The Sword and the Net

3 SWEDEN, STOCKHOLM

Nils Jorgensen had a day off and was bound for Stockholm. He dressed in his best blue suit, which was of astonishing colour and cut, and his Aunt Kirsten tied his tie, and Axel gave him some extra money and Gertrud pouted unhappily at the thought of the girls he would see and perhaps talk with. And they all saw him safely aboard the strangely shaped single-deck bus which was the only road connection between Kornemunde and the city.

They found Nils a seat to himself, right behind the driver, and waved to him until the bus was out of sight around the bend in the road by the church, and he waved back.

The bus bumped and jiggled over the little bridge and came on to the smoother surface of the high road and gathered speed Nils settled comfortably in his seat—and Otto began to think. It was a full two weeks since the reprimand for his gross mistake; two weeks during which—he knew it, though no word of praise had been addressed to him—he had made good progress; two weeks during which he had begun, at safe times and only when alone, to become bored and impatient. Several times in the last two or three days he had been on the point of taking the plunge and at some suitable moment asking Axel how much longer he was to stay here in Kornemunde, but always, he thanked his stars, he had put it off. And now here he was, on the way to Stockholm—and something. He did not know what awaited him because Axel had said nothing except that it was time he had a day off and went into Stockholm and enjoyed himself. Nothing more than that—and nothing that he would not have said to a genuine Nils. But there had been something different in the eyes behind their thick glass—and, besides, for Otto Falken at this time there neither were nor should be holidays. Yes—something was going to happen in Stockholm; but what? And where, now he came to think of it? He felt in his breast-pocket to make sure the pencil was there; then drifted into musing with delighted admiration over the thoroughness of this great machine of which he was now a cog—and the amazing invisibility of its flawless machination.

He arrived in Stockholm just before noon. He wandered, managing to reconcile smoothly enough the bucolic awe proper to Nils with the genuine interest felt by Otto. Both Nils and Otto liked Stockholm and everything about it—its wide streets and its stone buildings and its parks and its people and its general air of making business a pleasure. But, while it was all matter for gaping to Nils, there was, for Otto, a certain unreality about the whole small, neat metropolis: it was as if this were a place apart from the stern and actual world; a place where everyone and everything pretended to be real and alive and occupied with the work of existence upon this planet, but a place which, in fact, was completely separate from the Earth and the problems of its people.

He wandered about—and went on wandering. He ate good food in an unpretentious little café near the main railway station, and went into a museum, and loafed around a pretty, obviously imaginary little park, and had a strange, throat-burning drink in a bar which was crowded with men who unmistakably followed the sea.

It was nearing four in the afternoon before he began to grow worried. In all his miles of meandering he had neither seen nor heard any hint of anything which might be the something for which he was so anxiously waiting. And yet he was sure that he had been ordered here, and for a definite purpose—and therefore if he had missed the something, it must be his own fault. Had he made some fantastic, some puerile mistake which would disgrace him? Should he, for instance, have just waited where he was when he had stepped off the bus? Surely not—since, in the absence of any other orders, it was his duty to be Nils Jorgensen—and this loafing and wandering and gaping must be proper to Nils! Should he, perhaps, as the pencil was the only ‘sign’ which he had, have been at pains to show it casually in every place he visited? Surely not, since the others must know him and therefore take the initial step.

Well, then, what was the matter? Why didn’t something happen? . . . He decided, for the want of more striking idea, that it might be as well if he stepped sufficiently out of his conception of Nils’ character as to visit parts of the town which he had hitherto avoided; parts which it seemed to him would frighten Nils by their luxury and sophistication.

This decision brought him, at some time before five, to the terraced restaurant of the Carolus; the restaurant which, although it is roofed and part of the main hotel building, seems nevertheless to be, very delightfully, part garden and part pavement. It was easy enough to act the part of Nils as he entered: his clothes, and the covert smiles which they aroused in neat men and soignée women, were sufficient insult to his personal, bodily pride to make the necessary, inner feeling of being Nils—awkward, embarrassed, out-of-place—very easy to attain. He stumbled to a corner table upon the lowest terrace. Scarlet-faced, he ordered aquavit from the card which the waiter tendered him and, when it came, discovered it to be the same burning drink that he had had in the place which was full of sailors. Only this was better stuff—much better. He felt less worried when he’d taken half of it. It was like the vodka he’d had in Paris, only pleasanter. He finished it and ordered another. He felt much better; there was no denying it. He knew his own capacity, though, and was in no danger, even with strange liquors, of allowing his mind to become even clouded. But he suddenly realized, halfway through the second drink, that he had been overanxious. There was nothing, in the absence of orders, which they could have expected him to do that he had not done. He must simply wait. He pressed his hand to his coat, over the breast-pocket, and felt the outline of the pencil again.

He had a puddle of liquor left in his glass, and was thinking of finishing it and leaving this place when he saw the little priest come in and sit at a table across the aisle. He watched, with inward amusement, someone even clumsier and less at home in his surroundings than any Nils Jorgensen. The priest was small and plump and untidy, and he dropped things and overturned a glass of water and fumbled with the menu and grew embarrassed beneath the cold scrutiny of the waiter and eventually ordered soup.

Otto shifted his gaze for a moment—and saw the girl two tables down from the priest. Perhaps girl was the wrong word, though, because it implied, for Otto at least, a certain immaturity; a naiveté—even perhaps a quality of innocence. Gertrud, now, was a girl, as had been her prototype in Paris. . . .

Otto bit his lip, frowning. He forgot to be Nils for a moment; then recalled himself with a start. He looked at the young woman again. She was dressed very simply and in exquisite taste. She was charming; much too charming to be alone. Though she was unlike as might be in feature and colouring, she somehow managed to remind him of his Parisian singer. He looked again, remembering to be loutishly bashful. She was reading a magazine as she sipped at a cocktail. She looked up as if she felt Otto’s eyes. She was blonde, with eyes of deep, dark blue, and her mouth was full-lipped and large and generous. Her dark, simple coat, with its high collar of rich fur, was thrown open, and beneath the grey silk of her dress she curved deliriously.

Their gazes met and mingled for a second which seemed an hour to Otto, starved since Paris of any real society of the other sex.

Then she dropped her eyes to the magazine again—and Otto, the waiter at his elbow, ordered coffee. He would not go now, he would wait. The blank glance from those eyes had had something behind it; some awareness of his existence and effect; some recognition which he was just old and experienced enough to know as a sign that boded well.

His coffee came and he sipped at it—and dared another stare: it was still sufficiently in the manner of Nils, but he put, as it were, more behind it. Again she raised her eyes as if she sensed that his were upon her. And this time an electric thrill transfixed Otto. And this time, before she dropped her eyes to the magazine again, the almost invisible ghost of a smile creased the coiners of her mouth.

He finished the coffee and ordered more, and kept on looking, trying to combine the outward manner of a Nils with an inner message from his eyes. With each interchange, her dark-blue eyes grew more frankly interested, until at last they seemed to have an answer in them to the thrills which permeated him.

Then he saw with a sudden despair that she was paying her bill. The waiter took the note which she gave him and fumbled to make change and finally hurried away to get it while she collected handbag and gloves and pulled the fur-collared coat about her and glanced at a tiny, glittering watch upon her wrist. Otto stared sullenly, despondent—and then, on an instant, was plucked from his depths by a flash from her eyes and the slightest, almost imperceptible, movement of her head towards the door; a movement which made his heart leap up into his throat.

He was fortunate to catch the eye of his own waiter almost at once. He paid his bill, with some Nils-like fumbling in a massive ring-purse, as quickly as he might—and was making awkward way out to the street within a minute of her departure. He saw her in the vestibule, selecting something from the pile of papers on the news-stand. Somewhat un-Nils-like, he did not pause nor give any sign that he was aware of her but went out, shambling, through the revolving door and on to the pavement. He moved away from the entrance and the brilliant patch of light from the lamps they had just switched on against the sudden dusk. He took up his stand further down the pavement, beneath one of the trees which lined this whole thoroughfare, sprouting surprisingly from square inlets of dark soil in the paving.

He waited—and took counsel with himself. He was here in Stockholm to wait, and to wait, surely, in the manner of Nils. So there could be no possible wrong in Nils’ seeing how this adventure might turn out. . . .

He waited, for several minutes which seemed interminable. Then she came out of the hotel and turned in his direction. He watched her with rising admiration and excitement as she came towards him. She was tall, but not overly tall: she was erect without effort. And her hips swung gracefully as she moved.

With one casual-seeming glance over her shoulder, she came directly towards him. She was smiling fully now—and her charm miraculously was doubled. He stood away from the tree and waited for her. His heart was beating violently and his breath was short.

She halted in front of him, fairly close. And she spoke, in a deep, very faintly husky voice which matched the rest of her. She said:

“This is very . . . curious of me, to behave like this. You think so, too, don’t you?”

But she said it in German.

Time, of course, is purely relative, which is doubtless why it seemed so long to Otto before he answered. Actually, he did so with a scarcely perceptible pause which, even had it been noticed, would have been no more than natural; but so much conflict raged inside him, so many questions were asked and answered in his head, so great a decision taken and acted upon, that it seemed to him an unconscionable time until he spoke. He cursed his luck, for her obviously genuine racial kinship made her even more desirable. . . . He asked himself how it could possibly matter if he pretended to a slight knowledge of German, gained by Nils while at sea, since here was so obviously a woman who could have no connection whatsoever with espionage, direct or counter. . . . If he made some reply, enough to see where the adventure would end, how could he possibly be wrong? . . . And suppose it did end as he had been so ardently hoping, what harm could come when she was so patently of a class and position which must make any association with a Nils Jorgensen very necessarily clandestine to the nth degree? . . . If only he wasn’t so certain that the whole thing would come to nothing, its flimsy structure fall in ruins, if he did not understand her language and became in truth the oaf which some strange chemical reaction between them had made her see as something else! . . .

But he looked straight at her and made his eyes blank and shrugged lumpishly and said:

“What you say? I don’t understand.”

And he said it in Nils’ thickened, Dane-accented Swedish.

She looked at him, and the dark-blue eyes blinked once and grew cold, and the smile faded from her mouth and she turned directly about and walked quickly away.

Apathetically, Otto leaned back against his tree. He did not even watch her go. He felt tired and empty, and cursed himself for an over-conscientious fool.

He was still standing there when the little priest came up to him. It was quite dark now, and all the street lamps were on, and it was growing very cold. He had probably leaned there, slouched against the tree, for some thirty minutes. He was wrapped in grey gloom, and for the first time since Berlin regretting life in the Luftwaffe. He started when the little man spoke to him, and peered down through the darkness at the strange, dumpy figure with its shapeless, bundle-like coat and floppy, curl-brimmed hat. But he did not answer.

“Never mind,” said the priest, very gently. “It doesn’t matter.”

There was something in the voice which, made Otto feel ashamed. He brought his mind to attention with considerable effort. He said:

“I’m sorry. What was it you wanted?”

The priest, who had begun to move away, turned back. He said, his head tilted to look up at Otto:

“I have to note something down. My memory, you know . . . I was wondering . . . Could you lend me a pen, perhaps? . . . Or a pencil would do. . . .”

“Huh?” Otto’s tone was sharp. He was momentarily startled by the word pencil; then, looking down at his questioner again, grew amused by his own ridiculous imaginings. He laughed inwardly, and felt much better.

“I think I have one,” he said—and began to grope in his pockets, searching for the ordinary stub which he had brought in addition to the pencil in his breast-pocket.

The tree was in a circle of darkness made blacker by its own shadow—and the priest began, while Otto was delving into one pocket after another, to edge towards the street-lamp between the tree and the hotel-entrance. He too was searching in his pockets, and Otto moved automatically with him, until they were both on the very edge of the bright pool of light.

“I’m sorry.” Otto was fumbling furiously. “I know I’ve a bit of pencil somewhere.” He wondered why he was taking so much trouble with the old idolator. Maybe it would be all right to let him use the pencil. No, perhaps safer not—though there could be nothing more ordinary to look at to the uninitiated eye.

While he still delved, now into his hip-pockets, the little man took something from some recess in the shapeless coat. He said:

“You see, I broke my own pencil . . . the last lead . . .”

He held out something to Otto, thrusting the hand which held it into the light: it was a pencil; a cheap, utterly ordinary propelling pencil, indistinguishable from any which might be cheaply bought in any stationery store throughout Europe or even America. But in one vital respect it was identical with that in Otto’s breast-pocket: its original white-metal cap, which had probably once held the usual piece of eraser, had been removed and a clumsy, obviously home-made wooden plug had been substituted. . . .

Otto’s heart jumped violently: he hoped the shock had not been visible to other eyes. He managed to say, casually:

“Too bad! I’ll find mine in a minute,” and study his companion thoroughly for the first time. He realized that he had seen him before: he had sat at the table next the beautiful German. He wondered . . .

But he was cautious. It could do no harm to be cautious. After all, a little man like this might conceivably—as anyone very possibly but improbably might—lose the top of a cheap pencil and replace it with a plug of wood roughly shaped with a pocket-knife! He applied the test. He said:

“By the way, do you happen to know what time it is? I’ve a train to catch. . . .”

The little priest, with a worried look of concentration, started to undo the buttons of the shapeless, enveloping coat. It took him quite a long time. When he had them undone, he reached inside, to another coat presumably, and at last brought his hand out bearing a huge pumpkin of a watch, its case of gunmetal, attached to a heavy silver chain. He moved the monstrosity into the light and peered at it carefully. He said, with gentle surprise:

“Why, it’s seventy-one past, or earlier. . . . I’d no idea! . . .”

And then Otto knew. He waited, and nothing happened—and then produced his own pencil and watched in amazement while the priest made some careful and, Otto was sure, meaningless scratches upon a piece of paper.

He looked up at Otto with a shy, kindly smile. “Thank you,” he said in the gentle voice and returned the pencil. “If you are going this way, perhaps we might walk together? . . .”

And so Otto did not return to Kornemunde. Instead, at the frigid grey hour of five a.m. upon the next morning, he boarded the S.S. Lars Bjolnar. She was a timber freighter of some eight thousand tons—and Nils was duly signed upon her.

He left the blue suit behind him, but each piece of the stout and serviceable and well-used seaman’s clothing he wore was crudely marked with the name N. Jorgensen in indelible ink and a calligraphy which he himself might have thought was his own.

More, he had a well-loaded duffel bag—and in it, besides spare clothing, a sizeable locked strong-box of battered metal. In this box, besides many other necessary things such as his official Identity Card and his seaman’s papers, was a whole background, meticulously compiled, for Nils Jorgensen, comprising such precise and likely data as yellowed old photographs and snapshots of Nils’ father and mother; of Nils himself (it was astonishing how closely the infants and boys resembled Otto Falken); and of their farmhouse in northern Norway. There were also such matters as a beribboned lock of blond hair, a small tattered Bible signed by Jorgensen père et mère—and much more. . . .

As he contemplated these things, Otto was again overcome by awe-stricken admiration for the godlike thoroughness of the great Machine which now, for Germany’s sake, controlled him. And he wondered increasingly, with each passing hour of this monotonous voyage towards Lisbon, what subtle and intricate steps would be taken to secure the unobtrusive entrance of Nils Jorgensen to Britain: he was more certain than ever, now, that this must be his destination.

For no one had told him, yet, that he was going to America!