PIECES OF THE PUZZLE

Dena Linn

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© 2024 by Dena Linn

 All rights reserved

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Acknowledgement

A tusen takk to all the Norwegians, thank you from my heart for welcoming me to your land.

Norway wasn’t late to the war; it never came. Not capitulation, just bland neutrality. My countrymen sat by their black ovens and radios, eating their salted fish and convincing themselves they were safe, until they weren’t, until none of us were.

A spring day, May 1940, and the small divots of ice had melted. I felt lucky, unencumbered. Ensconced on the Flekke’s island, I lived 300 mountainous kilometers from Oslo, safe — other than the drumming of propellers and Nazi flags vaunted on tail wings. Lucky, yes! But I still kept my head down.

First tasks of my day included pumping water for the sheep and feeding the chickens. Now, that work was behind me, and I walked, legs stretched out and muscles loose, face turned to catch the spring sun, towards the island’s southeast tip, where the Skagerrak Sea beat viciously against a rocky point. I contemplated wadding into the cold pool of water that’s protected by that point, and as I looked at the sea, about to strip down to my underwear and jump in, a flat, gray ship with a red flag flapping and a crane on the foredeck caught me by surprise.

It was sitting deep in the water and wasn’t more than a thousand meters away. The swastika on the flag was clear. Damn sneaky Germans, what the hell are they doing? Nazi troops had already overrun Oslo and Narvik, the Royal Family was running having narrowly escaped. Do they think they might find our King hiding on Mr. Flekke’s island? It made no sense, and in that moment, I no longer felt so safe.

In a flash, I crouched, inching off the rocks, flat palms and stomach, my breath compressed against the ground. Mr. Flekke’s island is far from anything important! No precious minerals, just black, hard as granite boulders, chickens and sheep. Squinting between rocks and sea brush, I observed their entire process. The Captain’s Adam’s apple looked squeezed at the top of his kriegsmarine uniform, as the seamen stripped out of their button-downs and undershirts. However, they’d not come to search or swim. Bare-chested, they set the crane in motion, to unload their cargo of twelve one-meter square concrete blocks. I watched them intently.

Splashed into the pristine shallows, the first block settled, its top side sticking up, still dry, about ten centimeters above the water. The crane creaked and swung; the men whistled and heaved, and one by one, the blocks encroached in a line perpendicular to the sandy beach. The young men not older than me, jumped, stooped, and tossed ropes. I didn’t know any German, so I watched their sun-dried lips move with distanced fascination, and made-up stories to match their shouts.

“To the right, you’re blind! Old man’s a drunk!”

“Hell! Picking apples, my life’s sweet.”

Splash! as another block hit the water and sent a mini-tidal waves to the sand.

“Bullseye. Tell Mama! She’d be proud.”

I enjoyed my imaginary conversation, but that Captain’s choked Adam’s apple and my island responsibilities kept me alert.

***

Living on Mr. Flekke’s island, I cared for its animal inhabitants. I was finally away from those boys from my school days, now grown into surly men, and the church-going community where I’d grown up. I couldn’t recall ever fitting in, something always off balance in my mind, but no words that I knew existed to define it. Ma encouraged me with her broad smile. She was thirty-nine when I was born. She called me her special boy and held me close. I sensed before I learned to talk, that a little sister had passed away tragically when Ma was only nineteen. Despite having me, Ma never recovered from that loss, and so insisted I never wander. When it was time for me to walk to school, she hugged so tight, then released me with a small wave. Her face flushed gray as she fretted, I’d die or disappear. I didn’t believe that would happen though, and as I grew up, I knew, something inside me, a simple confidence, made me strong.

I attended school, but the view out the classroom window, trees, brush, farm animals, held more interest than rote lessons or fellow students, and I never got chummy with other boys. Their favorite pastime was cornering me, and when I wrested free, I’d run home torn up and dirty, Ma comforted and told me, “Stein, you’ll find your way in the world. Life’s a puzzle, we’ve no control of when or where the pieces fall, or even the picture till it’s finished — life’s about finding those pieces, picking the correct ones up, and finding meaning in your life.”

I grew up by her side and couldn’t have been less interested in hunting and trapping, with its muddy paths, cold bread for meals, and the enormous bang of Pa’s gun. “Better get used to it, son. It’s the sound of a man in control.” His smirk, after he picked up a dead animal, turned my stomach. He lorded that over me, his bass voice booming, “You’re no man, and no son of mine, if you can’t hold a gun and hunt.”

I preferred caring for animals, their wise eyes, their softness, and their quiet appreciation when I fed them or collected what they provided: milk, eggs, wool. No matter what Pa thought I was strong at seventeen, and could fix or build anything. But when Ma came home from church and told me rich Mrs. Flekke had offered me a job tending their island and animals, I was taken aback. In my sternest voice, I took her hand, so soft in mine, and said, “I’ll never leave you!”

Ma sighed and whispered, “You’re a fine grown man now.” She also said it was best to get away from Pa. “Go find your puzzle pieces, Stein. Now, go on now.”

That was in ’38. Finding my footing on Mr. Flekke’s kilometer-long rock and amongst their animals, my confidence grew, and Ma was proud the Flekkes chose me as their island’s caretaker. Two years had come and gone, and with battleships rattling on both sides of the country, the Flekke family had run scared to England. My only company was their sheep and chickens. I was confident, lived fine, and felt safe, far from Oslo and surrounded by the churning sea.

***

The Germans finished dropping those blocks, and the ship with its crane steamed away. I jumped down from my perch, legs weak from fear and stillness, chest full of burning rage. My heart thumped, men with guns, men stripped out of uniform, and why this little piece of island? Would they come back and shoot me? I checked the damage wrought to Mr. Flekke’s swimming hole. My mind awash with anxiety knew Mr. Flekke would be more than disappointed I couldn’t defend his island, couldn’t aim his rifle, couldn’t even kill a Nazi. Naive I was not. I understood it was a war. They’d be back to play with those blocks. My stomach rumbled with hunger as the sun passed its zenith. I turned back to the big, formal house.

Mrs. Flekke had a long wooden table in a bare, white-washed room of the main house, where I sat and ate, looking out over the shallow strait to another island. Mrs. Flekke had told me, hush-hush, about the farming family there who had twin daughters who’d drowned in that green sound; their mother fell sick and never recovered, and the farm went fallow. Sometimes, I stared hard at that water till my eyes burned, imagining well a mother’s pain.

My mind wandered, the bread and butter sat untouched on my plate. I had to shake my head and blink several times to register a man’s shorn head and shoal-blue eyes that stared at me from over the window ledge.

Before I could gather a thought, my mind conjured up sweet Mrs. Flekke’s voice, as if she and Mr. Flekke were next to me in their dining room.  “Dear, Stein’s a capable man, a hard worker. He’ll be fine taking care of this rock. No Germans will bother a hjelpemann.”

“You’re soft on him. He’s so quiet, not sure he can defend my island, even if I do leave him my rifle.”

“Oh, your island will be safe. Germans can’t take everything.”

It had been way past a cold midnight, the beginning of March when I pushed the small motorboat with the Flekkes in it off towards the mainland. Mr. Flekke called from the boat, “When the Brits whip the Fritzes, we’ll be back. I’ll reward you, a promotion, farm manager, Stein.”

I’d taken his promise to heart. Whoever snuck on our island, daring to peer into this home, I’ll make sure they’ll not come back! Mr. Flekke’s rifle hung in the mudroom, but I just yanked open the kitchen door, and yelled with a startling fierceness, “You’re on private property! Scram!”

I took two decisive steps around the corner of the house. A shivering man in a wet T-shirt with boots tied around his waist held out empty hands, then hugged himself, gazing down at his toes sticking through holes in his socks.

I didn’t have worldly experience, but I guessed from the sudden boat visit and his visible ‘mutter’ tattoo he wasn’t a Brit. He stood, his lips quivering as he raised his gaze. He launched into an introduction— in German I was sure— from which I caught his name: Egon. Next came an elaborate demonstration of “ship” and “jumping.”

His shoulders slumped, his forehead faced the ground, clothes clung wet. Chilling memories surfaced before my eyes. I was skinny at fifteen, and some boys drove me, fully dressed, in shoes and socks, into a freezing river. “God’s punishment,” they jeered. I shrank and cried for the coldness of the water and that their words I didn’t understand. The man, in front of me now, looked weak like I’d felt that day, and had a flushed face and trusting eyes like Mr. Flekke’s sheep. He trembled with cold, as I led him to the rough-timber worker’s cabin where I’d lived before the Flekkes chose to hide from the war. I brought him pants, a sweater, socks, and old canvas shoes. When I handed him a small towel, Egon gave me an awkward smile, his head rolling to the side and down. Shame, thankfulness? As his head rolled back up I saw first crown, then knitted forehead, then his eyes. I caught their sea-blue depth and light. They stared into mine and I felt them reach into me with question. Jitters ran between my ribs. Was I remembering the feel of soaking clothes or was this something else? I bit my lip and nodded, acknowledging this man’s exhausted form. I left him to rest.

Checking later, I found Egon fast asleep, his dry socked feet hung over the side of the bed. I heard Ma’s words: “You’re a trusting boy.” The memory soothed me.

I thought, Yes, and perhaps, I can help this poor man. I lifted his feet onto my mattress and covered him with a blanket.

My shoulder sank against main house’s door when I returned from the cabin. I don’t remember collapsing into the depths of Mr. Flekke’s reading chair because my thoughts thrashed like a fished cod spinning on a line. Indistinct shadows slid between colored images shifting before my eyes, then war broadcasts bounced on repeat:

“Europe overrun.”

“Fascists.”

“Quisling joins Hitler.”

I clapped my hands over my ears as the voices echoed. The secreted radio safed away under the floorboards. Too stirred and too exhausted, my mind balked at sleep. I hadn’t seen Ma in weeks. Where were Norway’s resistance fighters? Frightening time around us and I prayed she was healthy and not worried.

The break of morning light, brilliant and thin, woke me stiff and disoriented. I found a cup of cold coffee in the pot and downed it. Then I stumbled through the doorway clicking my tongue as I always did to gather the sheep. We milled our way east so that I could inspect our abducted swimming hole. The cement blocks sat massive and ugly in a line marching up the sandy bank. My German visitor’s face came to me, and he sure didn’t look like an enemy. When Egon’s eyebrows had relaxed, his eyes had been curious, even a bit scared. He’d not been angry, nor frightening. Ma had said to trust, and I did.

That morning the Nazi flag was stiff in the wind as the crane ship steamed close. I kept my face soft, my shoulders back, nervousness tamped down, No hiding today; I held up my hand to shoulder level; stiff. Soldiers rushed, pointing. Dramatic-sounding German came from inside the ship, followed by three uniformed men with double rows of goldish buttons up their chests who materialized wide-legged on the boat’s deck with rifles ready. A sliver of my resolve cracked, and fear flooded my system. My heart lodged in my throat. I shook from hair roots to toenails; the dirty white sheep foraged about, unaware of the threat. A soldier took aim first at me, and I held my breath. Then his gun’s muzzle tracked to a loner sheep by the blocks. A scream rose in my throat but died behind my teeth. I imagined the spilling and stickiness of blood; my hand flew to my chest as I gulped, dry-eyed. A string of sharp words rose from the ship, and the soldier eased back. Unsteady in my own shoes, I clicked and whistled to the sheep.

With the sea calm, and its waves soft, the tops of the cement blocks were dry. Workers in T-shirts set to affixing meters of parallel small gauge tracks along them. They wielded sledgehammers, tongs, and metal spikes. The soldier with the gun never wavered from position. The hammers clanged, smacking the spikes, fixing the track in place. My mind, unquiet, wondered what would come ashore on those tracks: Armaments, canons? Then my thoughts flitted back to the mysterious Egon from the sea who, I imaged was still asleep on my old cot. It had been a long morning when that blood-colored flag caught the wind, and its vessel steamed away.

I went back at a steady pace, calming the beat of anticipation in my heart, and found, to my surprise, Egon holding nails between his teeth. He was on his knees on the chicken coop roof. My pants fit his rump and legs fine, and the twinge in my chest warmed to a persistent tingle. His fingers deftly aligned a loose plank and hammered.

“Egon!” I brought an imaginary spoon to my mouth and pretended to sip. I hoped my sign language translated to, “Let’s eat!”

He said, “Essen,” flashing a grin as he slid down from the roof.

I repeated, “Essen,” and Egon’s smile widened. We sat at the table, and as I cut the bread, I beamed like a fool and repeated my sole German word.

Egon wasn’t shy about teaching me his language. He pointed to everything, touching my arm, pointing again, repeating the word. It became a game as we walked the sheep to the top of a hill. He enunciated each syllable, his fingers light at my elbow, inducing a warm buzz through my brain, down my spine. It was hard to concentrate on new words, and we laughed at my efforts. Gazing over the Flekke’s sheep, Egon puffed his chest, his cheeks high with a smile, and waved his arms with joy at the spring budding all around us: its pale, tentative green, and the crystalline sky above. My breath was steady and calm, even as an awareness of something wild and wonderful bloomed inside my chest. Soon Egon and I romped and rolled together in the wild, fresh grasses, and we laughed feeling safe under the sky above. That Germany was marching over Europe, and now, occupied Norway, was easy to forget with this man so comfortable and close at my side.

Egon showed me his hands. Next came the German, “Hände,” and then his Hände were firm on my shoulders. “Danke!” That I understood, swooning inside.

The twilight turned inky, and the moon peaked between high thick clouds. Boiled potatoes, wild greens and some dried fish served as our simple meal. Egon’s eyes sparkled as he repeated, “Danke,” coming so close to my face that I could see his pores, the crest of his cheek, and hear my heart throbbing in my ears. My fingers wavered as they reached to touch his skin. He was quicker and squeezed his palm over my knuckles, and I sucked a breath deep into my lungs. His fingers twined mine, as my shoulders shuddered. Shorn head tilted, his smile slow and soft, his lips beckoned. My tongue moved behind my teeth, my lips pressed yearning, and yet lost in an undefinable spiral. Egon’s mouth opened to a full throaty yawn and his free hand rose to his face then he touched my lips. It was very quick, my eyes blinked, my breath steadied. His grip tightened around my hand. “Danke.” He turned and left for the outside cabin.

The next day, as the Flekke’s sheep and I again stood by the sea, a different smaller boat steamed in, and a tall, visor-capped man with gold wings flanking a row of buttons, and a multi-colored bar beside the other row, disembarked via the cement blocks. He marched across the tiny beach and then stood an arm distance in front of me and explained in rough Danish, which we Norwegians can understand, that they would search the island for a missing soldier as per the Reich’s decree against some undesirable kinds of men. I confess I couldn’t catch it all. A soldier from the boat’s deck shouted, “Warmer bruder!” and his comrades broke into snickers. I guessed that to mean “warm brother,” and my cheeks pricked with coursing blood.

At the same moment the decorated officer bent stiff from his hips and approached my face, steel eyes drilling into mine, “You know of this man?”

My neck rotated two centimeters and back, “No.” I blinked, feet planted firm, spine slick with sweat. My tone surprised me, “This is a private island.”

He clicked his boots, and with a deep, staccato laugh, sneered, “This island belongs to Germany, and you’re the resistance?”

I eyed him, petrified, speechless, as he did a neat turn and strode back across the cement blocks to the boat, his heels clacking along, the tops of the blocks just barely dry over the rolling waves.

I turned, kept my chin high, gaze disinterested, and clicked my tongue to call the sheep. They gathered then milled around me, unaware of the terror raging through my body.  I took measured steps and tried to whistle a farmer tune till I heard the boat motor away and was sure I was out of sight. My panic mounted. I took off towards the house, slipping on mossy rocks and sheep droppings, my eyes a wash of horrific images: Egon trapped, island overtaken by bloodthirsty Nazis, the two of us, warmer brothers? before a firing squad! Hysteria clamped my lungs, and I couldn’t catch my breath, even by the time I found Egon. Pantomiming, I tried to explain the imminent threat. Throwing my jacket over my head, I crouched, hiding, then popped up and pointed at his chest. He got that full, warm smile I liked, but it faded to puzzlement and concern. I half-longed for him to place his hands on my shoulders and hold tight, and my heart jumped at the thought. Instead, he drew me into a firm hug, his lips against my ear, and whispered words I couldn’t understand. I was sure he felt my heart banging through my chest. At the same moment, I was distraught, till he took his jacket over his head, then peeped out with that head tilt and smile, and I had to smile too.

Evening, yet the sun’s glow, behind mountains to the west, remained strong. I tried to relax as Egon’s fingers worked my shoulders — it was a thrilling new sensation. I could smell his scent, his breath, as his powerful hands kneaded my skin.  My eyes floated closed and I felt soothed until the chants of school fellows streamed into my mind, “Mama’s boy!” My chest relived my desperation and panic. That day, I threw rocks and screamed. They just slapped each other’s back as they trotted away, laughing. The memory was frightening, and it jerked me away from Egon’s touch until I could swallow my cowardice and turn and peer into his questioning face.

Egon took my hand and led me into the tiny space that was then my room but had probably been a servant’s before. A minute passed, I tried to catch my breath and then, like a slow burning brush fire, charring the edges at first, then building, pressing, sparking towards the center that was me, his body was against mine as we stood knees touching. His breath in my ear, hands firm, yet dancing along the base of my spine, then under my shirt, searching the waistband of my pants. His lips came close. A vague dream surfaced. It was a raw sensation, and I ached for it to surround and cover me, so I could kick up and break its surface, draw in clean air, and feel reborn!  My lips, on their own, pressed, puckered, felt his stubbled chin, searched for his lips. One moment seemed so easy, the next a sharp panic buckled my knees. My eyes popped open, and I sat, heavy, on the edge of the single bed.

Egon settled beside me, taking my hand; his finger pads were sailor rough, but his fingers lacing mine felt like hot honey. I pulled my hand away, confused, tears rising. With violent gestures, my lips twisted to communicate, words spouted out to explain, even if they were words he couldn’t understand. He must escape that night. Germans would find him, kill him, and maybe me. I had to make him understand.

Egon’s finger touched under my eye, “Du weinst?”

I didn’t understand but saw Egon’s tears. I reached around his back, pulled him close, and we stayed like that, rocking on the edge of the bed till the moon disappeared and hours passed; we crumpled in sleep, Egon curled, his knees behind mine, his chest warm at my back. My sleep was fitful, even in his arms. My brain churned, running the contours and outcroppings of Mr. Flekke’s island, where naught but shrubby growth and young trees covered what wasn’t rock. There were small caves made by the pounding sea that perhaps could‑ But no! They afford no cover and are impossible to reach without a boat. It was just one big rock with zero options for indefinite hiding, but Mr. Flekke had a second boat. . ..

I dozed. An owl screeched, and I sat up with a plan. “Come!” I shook Egon awake. “You must leave now. Get up.”

The moon danced for luck behind thick clouds as I led Egon to a wooded cove at the island’s western tip, the opposite end from where those Germans had landed. I pressed my forefinger to his lips, and we snuck, with rounded shoulders and heads down. From under stubby bowed trees, I pulled out a two-man rowboat, covered by canvas. “Help me,” I said in my newly acquired German. Together we slipped the boat into the water, pantomiming and whispering. I hugged this man with all my might, my fear and anxiety kept the swirl of my deepest emotions tamped. I bit my lip and pushed him from me. He must escape and live. A sudden realization stung as if I’d stepped on a wasp: we were in a war, even if it seemed not for our time.

Egon reached for me, catching my hips, and his lips, like scratchy soft baby duck feathers, sank against my cheek, then he scrambled down the bank.

My budding, was it love? was replaced by anger. Dread. German boats could be plying these waters between the Flekke’s island and Egon’s safety. My jaw tightened as I screamed through clenched teeth, “Row!” I pointed towards fast land, only a kilometer away. “Row, then run!”  My elbow at my waist, I felt frightened, anxious. I waved my fingers and watched Egon’s smile disappear into the darkness with his efforts. A sharp ache caught my breath, tears puddled in my eyes.

I plodded back along the path to the big house. My eyes adjusted to the dark and to my loss, drying. The wind picked up and scurried strange sounds through the trees. Owls hooted, mice and herons rustled in bushes, and I startled. The chug of an outboard motor! Through the trees before me, in the shallow strait, a motorboat idled where the twins had drowned. Two men stood balanced, holding long weapons, aiming to shoot. Two pointy-eared German shepherds rustled around in the boat’s bottom. The sparkle on the rows of buttons under the decorated collar of the seated officer froze me in place.

My knees bent and dropped me from view just as the officer lit a cigarette: its glow reflecting off his cap’s brim into his beady eyes. I could barely swallow. Can I run back and warn Egon? They’ll be sure to find him if they motor forward! Should I grab Mr. Flekke’s rifle, and then what? Can I kill to save Egon and myself? My mind flashed before me the grisly wet carcass of my father’s kills, and my stomach turned over, as I grasped at a bush. The motorboat was right there, Right there! And they had guns!

One dog yipped, a hiccup, and the officer cuffed him to silence. My fears winged in a million directions, but my heart sank, and a bitterness flooded my mouth. The motor revved, the dogs barked low, and the boat lurched towards the north-south waterway where Egon rowed. Cold sweat, calves cramped, bladder pressing, I sunk into the scrub and gasped, terror-stricken. The boat picked up speed. My heart slammed in my chest; my head throbbed. In that instant, I arched my neck, and my gaze caught a match’s spark. It hovered like a lightning bug across the water next to that dilapidated house, where the twins had lived!

The soldiers saw it too, and slowed, then shut the motor. All was quiet except for the scrap of the dogs’ nails at the boat’s bottom. A metal ratcheting, click, churr, click was heard, followed by a reddish glow that spread as it thrust forward. I tucked my head, clenching my legs as a thunderous burst reverberated across the sound. The dogs barked and snarled, pulling at their chains. Another click, churr and cracks of gunfire. My eyes clamped shut, a horrid imagine of Egon, stripped and humiliated, a pained smile on his face, and a shiny red bullet hole in his forehead. As my mind saw the dripping blood, I lost it, and wet my pants and the ground under me. Raising my eyes again over the berm, I saw that the German boat had turned around away from the strait where Egon rowed. They were motoring back to the Skagerrak Sea.

Air flooded into my lungs. A torrent of thoughts raced through my mind. Shots from that abandoned farmhouse. Egon alone, rowing. Spirits of long-ago-drowned girls. That menacing blood red flag. Those chained dogs. I dragged myself into the Flekke’s house, skinned off my wet clothes, and collapsed onto the servant’s bed.

After two hours of fitful sleep, I awoke, dressed, and zombie-walked through a murky dark, not sure if I was alive or dead. I went through the motions of morning, first coffee grounds, and then the water, a clean mug. I was numb and dragged myself around the kitchen replaying images from the previous night. The wild pawing of those dogs in the boat, then the shots! My mind was incapable of processing the insistent scratching at the door. When the sound registered, and my mind separated it from memories, it gave me a start. I cracked the door open, then flung it back. My eyes widened to fill my face, my mouth dropped, and I forgot to breathe; was it a dream? There he stood, Egon, head tilted, smile ever shy.

I stammered, “How . . .?”

Stepping in he caught me around my waist. I squeaked, but my arms wrapped his back, and we held on fast. Like a dream, yet intrinsic, my core knew as he walked forward, me backward, a slow dance, till we arrived at the twin bed. I unbuttoned his chilled jacket. He worked his hands under my T-shirt. My head tossed back, my thoughts were exotic and sudden. They galloped. Did Egon feel it too? Would he understand? I whispered. “It’s magic. You’re back!”

His lips at my neck, my heart leaped. My ears caught the words, “Hunde, Boot, Insel,” which meant dogs, boat, island. He repeated them, and my name, over and over, and stroked my hair. His fingers worked over my scalp, the tendons at the back of my neck and finally teased the soft crest of my ear. Our laughter grew deeper; our breathing softened; we explored. My palms melted at the warmth of his taut back; his cheek brushed my skin starting at my shoulder. In the final movements, his lips pressed mine as fatigue sat on our eyelids. I don’t remember when sleep came, but the chickens woke us.

Egon spent the rest of the day hiding under the henhouse nesting boxes, it was my only remaining idea. I couldn’t convince him to leave.

That pre-dawn morning with Egon had been a revelation; sensations had kaleidoscoped over and through me. As I took the sheep to the point, I almost skipped, breathless, smiling open-mouthed, seeing the promised puzzle pieces of my life float within reach. Pricks of childhood shame that had lingered for so long were doused in that new daylight by the confident jut of my chin and the easy swing of my arms. I took strong, languid steps between the jostling sheep and as we approached the endless sea and those incongruous grey blocks, I let the overwhelming calm and my newfound surety travel my veins — Egon was safe. It came to me: with him, I’d found an important piece of my puzzle. My heart warmed, remembering Ma’s loving words.

Looking at the sea, my face clouded, my eyebrows crossed down at my nose and my puzzle broke to pieces. A motorboat putt-putted forward, a red flag flanked by two shepherds were in the bow. An officer, visor-capped, with a stiff, pipping-edged collar on a jacket that looked choking, jumped out on to the blocks, spitting rapid-fire Danish, including the words “Deserter” and “Execution.” My feet were firm, but my heart pulled at my ribs. The sheep milled about, impassive and unaware.

The officer was pink with anger, face blade shaven with evil jutting cheekbones and gray pencil lips. The tide was high, and dampened his crisp slacks as he marched over the blocks and on to the beach arriving where I stood. He leaned and enunciated his Danish, sarcastic and spitting. “Caretaker of this island? Sheep, chickens, and you,” — poking his finger at my chest — “Alone?”

Armed men and dogs jumped off the boat and assembled, attentive to his commands. Some instinct triggered me, and my legs twitched to run, but my knees locked, and my fists tightened. The officer took a step back and menaced me with a false grin. The men and dogs came behind, and the officer turned as sharp as was possible in sand and followed them along my path.

On deck, the boat captain trained his pistol on me, so I sat hard on a rock and crossed my legs, my heart and mind far from calm. I knew they’d check the house, outhouse, the wood cabin — and the chicken coop. If Egon is hiding tight under the nesting boxes, hidden by hay, there has to be a chance . . .

Hours dripped away with all the speed of snow melt in March. I watched the green-blue water slurp over and over those blocks, then fall away, and heard barks, scratching, and shouts that bounced off the island’s geography. I worked on a ragged nail on my left hand and kept my gaze far from the bow of that boat, sure the captain or one of his lackeys watched my movements. I waited for frantic sounds or gunfire. Nausea gurgled at the back of my throat, and my vision swam in and out with the waves. Crabs foraged, creating bubbles in the sand. My bubbles were acid in my stomach. My head hung without choice.

Is it possible Egon lay silent and safe? Would he make it? Could we make it? I’d found a man who laughed with me and made me feel strong, my youth’s traumas had fallen away like tipped dominoes. We’ll live out the war, care for the animals and island. The Flekkes may never return. We could be together.  I pictured it all for seconds at a time, till my saliva tasted metallic, and reality pushed. In the nesting boxes, under the chickens, the hay is thin, and the Germans have sniffer dogs! I heard their soft inhales, muzzles sweeping the ground, howls, and yips. My thoughts flew in every possible direction.

In the seconds that followed, whoops and shouts echoed, followed by several paralyzing pops, like whips cracking the air. My thoughts focused — Egon’s been shot! My shoulders jerked forward as I rocked, holding my ankles and my breath. Minutes dragged by till unintelligible voices preceded soldiers’ boot falls; one carried a dog, blood dripping from somewhere, its fur matted. The lead officer stopped, crouched to his haunches to poke at my chest. “Little lonely sheep herder, this deserter is ours, and I can take you too. Prisoner camps have been created — special ones, for your type.” His words were whispered, yet they struck my body like gunshots. The group mounted those horrible concrete blocks and in a stiff line, followed the rails back to the boat’s edge, and motored away.

I stumbled, rushing away from beach and them, thinking …. Egon must, he had to be safe under the chicken boxes. But when I made it there, and tore through the chickens’ nests, there was nothing but hay! He wasn’t there. No blood, not a clue. He’s gone! I searched in the house, in closets, under bushes, everywhere. I called, “Egon! Egon!” as I ran, wide-eyed scanning the rocks and hills. His name cut into the back of my throat and cracked the corners of my mouth. Am I too late? Have they killed him and dumped his body in the sea? I’d heard shots.

Lightheaded, panicked I shouted, “Egon, Egon! Where are you?” Sourness churned in my stomach and my heart pumped as I climbed the hill. Breaths rasping, ribs aching, my eyes searched. Here, the spot where Egon and I laughed, watched the sky together, rolled in spring grass, the sheep our only bystanders, and I had felt the tingle of my virgin skin, and that was when that undefinable cloud that hovered over my life gave way to something bright. I looked to the sky, and fell to my knees, sobbing. I could still feel his hand – his fingers brushing my cheek. That simple memory brought a roaring scream from my throat that sent seagulls shrieking into the sky. I cursed, and pounded the earth till my fist was raw and sense found me again.

I lifted myself to stand and continued to search.

At last, and without hope, I took the trail that wound down to the wooded cove. The Flekke’s rowboat — it wasn’t there! Broken branches indicated its dragged path to the rocks and water. My heart ratcheted around; my mind scrambled for logic. The tiny rowboat and Egon gone, alone, and on the sea. Oh, but is he safe?

That bitter vomit taste came to my tongue. I closed my eyes, and I wrapped my arms tight around me. I remembered his grasp; I hoped, when I opened my eyes, this nightmare would end, and I’d find him next to me, with that smile of his. Tears sprung, and I scrubbed my eyes, howling low with quiet fear and self-pity. Egon was gone and I spun into dizziness, crumpled to my knees in the afternoon gloom.

Ever so faint the sound of gulls winging above, and the lapping water against the rocks seeped into my brain and softened my shoulders and angst. I looked around. The bushes were wind battered and new growth struggled, and there — a twinkle of something hanging from a low branch, caught my blurred gaze. There — Egon’s military tags with that horizontal indentation spun and winked in the sun — a piece of the puzzle, my puzzle. They were for me!

Seagulls chirruped and laughed, but the trees were quiet without wind. I had to laugh too. Egon rowed toward or had already reached fast land and was running to safety! My tears streamed as I crawled on the warm afternoon ground, rich soil under my fingernails and at last reached up to grasp his tags. I flipped onto my back and held his tags to my heart. My eyes searched the sky. It was a war, and men like us weren’t welcome. But I had a piece of my puzzle and with only blue and clouds above, I could believe, Egon and I – we would be safe, while we breathed, wherever we were, until we weren’t.

***