rhythm kept his feet moving, kept him somehow alive.
Occasionally, low over their heads, came the deep-throated grumble of a plane circling—paratroopers perhaps, but beneath the tree cover and thick cloud it was impossible to tell.
The weather worsened and they became sluggish and despondent, staggering through the snow and battling against the wind. As they moved downslope to lower ground, the mist thickened and he began to feel nauseous. The packs on their backs had grown heavier with every passing hour, and they could barely see more than ten feet ahead of them.
They pushed on, but as the dimly lit afternoon seeped away the gale winds drove the snow hard into their faces. They struggled to make headway, lurching and staggering through the blizzard like drunkards. Eventually they dug in for the night and fastened their tent quarters together in groups. Some, himself included, lit small stoves, but they offered little warmth. Where they could they dug shallow trenches in the snow between the trees as a feeble line of defense and took turns watching long into the frozen night.
They hadn’t had much equipment when they’d landed; the majority of it had been washed overboard on the journey over, and the supply ships destined for Narvik had failed to arrive. Most of the weapons and provisions they had they’d seized from the Norwegian arms depot at Elvegårdsmoen, but it wasn’t enough. A few winter bivouacs, but no skis and no camouflage equipment. Against the French Alpine troops they would be easy pickings. Their clothes were insufficient. The snow clung heavy to their greatcoats, slowly soaking through the material and freezing them from the inside out.
He shared a tent with three others, one of whom spent most of the night coughing. The night was long and bitter, and full of strange forest noises. In the early hours of the morning there was shooting, bullets puttering into the snow. Norwegians, they supposed, but none had seen a thing. The platoon took their positions and fired back, but the night was too dark and they were too exhausted to do much but shoot blindly into the trees. When the gunfire ceased some tried to sleep. They crawled out of their tents at first light to find the men on watch blanketed in snow, seven of them dead—not shot but frozen inside their clothes, their lips sealed shut with ice and eyelids stitched closed with frost.
In the spare bedroom he remade the bed, laying the sheets and folding them tight around the corners of the mattress, so it now looked as if made for a welcomed guest. He smoothed down the blanket and plumped the pillows. The bedroom was small but adequate.
He opened the wardrobe and, checking the girl was not watching, he flicked through her father’s clothes, picking out a tweed suit that was frayed around the cuffs but looked smart enough, a crisp white shirt, and a pair of black boots not too dissimilar to his own. He turned down the framed photograph on the dressing table, then undressed and put on the man’s shirt, his trousers, some brown socks, and button-down braces. He sat on the four-poster bed as he heaved on the boots. Eva had always liked him looking smart.
There was a job, she had told him. She was going to apply for it. A hospital. Out in the country. Not even in Berlin. It was paying thirty marks a week, she said. Think what she could do with that.
He had looked out of the garret window and slowly let out a sigh. The sky over the city was turning mauve. Dvo ř ák’s Cello Concerto was playing on the gramophone. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to be happy or to feel that she was doing something good, it was just…
But now he couldn’t remember.
It’s a psychiatric institution, she added. So you don’t need a state certificate. They train you on the job.
But what about the orchestra?
All this talk of war, she told him. Everyone was getting involved somehow. All the most experienced nurses will probably end up being transferred to
Occasionally, low over their heads, came the deep-throated grumble of a plane circling—paratroopers perhaps, but beneath the tree cover and thick cloud it was impossible to tell.
The weather worsened and they became sluggish and despondent, staggering through the snow and battling against the wind. As they moved downslope to lower ground, the mist thickened and he began to feel nauseous. The packs on their backs had grown heavier with every passing hour, and they could barely see more than ten feet ahead of them.
They pushed on, but as the dimly lit afternoon seeped away the gale winds drove the snow hard into their faces. They struggled to make headway, lurching and staggering through the blizzard like drunkards. Eventually they dug in for the night and fastened their tent quarters together in groups. Some, himself included, lit small stoves, but they offered little warmth. Where they could they dug shallow trenches in the snow between the trees as a feeble line of defense and took turns watching long into the frozen night.
They hadn’t had much equipment when they’d landed; the majority of it had been washed overboard on the journey over, and the supply ships destined for Narvik had failed to arrive. Most of the weapons and provisions they had they’d seized from the Norwegian arms depot at Elvegårdsmoen, but it wasn’t enough. A few winter bivouacs, but no skis and no camouflage equipment. Against the French Alpine troops they would be easy pickings. Their clothes were insufficient. The snow clung heavy to their greatcoats, slowly soaking through the material and freezing them from the inside out.
He shared a tent with three others, one of whom spent most of the night coughing. The night was long and bitter, and full of strange forest noises. In the early hours of the morning there was shooting, bullets puttering into the snow. Norwegians, they supposed, but none had seen a thing. The platoon took their positions and fired back, but the night was too dark and they were too exhausted to do much but shoot blindly into the trees. When the gunfire ceased some tried to sleep. They crawled out of their tents at first light to find the men on watch blanketed in snow, seven of them dead—not shot but frozen inside their clothes, their lips sealed shut with ice and eyelids stitched closed with frost.
In the spare bedroom he remade the bed, laying the sheets and folding them tight around the corners of the mattress, so it now looked as if made for a welcomed guest. He smoothed down the blanket and plumped the pillows. The bedroom was small but adequate.
He opened the wardrobe and, checking the girl was not watching, he flicked through her father’s clothes, picking out a tweed suit that was frayed around the cuffs but looked smart enough, a crisp white shirt, and a pair of black boots not too dissimilar to his own. He turned down the framed photograph on the dressing table, then undressed and put on the man’s shirt, his trousers, some brown socks, and button-down braces. He sat on the four-poster bed as he heaved on the boots. Eva had always liked him looking smart.
There was a job, she had told him. She was going to apply for it. A hospital. Out in the country. Not even in Berlin. It was paying thirty marks a week, she said. Think what she could do with that.
He had looked out of the garret window and slowly let out a sigh. The sky over the city was turning mauve. Dvo ř ák’s Cello Concerto was playing on the gramophone. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to be happy or to feel that she was doing something good, it was just…
But now he couldn’t remember.
It’s a psychiatric institution, she added. So you don’t need a state certificate. They train you on the job.
But what about the orchestra?
All this talk of war, she told him. Everyone was getting involved somehow. All the most experienced nurses will probably end up being transferred to
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