A Mother's War

A MOTHER’S WAR HELEN PARUSEL To Mum, who always believed I would someday write a book. CONTENTS Part I Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Part II Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Part III Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Author’s Notes Acknowledgments More from Helen Parusel About the Author Sixpence Stories About Boldwood Books PART I 1 NARVIK, NORWAY, 9 APRIL 1940 220 km inside the Arctic Circle The sounds of the fjord were different that night. Laila lay in bed, listening: a faint drone beneath the whine of the wind, a low hum from the churning sea. She heard a shout. Her body stiffened. More shouts. She kicked back her eiderdown and swung her feet onto the wooden floor. Her long, white nightdress twisted around her ankles as she darted to the window. Ice and snow covered the glass. She pulled at the window but the old frame jammed. A jiggle and a yank; she forced it open. Raw air gushed in and covered her face in a cold mist. Through the swirl of snowflakes, she saw a mass of grey-black silhouettes hulking across the fjord. People with torches and binoculars were gathered along the shore. A man pointed and the crowd ran from the water’s edge. Laila gripped the windowsill, digging her nails into the splintered paint. Her eyes searched the darkness. A deep roar erupted and echoed across the fjord; a shape on the water exploded and flames split open the night sky, illuminating the scene. Battle ships. Rows of them. Battle ships looming over the fishing boats that leaped and rolled in the storm beneath the snow-tipped mountains. She watched transfixed, unable to move or think until her bedroom door flew open. Mama, small and grey, stood in the doorway, the neck of her nightdress clutched in her hands. Her voice shook. ‘My God, what’s happening?’ As Laila reached for her, a blast shook the house; vibrations shuddered through her body. She swung back to the window; nearby houses crackled orange, dense black smoke spiralled above. Horrified, she saw the Andersen family topple out the front door of their burning home. Laila froze. Heartbeats passed. Something inside her shifted and adrenalin ignited. Papa wasn’t here. She must act. Get the family to safety. She strode over to her mother and grabbed her shoulders. ‘Mama, we have to leave. Now.’ Light, swift footsteps. Olaf, in his red pyjamas. ‘Is it the Germans? Are they here? Or have the British come?’ ‘I don’t know. We must get out of here.’ Hanna ran in with their baby sister cradled in her arms. ‘Get dressed, everyone,’ Laila said. ‘Quickly, your warmest clothes. We’ll meet in the kitchen. Hurry.’ Laila took baby Inge from Hanna and propelled the family down the hall. She tore off her nightdress, climbed into ski pants, and swathed the baby in blankets, hugging her against her chest. She rushed down the narrow stairs. With the family now dressed and gathered in the kitchen, Hanna glared at Laila. ‘We can’t just leave,’ she said. ‘That’s crazy. Where should we go?’ ‘We’ll go to Aunt Kirsten. It’ll be safer away from the coast.’ ‘But Papa took the car.’ ‘We’ll walk.’ ‘No. It’s too far. We should go to the cellar and wait for Papa.’ ‘And wait till the house collapses on top of us?’ Laila turned to her mother and clasped her hands. ‘Are you strong enough to walk, Mama? Could you—’ ‘Of course she’s not,’ snapped Hanna. ‘She’s still recovering from—’ A flash of light, the earth trembled, the window shattered, and their six blue coffee mugs tumbled from the shelf and smashed onto the floor. The family stumbled into the hall, plucking coats and scarves from hooks on the wall, and Laila took her father’s torch. Then she grabbed some paper and a pen from the commode and scribbled a note. The lamp with the beige, fringed shade lay on the floor. Mama gazed at it a moment, picked it up, and placed it back on top of the commode. Moments later, they stepped out into a blizzard of snow and ash. Laila’s throat burned from the smoke; her eyes watered. A blur of images swirled around her: people ploughing through the freshly fallen snow, small children in their arms, or pulling sledges bearing elderly and infirm relatives; the timber houses aflame, the wind flinging snowflakes and burning embers into tornados of black speckled with white. Worst of all was the noise. The boom of the explosions and the staccato of gunfire that bounced between the mountains. But the most terrifying sound was the wail of men, which the wind tossed through the air from the sea. The caravan of bundled figures trudged through the snow, stooped against the storm. Ahead of Laila, a small child flung over a man’s shoulder dropped a doll which had been dangling from one mittened hand. The child wailed as the father, busy shouting instructions to the rest of his family, strode on. Laila, clutching Inge tight, bent down and scooped the doll from the snow, and stomped as fast as she could after the child. Laila’s breaths came in short, painful smoke-filled gasps. Coming up behind the father, she held up the doll to the child’s outstretched arms. The child choked back a last sob, clutched the doll with both hands, and gazed at Laila as she and her father headed on. Laila turned back to her own family. At a crossroads outside of town, the caravan split up in different directions. Laila and her family departed along a narrow, winding country road. They were on their own. Away from the blaze of the port, the path