Authors: Alan Bricklin
Sten turned, perhaps to respond to Olaf's supposition, but
merely looked him up and down as if reassuring himself that, yes, this is the
Olaf I left with and not some last minute substitution. He spit and returned
his gaze to the lake. Sten was 42 but looked older. At first he thought it was
the war that had aged him, for he himself had noticed some time ago that his
appearance had changed, that whatever vestiges of youth he may have retained at
40 had disappeared by the time he turned 41. It was more than simply the
battles fought and the risks taken; he knew that now. Fighting may kill you but
it was all the other things that chipped away at your soul and sucked out your
energy so that no matter how strong your muscles were, no matter how good your
physical condition, you always felt drained and weak.
His life had been one of protracted melancholy, of missed
opportunities, of paths not chosen, of fear and continual self-doubt. Sten had
never felt secure, not in himself and not in the world around him. The influx
of the conquering Germans was the final barricade in his life, and although
barely entering middle age, he felt that he had reached his penultimate years.
The Germans were not an obstruction to be overcome or bypassed. For Sten, they
and the war they brought were the bulwark at the end of a rail line; beyond, the
tracks ended and the train could go no farther. Any chance he thought he might
have had of turning his life around, of doing something useful of which he
could be proud, were forever dashed. And so, at 42, he looked ahead only to his
approaching demise.
He had seen his brother defy a Nazi order to return to work
after the employees at the plant had refused to start their machinery, only to
be smashed on the head by a rifle butt. Sten had been helpless to do anything,
machine guns pointed at him, his wife and young children. And when his brother
was partly paralyzed from the blow and unable to work he had had to endure the
humiliation of the countless forms and lines just to get food rations for him.
Sten could not travel freely around the city of his birth; everywhere there
were the Nazi soldiers and their seemingly incessant orders and demands to see
one's "papers". He was part of a subjugated population and could not
openly fight the evil that had enslaved them. The abuses committed by the Nazis
and his inability to directly confront them in any way other than a suicide
gesture had taken a physical toll on him. His fear and insecurity ate away at
him.
Being a resistance fighter was not something that he chose
as a daring endowment to Norway and to freedom in general, although a part of
him wanted to think that was the case. When he really thought about it
critically, which was quite infrequently, Sten had to admit that it was more
like herding sheep to the slaughter; at every cusp all the gates were shut except
the one leading to the abattoir and ultimate emancipation. In June of 1940 the
Norwegian army had been demobilized in the face of what was an overwhelming
German force. Many of the soldiers returned home to their wives, children,
farms or whatever work they had at local factories and businesses; but many
also left to continue fighting with the allies, some leaving on British
warships and others crossing into neutral Sweden. Sten, overcome by indecision,
sat at home and obsessed on his duty and obligations to his family and to his
country. What could he do at home but try to take care of his wife and child,
and pretend that foreign invaders didn't control his life? Did that accomplish
anything that would advance the flag toward the goal of defeating and ousting
the enemy? On the other hand, if he left to fight, it would be abandoning his
loved ones left behind to tyrants. Able-bodied men could still make it out of
the country, but it was near impossible for families, especially with small
children, to make the trek. While the Nazis insinuated themselves into the
affairs of everyday life, Sten went about his business, paralyzed with
incertitude and slowly sinking into a state of depression and anger.
"Sten," Olaf whispered. Sten's unfocused eyes
looked out at the rippled surface of the lake. Louder. "Sten."
Rousing from his reverie he turned to face the youth. "Sten, what should
we do?"
"Wait." That was probably the most difficult thing
for an eighteen year old and his discomfiture was phatically signaled in Olaf's
reply.
"But Sten..." Sten did not have the psychological
resources at this time to deal with the youth or even to provide any solace for
him, so he simply ignored him and swung back to the lake, the binoculars to his
eyes, once again lost in his musing.
Life under the Germans was not so much of a vice grip for
him, as it was a suffocating encumbrance, an impediment to living the way he
wanted. It was, he thought, as if all his actions took place on a giant cobweb
of infinite dimensions, each movement held back by sticky strands, never
knowing if he would reach his destination and always, in the back of his mind,
the spider. Would today be the day it came? Would he feel it's paralyzing
sting, and then, immobilized, watch as the light faded while the beast
methodically spun its cocoon of death until all was shut out except the cries
from his own terrified mind and the receding sound of marching jackboots.
He thought back to what had led him to this place, how he
had come to be waiting on the shore of a lake in southern Norway on a frigid
February morning.
From a few casual comments at a local bar, to hushed
discussions while walking to work, to the first meeting in Swenson's barn after
the cows had been brought in for the evening, Sten was drawn in and inexorably
led down the path. With the help of Brits parachuted in under cover of
darkness, the network grew. Sabotage and clandestine operations, small blows
for freedom and for personal revenge, were all that he was able to do. It
accomplished something positive for the allied war effort but only provided a
small measure of relief for the anger and humiliation that raged inside him,
for somehow it did not seem honorable, this skulking about at night, these
small attacks here and there. It was not honorable in the manly way he so
desperately wanted. When a man is denigrated and held in submission,
embarrassed before his family and made to endure things that no self respecting
person should stand for, he needs to confront his enemy, look him in the eyes
and say to him that you can't do that to me or to my family, I won't let you,
I, Sten Hierdahl defy you, challenge you, conquer you, shoot you, destroy you.
The binoculars creaked in his hands and it was only then
that he realized how hard he had been squeezing them. He relaxed his grip,
returned his attention to scanning the lake.
Yes, I have aged a decade in
the last few years.
"Anything yet, Sten?"
Sten stared out intently, his forehead furrowed and the
corners of his eyes creased from the effort. Holding the glasses in one hand he
wiped a sweaty palm on his pants. The sky was lightening and the mist
dissipating.
"Sten?" Olaf fidgeted.
"Yes. There it is."
"Can I look?"
Sten handed the binoculars to the youth. "What can you
make out?"
Olaf eagerly took them and pressed them to his eyes, looking
in the direction Sten indicated. "Yes, I can see it."
Sten's eyes rolled back in their sockets; he sighed, but
mustered patience that he didn't know he had and said, "I know you can see
the boat, but what exactly do you see? Do you see anything on deck, any crates
or tarps covering anything? Are there Germans on board? How many? Are they
armed?" Sten paused. He knew he would loose his temper if he continued, so
he bit his lips while he waited for a reply from Olaf.
Olaf adjusted the focus and looked very carefully at the
distant ferry, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips while he performed
what he hoped Sten would consider a thorough inspection of the craft. After a
moment he cleared his throat as if about to begin a rehearsed speech.
Sten almost reached out to grab him by the shoulders and
shake the response from him but, having surveyed the ship from stem to stern,
Olaf finally replied, "There are no boxes or tarps on deck but there are
soldiers. I count eight on the main deck and two patrolling the upper deck.
They are all armed but I can't make out what kind of rifles they carry except
for two near the bow who are manning a machine gun partly surrounded by sand
bags. I'm sorry, that's all I can see. I can't see any special cargo."
"It's there. They never have that many soldiers on the
ferry and never a machine gun."
"What do we do now?"
"We wait and hope that the others have done their job
properly so we can report the mission was a success." Sten turned back to
the lake and once more stared out at the water, a few glimmers of morning sun
streaking the surface as the last of the mist dissipated. Olaf stood with the
binoculars extended for several minutes before Sten even noticed him and it was
with reluctance that he now took them. He had been lost for that short
interval, out there on the lake, alone with only the sparkling reflection of
the sun and the gentle chop of the cold waters; alone in a place he did not
want to leave.
The Hydro was closer now and as he brought the image into
focus he could see a few passengers walking the deck, strolling in the cool
morning air, trying, he imagined, to ignore the German soldiers and pretend it
was simply a routine trip on the ferry on a not unpleasant day in February. He
tried not to think of the sadness that lurked just outside his awareness,
wanted to return to the quiet of the glittering water.
Suddenly the ferry seemed to inhale, to noticeably expand
and rise slightly out of the water. A red yellow ball enveloped the craft,
expanding outward, followed almost instantly by fragmented parts of the deck
and superstructure as a massive explosion ripped the ferry apart. Fire, smoke
and debris were projected through the air along with the people that had been
walking the deck and the German soldiers that were meant to protect the
precious cargo. The sound reached them several seconds later and he could sense
Olaf's involuntary shudder. Still looking, Sten watched as the hull, which had
been lifted a good two feet, fell back and debris rained down, sending up a
thousand tiny plumes in an almost perfect circle around the boat. What remained
of the Hydro quickly sank beneath the surface leaving only a small cloud of
black smoke and pieces of litter and burned bodies to bob on the quiet chop of
the lake.
Sten slowly lowered the binoculars. He did not offer them to
the boy standing next to him. Olaf sucked in a great mouthful of cold morning
air for he had, unknowingly, been holding his breathe as the scene unfolded. He
was visibly shaken and his breathing now came rapidly. "It's all gone. The
whole boat, the passengers, everything. Did they have to destroy it all?",
whispered Olaf. He turned to Sten. "Was it really that important? There
were civilians on board!"
Sten looked up at him and said in a quiet, but emotionless
voice, "There are no civilians in this war; only those who know they're
soldiers and those who do not yet know." He slowly straightened from the
crouched position in which he had been observing the events on the lake, and his
joints protested the change in position, causing him to wince. He arched his
back, stretched his stiff muscles and started for the woods, not turning to see
if the boy followed.
Olaf stared after him a moment then looked once more at the
distant cloud of smoke that marked the final resting place of the ferry Hydro
and all who had been aboard, before following Sten into the shelter of the
thick pine Forrest that bordered lake Tinnsjo.
DELAWARE RIVER, SOUTH OF PHILADELPHIA. 15 JULY, 1944
The humid air of summer had descended on Philadelphia, the
atmosphere hot and thick, a palpable feel to it. It covered the entire city,
insinuating itself into every crevice and corner, settling heavy and immobile
in living rooms and kitchens, coming uninvited into the bedroom and spreading
out at its leisure in stores and restaurants. The most powerful of fans did
nothing to dispel the oppressive air. The hot air swayed this way and that,
whirled about, even turned once or twice on its heels, but at the end of all
these gyrations, it remained where it was, sultry and suffocating.
Larry Sabatini stood on the deck of the hospital ship
Tranquility as it sailed up the Delaware River to the Philadelphia Naval base.
The five hundred foot vessel, the former Marine Dolphin, had recently been
acquired from the Maritime Commission and was making its way back from England
to be refitted in its new capacity. In the distance, through the shimmering
heat haze, he could just make out the head of "Billy" Penn, the
statue of William Penn atop City Hall. It was like a personal "welcome
home," lifting his heart more than he would have thought, and enveloping
him in a feeling of security he had not known for many months. The
uncomfortable summer air, starting to settle around him as the ship slowed and
approached its berth, did nothing to dampen his spirits. The long days at sea
had been a respite from a pervasive apprehension he had endured for months, an
unease known only by those who had served behind the lines, in the heart of the
beast, surrounded by the enemy, with thoughts of capture, torture and death
always nibbling at your consciousness.
Leaning over the rail as the vessel slipped into its
mooring, he banished all thoughts of the OSS from his mind, and turned the
inward eye to memories of South Philly, the place where he grew up, the place
where his family lived, the place that meant comfort and safety to him. Two
weeks of leave with no cares and no military. Or so he thought. Two weeks to
visit family and renew old friendships. Two weeks. But, at the end of those two
weeks he would find that his life had been shattered and for all time hence
thoughts of home would elicit neither comfort nor safety.