Cozy Christian Fiction
Simple Faith | Solid Friendships | Strong Families

Norway’s resistance was strong today.

Katja Lindstrøm could taste the defiance in the air as the tram ground to a stop and the crowd began to shift around her. She had counted five red hats already today, and two more now boarded the tram and took separate open seats—alone but united in their boldness. The woman beside her gathered her bags and stood, and Katja caught one last glimpse of the daring pattern of her mittens—King Haakon’s symbol with the motto “Alt for Norge” stitched into the border—and felt again a little thrill of envy.

If only she dared make some outward sign, even just a paperclip on her lapel, to proclaim to both the Germans and her countrymen that she too refused to be cowed. But Fjellrev had told her often how vital her work was, and to stop the flow of information that passed through her hands would be a far greater blow to her country than the wounds to her own patriotic spirit from her scrupulously inoffensive attire.

Still, Katja couldn’t help squirming inwardly at the injustice that she, who had risked so much for Norway, could not exchange a knowing smile or a conspiratorial nod with a stranger on the street, simply because the visible marks of resistance were denied her.

The tram lurched unsteadily as a late passenger clambered aboard and nearly fell into the seat next to Katja, and as she turned, the blood froze in her veins. Of all days to run against Ole Solstad—a known Quisling—a vile collaborator—her whole soul rebelled at the thought, and only the strictest control kept her from shooting to her feet. 

It was the cruelest of injustices on a day when her spirit already strained against the bonds of enforced conformity. The Katja of two years ago would have braved arrest and even imprisonment rather than spend a single second in his company, but the Katja of today could only sit rigid, clinging to the thought of Norway, Norway, Norway while trying to imagine away the obnoxiously heavy breathing of her seatmate, hoping with all her soul that the other passengers would not view her apparent lack of revulsion as even the slightest degree of tolerance.

In what she supposed was a small mercy, Ole didn’t attempt to speak to her—she was sure she could not have borne that. He coughed a few times and shifted uncomfortably in his seat—how she hoped the other passengers were offering a hint of the icy displeasure she longed to pour forth!

It was bad enough to have grown up with a traitor—though who could have guessed that such dark inclinations lurked in the heart of the gap-toothed playmate who was always at the center of every plan? Not that those memories softened her feelings toward Ole—if anything, they made the silent recriminations heaped on his head every time he was forced upon her notice all the more bitter.

The tram ground to a stop at her corner, and Katja jumped up and fumbled for her bag, wanting nothing so much as to escape from the taint of Ole’s presence, but when she straightened again, he was before her, moving much too slowly toward the exit, and Katja nearly screamed in frustration. For a brief second, she considered staying on until the next stop, but Norway needed her at her post even more than Dr. Eriksen, and no Quisling would stand in the way of that.

She followed Ole Solstad off the tram, keeping far enough behind that the edge of her coat couldn’t brush his uniform, then pressed into the crowd of hurrying people and soon lost sight of him in the throng.

The band around Katja’s chest loosened a bit as she made her way through the streets to Dr. Eriksen’s office, and by the time she hung her coat in the cramped living space that also served as his reception room, she had nearly recovered her usual cheerfulness. This was the place where her best work was done—both her regular work as the doctor’s nurse and her secret work as a vital link in the chain of XU, funnelling crucial information to both the active resistance and the High Command in exile.

A note on the desk proclaimed that the doctor was out on an early house call, so Katja took her time straightening the little room and was humming to herself over her broom and dustpan when a hesitant knock sounded. Katja’s brow furrowed a bit—most everyone knew to simply walk in—but she set the broom aside and opened the door with a smile that stiffened instantly.

Ole Solstad stood before her with eyes closed and hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe as though he hadn’t a care in the world. How dare he follow her here—into her domain—into her sanctuary? Had he somehow received a hint of her activities and come to poke his rat’s nose around in hopes of reporting her to his Nazi masters? Well, let him; even if he smashed her lunch pail to pieces and discovered the false bottom, all the messages she’d received had been safely passed on. She knew the names of none of her contacts but Fjellrev—for all the good that alias would do them—and had never seen a face to recognize it. No, whatever happened to her, Norway was safe, and Katja lifted her chin and addressed the unwelcome visitor with her coldest reserve.

“May I help you?”

Ole jumped as if startled and blinked at her dazedly for a second, then straightened himself with a wince. His hand began to move to his breast pocket, then dropped again, and his chapped, reddened fingers clenched tightly at his side.

“Is the doctor in?”

“He is not.” Dr. Eriksen would never refuse someone seeking help, no matter their side, and if the traitor insisted on waiting, she could not in good conscience refuse, but Katja had no intention of inviting him to it. “Shall I tell him you called?” The words were nearly forced through her teeth, but her position demanded at least that inquiry.

“I—” Ole rocked on his feet a little, blinking hard, then gave a slight shake of his head. “I—no—thank you.” He turned away, and Katja shut the door firmly behind him, then leaned against it, trying to still the sudden shaking of her hands. For all her bravado in the face of danger, the abrupt release of tension left her momentarily weak, and she breathed a prayer of thanks for the empty room as she hastened to compose herself.

The first office patient of the day arrived only a few moments before the doctor himself, and after that a steady stream of patients kept her busy until seven minutes after ten, when she was finally able to slip away to the curtained alcove that held the water dispenser.

If Dr. Eriksen had any idea of the use to which his nurse had put that curtain, or her purpose in suggesting that the door to what had once been a separate flat would improve the air by being kept open, he had never voiced it, and Katja supposed it didn’t matter, so long as he didn’t seem to mind her use of the dispenser at somewhat more regular intervals than might be anticipated by pure chance. She had just had a visit yesterday from her most frequent ten o’clock caller—the man with a single streak of mud across his glistening black shoes—but others might also stop, particularly with something especially urgent, so she retrieved a cup and drank it slowly, tapping her low heels in a way that an innocent passerby would read as simply boredom.

A low sound from just beyond the curtain drew her attention, and she waited a few seconds, but no shoes appeared beneath it. Katja hesitated an instant longer, then turned back toward the reception room, but when she reached the corner, she paused once more to look back. From this vantage point, something was visible in the corridor—not a shoe, but a hand, lying limp and still. Katja’s heart stuttered as the memory of Ole Solstad returned. If he had been waiting in the hall—if he had caught one of her informants—

A chill of fear touched her heart as her feet instinctively drew her back to the curtain. If Ole was still waiting—if her coming confirmed his suspicions—but he could make nothing of it! She was a nurse, and a nurse on duty—she had more right than anyone to investigate an apparently injured man in the hall. Drawing a fortifying breath, she slipped past the curtain—and stopped still in her tracks for the third time that day.

The man on the ground had not been hurt by Ole Solstad—not unless the wound was self-inflicted. Katja’s heart beat wildly as she knelt next to her childhood friend turned Norway’s betrayer and placed a cautious finger to his throat. The pulse was there, faint and rapid, and Katja swallowed hard. What was she to do now? The man was her enemy—her country’s enemy. They were at war—soldiers on the battlefield received no mercy, and yet—

And yet, she was a nurse—and she claimed to be a Christian. Did her love for her country—her hatred for its invaders—her loathing for her disloyal countrymen—did all of that count for anything against what she knew to be her duty to her fellow man—whoever he was?

Katja closed her eyes, a deep shudder running through her entire frame, then breathed a prayer and rose to fetch Dr. Eriksen.

***

A rare quiet had settled over the office. The doctor had gone out on a call, and no patients remained except Ole. Katja sat stiffly on watch at his bedside, torn between the guilt of having turned him away that morning and the guilt of having helped save the life of one who might yet turn again and destroy all she held dear.

Unable to stay still with the turmoil churning in her heart, she rose and began gathering up the hated, bloodstained uniform. The toe of one shoe peeked out beneath the untidy pile, shining black leather marred with a single streak of brown. Katja gasped and held both shoes to the light—no other spot betrayed itself. Mind reeling, she let her eyes travel helplessly from the telltale streak to Ole Solstad lying unconscious on the bed, half dead from loss of blood. Fjellrev had praised the owner of these shoes as one of their most valuable agents—but Ole—a Quisling—a traitor? After a moment’s contemplation, she buried the shoes again and examined the discarded coat, feeling carefully over every inch until she found a hidden pocket with a small notebook tucked inside. The coded script erased any remaining doubt, and Katja returned to the bedside, staring down at the pallid face on the pillow.

How could he do it? She had struggled just today against her longing for some outward display of defiance. And yet he had—what? Allowed himself to be branded a traitor and collaborator to gain information vital to his country’s cause? Borne the hatred of all his former friends in silence, because the truth was too dangerous to speak? Nearly died with whatever secret the pages in her hands contained, his memory forever shunned by those he had served with such selfless loyalty?

Ole’s head shifted restlessly, and his brow contracted in pain. Katja applied a wet cloth with a gentler hand than she had ever imagined offering to Ole Solstad, and his cracked lips parted slightly. Katja leaned close, and the half-conscious words breathed warm and weighty in her ear.

“Alt for Norge.”