Chapter 5

Dear Anne,

No doubt future generations will question how we could have been so caught off guard by events. We should have known this was coming, but we were blinded by our own hopes. Hope that we would never get to this point again. Hope that the world had learned its lesson. Hope that we had insulated ourselves with laws and long-standing tradition. But we forgot that war is also a long-standing tradition. Denmark fell within hours. The Germans' sights are set on Norway now...

A ringing phone startled Daisy awake. Kim gave a sleepy woof from his bed by the radiator. The glowing dials of her bedside clock read three a.m. Her heart sank. Nothing good ever happened this time of the morning.

She fumbled for her glasses, knocking over the carafe of water beside her bed. The receiver slipped through her shaking fingers. Her heart banged against her chest. But her voice remained rock steady. "Harriman here."

"The ships have entered the fjord, ma'am. The Germans are headed for Oslo."

Cold washed through her, not a draft from the ill-fitting windows, but an inner chill that no amount of quilts could banish. What the Norwegian government had worked so hard to avoid barreled toward them in a churn of ships' propellers.

What was there to stop them? Not much, if the reports on her desk were accurate.

Daisy refused to panic. That's what they wanted—both the Germans and those few among her staff ready to pounce with whispers of incompetence, inefficiency, and inexperience. She would remain calm and measured, an eye within the storm. No matter how much she felt otherwise. Even as she rose and dressed, she was formulating plans, making lists, reviewing options.

The German attack might have caught her by surprise, but not out of ideas.

The next hours were a blur of restrained confusion as cables were sent, letters were written, and phone calls made. Miss Kristiansen arrived at the legation as if it was just another day at the office. Only careful scrutiny uncovered the tremble in her lips and the shock clouding her blue eyes.

"Were you able to get through to Washington, my dear?"

"No, ma'am. I believe the Germans are in control of the telegram office. They could not guarantee our message would be delivered."

Daisy tried not to twitch. Morale hung by a thread. She was their leader. They took their energy from her.

The chancery offices buzzed with a mix of excitement and fear while the residence filled with anxious questioning staff and their families, essentials gripped in hastily packed suitcases, children kept close with sharp words from tired mothers. News came that King Haakon and his family, along with members of the Norwegian parliament, planned to travel to the town of Hamar by special train as soon as it could be arranged.

"Will they surrender?"

"Will they fight?"

"Where's the Norwegian military?"

"Where's the German navy?"

"What about the British? Will they counterattack?"

"What does Washington say?"

Daisy ignored the barrage of questions. It was easier than replying that she didn't know. Best to look confident. In command. Doubt would race through this crowd like wildfire, and she'd never restore order. Lucky for her, the drone of aircraft overhead and the answering thunder of distant gun batteries cut through the deafening chatter like a knife.

"We'll send the legation's families north to Sjusj?en until we better understand the situation," Daisy advised, her voice holding a bark of command that quelled any argument. "Lieutenant Bayard, see to it."

"Yes, ma'am." His face was as stoic as granite; only a slight tightness around his eyes gave away his frayed nerves. Soon cars were rounded up, a route mapped, luggage stowed as groups were organized and parceled out among the transport they'd scrounged. "And you?"

Washington would require up-to-date reporting of the situation. With direct communications impossible, that would mean routing all cables and phone calls through Stockholm. It would also mean sticking close to the Norwegian cabinet as decisions were made. She couldn't do that here in Oslo. "Mr. Cox will stay behind with the rest of the foreign service staff to take charge of the legation here. I'll follow the Norwegian government by car." She paused on her way up the stairs. "You haven't seen Cleo this morning, have you?"

"Not since last night, ma'am. Should I look for her?"

Another low boom shook the residence, rattling china and fluttering curtains. Black smoke rose over the rooftops to the north. "You have your hands full. I'll see to it."

"If you don't mind me saying so, ma'am," he said with a cheeky smile. "Your hands seem just as full."

In the study, Miss Kristiansen was packing up her typewriter along with extra ribbons, ink and pens, pads of paper. Boxes were open on the floor, half filled with confidential files. Others sat waiting to be carried downstairs.

Crossing to her desk, Daisy opened the bottom drawer, pulling loose a wooden partition to reveal a small cavity at the back. From there, she removed a box containing the State Department's codebook. Nothing to mark it as important or of interest. But at this juncture, its safety rated higher than hers.

Wharton's Buccaneers was on her nightstand. She peeled off the blue dust jacket, wrapping the codebook inside. Then, after unsnapping the lid of her overnight case, she settled the disguised book amid her travel essentials, shoving it beneath a girdle and surrounding it with a pair of hose, garters, her toothbrush, an extra face cloth, and her nightgown. Satisfied the book was as safe as she could make it short of shoving it down her brassiere, she snapped the case closed. "We'll keep this case separate from the rest of the luggage, Petra. We can't let it out of our sight."

"Of course, ma'am. I'll take it down with mine." She set the case beside the pile of boxes.

By nine thirty, the residence was quiet. Rooms that only hours earlier had been swarming with people were empty. The families were safely away under the care and protection of the lieutenant. Across the courtyard, the deputy chief of mission scattered what staff he could spare to satellite offices in Bergen, Trondheim, and Narvik.

"You're sure Miss Jaffray left with the others?" Daisy asked.

"Everyone has gone, ma'am," Petra replied, pulling on her gloves.

Daisy moved through each room as if assuring herself she'd not left a light burning or a pot on the boil, adjusting a pillow here, straightening a drapery there. Would she return? There was no way to know, and so she offered a silent farewell to the comfortable rooms where she'd made a home for herself over the last few years. This wasn't the first time she'd uprooted her life, but it was certainly the most dramatic exit.

Kim continued to pad at her heels, the old dog sensing the wrongness of the situation but unable to understand. Daisy had tried all morning not to think about saying goodbye to him. She and the grizzled shepherd had been companions since he was a puppy. A true friend when those she loved were an ocean away.

"And you're sure you saw Cleo go?" Daisy asked one last time.

"Ma'am, please." Even Petra's smooth facade was cracking beneath the growing pressure. "German troops have already taken the Sola airfield, and the naval base at Kristiansand. There's nothing to stop them from adding Oslo to that list. We must go now."

Her heart breaking, Daisy scratched Kim behind his ears, bent on aching knees to kiss his soft nose and stare into his brown eyes. He whined, pushing himself against her until she threw her arms around him for a last farewell. Then, before she could change her mind, she handed him off to a footman and hustled into the back seat of the car, Petra squeezing in alongside her.

"Where's Fr?islie?" she asked, surprised to find the unctuous Mr. Whitney behind the wheel.

The vice consul swiveled around in his seat. "Your regular chauffeur chose to report for military duty, ma'am," he explained. "I was a driver in the last war, so when they couldn't find anyone else on short notice, I said I'd step in."

"How fortuitous for me," Daisy responded blandly, showing none of her misgivings. Driver was hardly a task for one in his po sition, so what did he hope to gain by putting himself forward in such a way? Men like him were sly at manipulation; they slipped it unawares like tasteless poison into the tea. She would need to be careful, an added difficulty in a sea of such.

"Next stop Hamar," Mr. Whitney announced, before throwing the Ford into gear.

Daisy blocked out Kim's plaintive barking by focusing on the next few hours, the next few days, what she would say to her president, to Norway's king. Air raid sirens groaned to life, drowning out her dog's barking, which scraped along her bones like nails. Eyes forward, she clenched her purse in gloved hands and refused to look back.

The story of her life, Anne would undoubtedly tell her.

I n the gray light that comes before dawn, Cleo stood across the street from the German chancery. Bundled in a coat and hat against the early morning chill, her breath frosting the air, she watched as men in uniforms came and went, heads bent together in muttered conference. Sometimes they were accompanied by other men in heavy wool coats over nondescript suits. The uniforms didn't bother her. It was the suited men who sent shivers up her spine. She'd seen men like these before. Bland as milk with quiet, thoughtful voices and cold eyes that drilled straight through you. They had turned up in Zakopane shortly after the German takeover. She and Micky had learned to give them a wide berth. Today, she stepped back into a doorway to stay out of the wind and remain unseen until she decided what to do.

Other than the early morning activity and steady stream of visitors, there was nothing to mark the day out as special. No spidery swastikas on bloodred backgrounds unfurled from every window. No loudspeaker blaring the German national anthem to announce their intentions. No steely-eyed soldiers with guns bristling.

Not yet.

But they were on their way.

Coming downstairs for cocoa in the middle of the night, Cleo had heard Aunt Daisy take the phone call. Heard the taut quality behind her clipped speech. The furious response that followed. The air raid sirens had long since ended and lights burned all over the city. Families throughout Norway slept on, not realizing the war had come to them.

She had dressed quickly in the dark, slipping out of the residence in the mounting confusion. Not trusting the trams would be running this morning, she'd walked the short distance to busy Drammensveien, where early-morning commuters hurried to their jobs as if it was any other day. It might already be too late—Herr Brauer taken up with weightier matters and no time to spare for missing persons of no consequence. But she wouldn't know if she didn't try.

Her father had a grave. He had his name listed in an official register of war dead. He had medals in a box.

Micky had none of that. He'd simply walked out of their apartment one evening and never come back.

If she didn't fight for him, who would?

She was hours early for her appointment, but she was certain the German minister would be dressed and in his office. After all, it wouldn't do to greet his country's invading army in his pajamas. She felt in her pocket for his letter, gripping it tightly as she stepped off the curb, darting in behind a long sedan as it turned in through the gate, crunching over the snow and ice.

She followed the two men who emerged from the car as they headed up the steps and through the doors where a buzz, much like what she'd left behind her in the American residence, met her. The difference lay in the tension, which had a more exultant quality. People moved with brisk efficiency. Faces aglow. Steps assured. Not a trace of fear or worry. No pale cheeks. No darting eyes.

They were that confident.

"May I help you?" A battleship of a woman in her midfifties, blond hair threaded with gray, looked up from her typewriter. Her voice was sharp as glass as she gave Cleo a quick, dismissive once-over.

Setting aside her nerves, Cleo curled her lips into a condescending smile of her own, and in her best Swiss-finishing-school German replied, "I have an appointment with Herr Brauer." She fished out the letter, practically slamming it on the desk like a winning hand.

"I'm sorry, Miss Jaffray," the battleship answered without hesitating. "The minister is unavailable."

"But I have an appointment." She sounded like a petulant child, but she was too close to simply walk away without a fight.

"I couldn't help but overhear." Cleo hadn't noticed the man standing in the corner until he was at her shoulder, his expression one of shy curiosity, his English as posh as that of any Etonian schoolboy. "You're Miss Clementine Jaffray?"

"Yes, that's right."

He folded his newspaper, tucking it under his arm. "I'm very sorry you aren't able to speak with the foreign minister directly, but Herr Brauer has explained the situation surrounding Mr. Kominski and asked that I look into it, as I was recently stationed in Zakopane."

She clutched her purse and steadied her breathing. "Is there any news?"

"I've taken the time to write to the administration of the Generalgouvernement für die besetzten polnischen Gebiete—the government of the occupied region in Poland—and district officials in Kraków. They still claim Mr. Kominski died in the café bombing. As you're aware, it was a catastrophic event, and many of the bodies they recovered were not easily identified."

Cleo choked back the thick, sour taste at the back of her throat while the man snapped his fingers at the bouncer of a secretary, who was at his elbow with a tray and two mugs of hot sweet tea within minutes. Cleo felt the warmth seep back under his sympathetic gaze.

"From what evidence they've gathered, they feel confident in their conclusions. We're inclined to believe the correspondence you received afterward was merely the work of an unscrupulous con artist preying on your grief for his own criminal ends. You should count yourself lucky this person didn't show up at the expected rendezvous. There's no telling what might have occurred."

"What on earth do I have that a con artist would want?" she asked helplessly.

"You have connections to many powerful people in your country. Is it so hard to fathom why someone would want to cultivate a relationship with you?"

"Are you implying Micky was an unscrupulous con artist?"

"I'm saying we're looking at all angles in our search." As if to forestall an argument, he barreled through her protest. "I'm sorry. I know none of this is what you wanted to hear, but I can assure you we'll continue to keep our eyes open, and if Mr. Kominski does turn up, we'll let you know as soon as we can. You have my word."

Without quite knowing how, she'd been maneuvered back to the front doors. He shook her hand, apology in his warm gaze as if he was sorry he didn't have better news. Out on the street, a fire engine roared past, its bell clanging. "You should get home, Miss Jaffray. It's not safe out here today."

"No, it's not." She tried not to show her disappointment or her anger. None of this was his fault, but she didn't have Herr Hitler in front of her. Just this man with his soft hands and his Mayfair vowels who had been absolutely useless. She speared him with an Alva Vanderbilt sneer. "Speaking of tragic events and unscrupulous con artists, give my regards to your boss."

A little childish and very dangerous. She blamed her sass on a lack of sleep.

He merely inclined his head with a grim flash of his Aryan blue eyes.

Back on the busy street, snow dusted the cars and buses heading out of the city. Some shops had shuttered while others did a brisk business as nervous customers stocked up on essentials. Smoke rose to the north. There was a chatter of gunfire. Overhead, German bombers were being worried at by a pair of biplanes, the Norwegians diving and swooping ineffectually against the modern and more heavily manned Dorniers.

Cleo picked up her pace, her heart thudding against her ribs. Aunt Daisy would wonder where she'd gone. She'd be worried sick. She rounded the corner onto Nobels Gate and took the remaining streets almost at a run. A few cars sat parked haphazardly in the courtyard. A clerk hurried from one building to the other with his arms full of files. From inside the residence, Aunt Daisy's dog howled, his lonely heartbreaking wail fighting against the deeper groan of the air raid siren.

"Aunt Daisy? I'm back!" Her office was empty. So was the drawing room and her upstairs study. Her bedroom was as neat as a pin, but her dressing table was bare, and her closet had clearly been rummaged through in a hurry.

"Lieutenant Bayard? Petra?" Cleo came downstairs to find Kim pacing the kitchens while two maids and the legation's housekeeper, Mrs. Nilsen, chattered in anxious voices. "Where is everyone?"

"Madam Minister is gone." The housekeeper turned her mug of tea around in her saucer. "They are all gone."

"Gone where?"

"North." She hunched into her blouse, her face pinched. "Haven't you heard? The Germans are coming."

"Look outside," Cleo replied. "They're already here."

C leo sat at the kitchen table, pulling bits of ham from her sandwich to feed to Kim. Since she'd arrived, Aunt Daisy's dog had glued himself to her leg and refused to budge.

"At least he is quiet. All morning with the howling. Enough to set my teeth on edge."

Mrs. Nilsen was one of the few who remained when most had left to be home with family. The housekeeper moved around the kitchen in search of occupation, racing to the window at the sound of every automobile, jumping at every distant rumble that shook the pots on their hooks and the glassware in the cabinets. She had worried her apron into a wrinkled mess, and she'd lost at least three hairpins since Cleo had sat down to eat.

"You really don't need to stay on my account, Mrs. Nilsen."

"You can't stay here alone. What would Mrs. Harriman say?"

"I'm not alone. There are plenty of people working just across the way." She wasn't trapped and on her own this time. She was trapped along with an entire diplomatic staff. That had to count for something.

"It is not safe. Not with German soldiers loose in the city."

"I don't think they'll bother attacking the US chancery. Besides, I have Kim. He'll see off any real villains." The dog was currently snuffling up crumbs, his tail thumping against the table leg, but Cleo was sure he could be ferocious in a crisis. He licked her ankle before laying his head in her lap. Well, at least he looked ferocious. Maybe that would be enough.

The radio was on, but neither of them had been paying attention until an announcer introduced Herr Brauer, the German foreign minister.

Mrs. Nilsen turned the sound up, her apron clutched in both hands now, pink splotches high on her pale cheeks.

"Den norske regjeringen b?r stoppe ? gj?re motstand . " His voice rang out clear and proud and determined. "Vi kommer som venner og allierte av kong Haakon."

Cleo caught maybe one word in every three, but the drift was obvious. Mrs. Nilsen practically wrenched off the knob in her anger. "Friends and allies, bah! They are not welcome in our country."

"Please," Cleo urged. "Go home to your family while things are calm. Please."

"Very well, but if I should be with family, so should you." With a final glance around the spotless kitchen, she buttoned her coat and took up her purse. "You should go to your aunt. The town of Hamar isn't so far."

With what little money Cleo had left in her purse, it might as well have been the moon.

"I'd probably get there and find out that Aunt Daisy had come back here to Oslo. No, I'll stay put and hold down the fort. It'll be fine. You wait and see."

Mrs. Nilsen was finally convinced and with instructions on how to use the range and where the extra blankets were kept just in case it grew cold again, she departed, relief clear in her ruddy cheeks.

Cleo hunkered down in the living room with Kim draped across her lap as they both listened to the muffled sounds of distant explosions along with sporadic clatter of gunfire.

By noon, the city was calm, though there remained a heavy atmosphere that reminded her of summers on the Hudson—the crackle in the air that presaged a coming squall. Kim padded up and down the stairs, pacing room to room, scratching at doors as if expecting Aunt Daisy to be there with a word and a treat. Cleo sympathized completely. She had that same unsettled impatience that wound tighter with every turn of the hour and chime of the clock.

What was going on out there? Had the Germans succeeded in taking the city? Were the Norwegians fighting back? Where were the British? Was the king safe? The radio was no help, and the one time she tried to visit the chancery, she was pushed aside when she wasn't being ignored completely.

She came back to the residence to find Kim scratching and whining at the kitchen door. "It's time for your afternoon walk, isn't it?" He sat down at her feet, his gaze drilling a hole in her forehead. After ten minutes of being stared at, Cleo flung herself out of her chair to search for her purse and a leash. "Right. A short one just to see what's what then we come straight back. Got it?"

She wasn't the only one tired of hiding indoors. Groups of worried residents conferred in front of shops or clustered on street corners, casting wary glances over their shoulders. Many whispered about a British counterattack. The late queen's countrymen coming to Norway's aid to repel the invaders. Cleo patted the lining of her coat out of habit, her documents safe and sound, just in case.

She headed south, crossing over the wide boulevard of Parkveien before skirting the royal palace grounds on her way toward Karl Johans Gate, where the sounds of a marching band drowned out the murmur of a frightened city. But it wasn't Norwegian soldiers that came marching up the hill. Instead, a long procession of Wehrmacht gray marched past the stunned spectators. The drumming of boot heels falling in unison against the cobblestones accompanied the bass drum rhythm as row after row passed, eyes forward in a show of triumph.

Silence fell. No one jeered or shouted or wept. They were far too stunned.

Not Kim.

The dog strained at the leash, barking furiously. The fur down the ridge of his back bristled in anger. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth.

"Hush. Down, boy. Down, Kim." But Cleo's commands were ignored as she wrapped the leash around her hand to hold him back. One soldier glared and a few muttered curses, but none broke ranks.

Out of nowhere, a bottle came spinning to smash in front of an officer, the shards leaping to cling to his heavy coat and cut his cheek. A few teens shouted jeering insults as the procession passed the university buildings.

Following the infantry came a unit of soldiers on motorcycles, helmets and goggles turning them into unidentifiable enemies, more frightening by their anonymity. Kim practically yanked Cleo off her feet, his fangs bared in a show of rabid fury. Up ahead, a group of students taunted the parading soldiers, shouting and throwing rocks. The marching band scattered. One of the motorcyclists gunned his engine, peeling out of the phalanx to chase after the protestors. That was all Kim needed. He pulled free, throwing Cleo to her knees, skin scraped, blood welling from scratches across her palms and a pain throbbing in her ankle.

"Kim! Come back!" Cleo shouted. " Kom tilbake! " she added in Norwegian to no effect. He was a bad dog in two languages.

Scrambling to her feet, she chased him as quickly as sore knees and a twisted ankle would allow, pushing her way through the crowds who were dispersing at commands barked in German. Telling them to go home. To remain peaceful. To be calm.

She trailed Kim to the end of a narrow alley near St. Olavs Gate where the motorcycle rested on its side, leaking oil, its back wheel rotating slowly. The German soldier straddled it, trousers torn, leg bleeding, his pistol pointed at a boy kneeling in the snow, his hands behind his head. He was no older than sixteen, his brown hair streaked with sun under a greasy cap.

"Stay back!" the soldier shouted, swinging his pistol wildly between the boy and Cleo, who skidded to a stop on the icy pavement, hands in the air to show she was unarmed. She couldn't breathe. Her toes curled into her shoes. Her legs and shoulders went numb with cold and fear.

"Get your damned dog away from me," the soldier shouted. His movements were jerky and nervous as he eyed Kim, whose lips pulled back in a dripping snarl as he crouched to spring.

"It's nothing personal." Cleo inched toward Kim, the dog tantalizingly close and the leash strung out in a dirty wet loop just a foot away. "He's got a taste for wheels. He once chased a milk wagon two whole miles."

The bullet whistled past her head to smash chips of brick and stone from the wall behind her, a bee's sting on her cheek where shards bit into her flesh. She flung herself to her knees, throwing her arms over her head, forehead pressed into the slush. Gravel dug into her knees and snow seeped cold into her stockings. She smelled gasoline fumes and damp wool. She tasted the iron tang of blood in her mouth. "Stop! Are you crazy? Don't shoot!"

After making it out of Poland by the skin of her teeth, was she really going to die because of a damned dog? The unfairness of it all made tears burn in her eyes.

The second gunshot vibrated her bones like a tuning fork. Her blood froze solid in her veins, her brain blank with terror. Spots burst at the edges of her vision. If she could have burrowed into the brick wall, she would have. Kim's barking was almost frantic, high with terror.

The third shot never came.

She squinted open one eye then the other to find the motorcyclist sprawled in front of her, blood pooling over the cobbles, turning the slushy puddles of snow around him bright red. Kim had disappeared again, but the boy remained, a smoking revolver clutched in his hand, his face waxy gray with shock.

Cleo scrambled to her feet. Her stomach rolled up into her throat. Just before she threw up, the boy grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the mouth of the alley. " Vi m? dra n? ," he said in Norwegian. "We leave before more soldiers come."

"Is he dead?" she squeaked.

" Jeg vet ikke . La oss dra . I do not know. We go. Go now."

Stunned, she did as she was told, following the boy back up the alley. They made it as far as the corner when Cleo bounced off a broad chest. Buttons bit into her shoulder. She was nearly overcome by the odors of musky cologne and hair oil. In those few terrifying face-to-face seconds, she memorized every inch of the German soldier, from his gray infantry uniform down to the blue flecks in his hazel eyes. No doubt he was doing the same to her.

" Fr?ulein? What is wrong?" The boy's hand tugging on her never eased its tight grip. She was wrenched free of the soldier's hold and propelled down the street, his shouts following after. "Stop! Stop, I say!"

Back twitching up into her scalp, Cleo ran.