you know this.”

Stallings posed a problem. Even without him, setting out overland from Grettisstad for the dam would prove difficult. McKay imagined them captured by the Germans at any stage of the raid—before, in the act, afterward, during the escape—and the consequences, not just for the team but for Stallings, and for Petersen, from whose basement the Germans would drag the concussed American. Then he imagined Stallings with them in the assault—passing out, collapsing, lapsing into the thousand-yard stare or simply standing up and walking around like some shellshocked Marines he had seen.

McKay tried to rub the burning from his eyes. For a moment, he wished he drank.

“I must talk with Petersen again.”

Ollila returned to English. “Good luck,” he said.





McKay waited in the cold below the wheelhouse door. They had nearly reached the Petersens’ wharf when the door opened and Petersen descended, without looking at him.

“Hey,” McKay said.

Petersen stopped and turned.

“We can’t do this without you.”

Petersen looked at him, leaned forward, and said, “I know.”

He turned and walked toward the bow, where Magnus stood holding a line, awaiting the bump against the pier. McKay followed. He fought the tiredness, fought to stay calm, and felt himself losing.

“What does that mean? ‘I know’?”

“I was unclear?”

“No.”

“Good.”

J?rgen cut the engine, and the boat glided toward the dock. Magnus swung the rope low on his arm, judging the distance.

“No, you made it clear you won’t help.”

“Yes.”

“You’re abandoning your duty.”

Petersen spun on one heel and McKay cocked his arm—then stopped. Petersen looked at him, at the fist frozen beside his right ear, at him again.

“Yes,” Petersen said. “No more of my men. No more Norwegians.”

The boat came to rest against the piles, the old man tied them off, and Petersen raised himself from the gunwale to the planks of the pier. McKay took a breath and lowered, unstrung his arm. He flexed the fingers. His head ached. He needed rest. Perhaps, when he had slept, he could try Petersen again.