Page 71 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
I was fully aware that we could not rely on the Halvorsens forever, no matter how comfortable they made me and Elle feel. The fact of the matter was that we were not family, we were refugees. In Paris, I had allowed Monsieur Landowski to finance me, and in Leipzig, the Prix Blumenthal ensured that we wanted for nothing. I was determined that I should begin to pay the way for myself and Elle.
During my strolls in Bergen Harbour, I had earmarked a chart maker’s shop – Scholz and Scholz. From conversations I’d had with Horst, I knew that the elderly proprietor was German, and his son had recently left Norway for the Fatherland to join the ever-growing Nazi movement, which was a source of great upset to the old man. I wagered that, under the circumstances, he might be willing to take me on as an assistant, even with my bad arm. After all, my knowledge of the stars is unparalleled, if I do say so myself.
I am glad to say that my wager was proved right, and I have been working for Mr Scholz ever since. He is a kindly old man, and his wife is an expert in the dark arts of pumper-nickel baking. In truth, I do very little here. I certainly don’t bear the responsibility of making any charts myself, but merely corroborate Mr Scholz’s work. The wage is deservedly meagre, but I proved to be such an amiable presence that upon discovering my living situation, he and his wife offered me the small apartment above the shop, previously occupied by their son. I jumped at the chance, and asked if my ‘wife’ might be able to join me. They readily agreed, with the promise that Elle would help Mrs Scholz to clean.
Elle was initially concerned that Karine might be jealous. She and Pip had announced their intention to marry a fewmonths after arriving in Bergen, and Karine was desperate to move out of the Halvorsen household.
‘They need their own space,’ Elle had sighed.
‘I am sure they will have it soon enough,’ I replied. ‘If Pip passes his audition, he’ll join Horst in the Bergen Philharmonic. They’ll soon have enough money for a house of their own.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ She took my hand. ‘Do you think that, one day, we might...?’ Elle hesitated. Since the announcement of our friends’ engagement, there was an unspoken sense of sadness that we were not yet joining them on the journey of matrimony.
I grabbed her hands. ‘My love, the only thing that is certain in our lives is that we will be together forever. We will marry as soon as we have the funds together, and a place of permanent safety. I promise.’
So, just like that, Elle and I have been living as ‘man and wife’ for eighteen months. It has been, in a word, blissful. We spend the evenings in our tiny apartment huddled around a wood-burning stove, staring out across the water at the little houses which climb the hill. At night, the windows glow a warm yellow, the colour of melting butter. With just the two of us cocooned away from the rest of the world, it is all too easy to forget what we have run from.
I do my best to live in the present, as do our friends. Pip and Karine were married a year ago, on Christmas Eve 1937, with Karine ‘converting’ to Pip’s Lutheran faith. She had discussed the formality with Elle, stating that, ‘A few drops of water and a cross on my forehead do not make me a Christian in my heart.’ Nonetheless, her new surname and documentation provide a buffer of protection should the Nazi threat one day arrive on Norway’s shores, which remains a possibility.
Pip was successful in his audition, and now sits alongsidehis father in the Bergen Philharmonic. Any hint of jealousy I may have harboured at his success is overridden by the fact that he is my saviour – not to mention that he is deserving of his position. Alongside his commitments to the philharmonic, Pip continues to work furiously on his debut concerto, refusing to share the results with anyone until it is complete. He says that when it is finished, he will dedicate it to his wife. I do not doubt that my friend will produce a masterpiece.
In the spring of 1938, Pip and Karine were able to scrape enough funds together to rent a house on Teatergaten, just a stone’s throw away from the Bergen concert hall. Karine had asked if I would choose a piano for the living room, and I went to great lengths to ensure that the finest instrument within her budget was procured. The housewarming gift from me and Elle was humbler – we presented the couple with a handmade stool for the new piano, which I carved and Elle upholstered. Although it was not the world’s most expensive piece, it was made with a great deal of love.
Not long after that, Karine announced that she was expecting a baby, and in November, little Felix Halvorsen was born. When we met Pip and Karine’s baby, I noticed the wistful, longing look Elle had in her eye. I took her hand.
‘One day,’ I assured her, kissing her lightly on the forehead.
Neither of us are naive enough to believe that safety from Kreeg and the Nazis will last forever. How could it, given all we have been through? We are merely waiting for disaster to arrive on Norway’s shores, in the form of war, or a man who wishes me dead. Perhaps both.
The newspapers make for particularly grim reading. Tensions in Europe are escalating by the day. Back in March, Germany annexed Austria. There had been a brief glimmer of hope in September that conflict could be averted. Britain, France, Germany and Italy all signed the Munich Agreement,which conceded the Sudetenland area of Czechoslovakia to Germany, in return for a pledge from Hitler that he would make no further territorial demands. But now, just three months later, there are few who truly believe the agreement will hold.
With our philosophy of living in the present, Pip, Karine, Elle and I are booked aboard theHurtigrutenship, which will take us up the magnificent western coast of Norway to celebrate the arrival of 1939. It was my own suggestion, for the journey will take us past many breathtaking landmarks, including, most tantalisingly of all, suspended on the edge of the Geirangerfjord, the Seven Sisters waterfall.
It is impossible to translate the beauty of what I witnessed whilst aboard theHurtigrutenthrough the written word. No man possesses the capacity to truly capture the serene, still magnificence of the waterfall, nor the overwhelming gracefulness of the light show which followed. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to turn to my diary to give the reader some sense of the wonder I am currently experiencing.
At about eleven a.m., theHurtigrutenrounded the riverbend of the Geirangerfjord, and the Seven Sisters waterfall appeared. I am not ashamed to say that my stomach fluttered with infant-like anticipation as the ship edged closer and closer, until I was face to face with one of the most remarkable sights I have ever seen. Climbing up the rocky outcrop from the fjord were seven opaque paths of white ice, adorned with spindly branches that splintered and diverged infinitely. I have never seen anything of the sort. The frozen streams appeared to me as the ethereal locks of the sisters themselves, blowing in the cosmic winds. Elle grabbed my hand, sensing I was overwhelmed.
‘It is truly breathtaking,chéri,’ Karine said to Pip, embracing him, before turning to the group. ‘Why do they call the waterfall the Seven Sisters?’
‘Bo can answer that one,’ Elle replied, smiling up at me.
‘Oh, of course,’ I said. ‘In this particular case, the legend states that the seven streams – or “Sisters” – dance playfully down the mountain, as they tease and “flirt” with that waterfall over there.’ I pointed to the single stream of water on the opposite side of the fjord. ‘He is known as “the Suitor”. I must say, it’s not my favourite legend that concerns the Seven Sisters, but I am fascinated by their appearances in almost every culture and time period.’
‘Please, Bo, continue,’ Pip asked, with what seemed like a genuine interest.
‘Different cultures believe different things. But for millennia, they have been immortalised in the famous star cluster, and are objects of fascination and wonder across the globe. Tales of the Sisters have been passed on by word of mouth, poetry, art, music, architecture... they are embedded in every facet of our world.’
‘Do you know, Bo D’Aplièse,’ Pip said, ‘in the three years that I have known you, that is the most I’ve ever heard you talk!’ He wasn’t wrong, and his comment caused us all to break into laughter.
The passage up from Tromsø eventually became so choppy that Karine decided to go to her cabin, and Elle volunteered to take her down. The steward had announced that this was our best vantage point to see the Northern Lights from, so Pip stayed for a while.
‘You spoke so passionately about the Seven Sisters earlier. Tell me, how do you know so much about the stars?’ he asked.
‘My father was a teacher.’
‘Oh really? Of what?’
I felt safe enough in giving Pip the information he was after. ‘Music and Classics. The latter encompasses philosophy, anthropology, art, history... plus astrology and mythology.He was particularly fascinated by the relationship between the final two.’ I smiled at the memory. ‘Naturally, he passed that fascination on to me.’
