Oslo Spies: Phyllis Bowden Book 2
SJ Slagle
OSLO SPIES
PHYLLIS BOWDEN BOOK 2
SJ SLAGLE
Oslo Spies
Kindle Edition
© Copyright 2022 (As Revised) SJ Slagle
Rough Edges Press
An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing
5130 S. Fort Apache Rd. 215-380
Las Vegas, NV 89148
roughedgespress.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
eBook ISBN 978-1-68549-056-0
Paperback ISBN 978-1-68549-057-7
CONTENTS
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Prologue
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
A Look at Book Three: Washington Spies
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About the Author
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OSLO SPIES
PROLOGUE
“Don’t be frightened.”
The little girl looked from her terrified mother to her father, his face reddened from strain with purple veins bulging at the temple. She clung to her mother wrapped in the man’s arms, all three locked in their teary embrace. Fear permeated the room with artillery exploding just outside. When the door flew off the hinges and the windows shattered with the next bomb, he pushed away from them both.
“I have to go. You know I have to go. I’ve stayed too long as it is. My company is loading on the fjord as I speak and if I’m captured…well, let’s just say it won’t be good.”
“Oskar, you promised we could go with you.”
“I can’t take you, but if I can return some day, I promise I will.”
That only made the mother and daughter cry harder. With the war exploding around them, a reunion didn’t seem remotely possible. Death was more inevitable.
He scurried into another room returning with something in his hands.
“Take this, liebchen. You’ve been such a sweet girl and I’ll miss you.” Pressing his lips to her forehead, he placed the item in her arms before kissing her mother. His kisses were light, meaningful, but final. With that, the man brushed off his green uniform before rushing out the open door. She knew as well as her mother that if he’d looked back, they all would have been done for. It was crushing enough that their life together had fallen apart. And with the British forces invading the south and the Soviets coming in from the north, the girl knew her family would soon be no more. She wasn’t sure why, but she knew it.
It had been in her father’s lingering looks and the terror on her mother’s face. Things were changing around her and these changes weren’t going to be good. She looked down at the doll in her arms.
ONE
Oslo was raw and exposed as if someone had sliced open the city’s stomach and its contents had spilled out. Driving down a main street, blocks of tall, stout buildings would suddenly devolve into shattered husks of once thriving businesses. A square pile of bricks with the top floors blown away stared straight ahead unblinking with two glassless windows as eyes. Eyes as unbelieving as hers.
Devastation was everywhere, yet long lines of people queued by the open doorway of a soot-covered building that had miraculously survived.
It was a strange kind of nighttime—the kind with daylight instead of darkness. Being this close to the Arctic Circle, it should have been cold. But in July 1945, the weather was almost as warm as in Washington, DC where she’d just come from visiting her family.
Phyllis Bowden’s lips stayed firmly closed and she wasn’t going to ask, it wasn’t her place. She held it in as long as she could, but the words escaped all too soon.
“Please, sir. What happened? I thought the German authorities resided in Oslo. It looks like the place was bombed.”
“Ja.” The word was pushed out of the Norwegian driver’s mouth while he inhaled. “Volcomen Norge.”
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“Welcome to Norway.”
Not the welcome she expected. She’d just left her Embassy assignment in war-torn London to be assigned to war-torn Oslo. Both cities had bombs falling on them until the end of that horrendous war with Germany, but Phyllis had learned from classified reports that much of Norway’s destruction was due to the Norwegian resistance that had wreaked the havoc she witnessed. Unlike other occupied countries, Norway had waged an internal war with the Germans like no other. She needed to know much more to be of any use here.
Phyllis glanced about the bus as it jerked clumsily along the debris-strewn street. The vehicle, along with many others, had been liberated from the Germans and was unlike any she’d seen. It was built with comfort in mind. Every cushioned seat had a table with a reading lamp and telephone. An impeccable lavatory filled with sweet-smelling soaps and soft towels was five feet away. Nubby carpeting covered the floor and the whole inside was spotless. Glancing out the window, beautiful blonde women with golden tans and white shorts rode by on bicycles. Many Norwegians she passed were wearing white and were dressed better than the English she’d just left behind. In London, there had been plenty of clothing to buy, but it was rationed. She wondered how the Norwegians could look so much better since there was not one article of clothing to be purchased in all of Norway.
The five-year German occupation had seen to that. She’d learned the Germans had stripped the country bare of anything of value. They’d closed most of the stores, halted the fishing industry and any exports. Children wore paper or fish scale shoes, wooden clogs if they could make them. Leather was an unheard of luxury. Even though the German occupation had ended, there was still little homegrown food, no clothing, rationed electrical power and no medicine. America and Sweden were sending supplies, she knew, but like starving people, Norwegians would have to limit their diet until stomachs were able to digest the vegetables, meats and macaroni being donated. With an austere diet f
or five years, any fat in the new foods would make Norwegians sick.
Yet the glorious feeling of the people was a sight to behold, even at night queued in lines with happy smiles on their faces. She could guess the reason for their happiness: Germans were no longer in control.
“What’s that?” she called out to the driver.
“A camp for German prisoners,” he responded.
“Are they leaving soon?”
“Ja, we hope, but there’s thousands who have lived here for years and it will take time.”
Phyllis considered what he said until they passed a government building with a Norwegian flag, bright red with a blue cross, waving proudly from a flagpole nearby. Her gaze strayed to the crumpled Nazi flag near a trashcan before she noticed Norwegian policemen escorting a handful of young women. They wore similar dresses, like uniforms.
“Excuse me, driver.”
“Yes, miss?”
“What’s happening here?”
The driver slowed at a stop sign allowing Phyllis time to take a good look at the small crowd assembled. The young women were really young girls, not even teenagers.
“Those are Quisling girls,” he told her in a gruff tone.
“Quisling?” She had read a classified report about Quisling, but wanted the driver’s take on the situation.
“Ja. Vidkun Quisling.” She heard him spit on the floor. “Scum who tried to take over Norway when Hitler,” another spitting sound, “was in charge.”
“He’s Norwegian.”
“And a traitor to his country.”
“What will happen to him?”
“He’s been arrested and I hope he’s shot.”
Phyllis was quiet watching the scene play out. One little girl, not eight years old, caught her eye as the driver pulled away. She glanced up to see Phyllis watching her and the fear on her small face was palpable. A policeman herded her with the other girls, but she ventured a brief smile to Phyllis before disappearing into the building.
“And these girls? What will happen to them?”
“Don’t care, miss, but if they’re shot, it’s better than they deserve.”
A thought nagged at her until they reached Army Headquarters. What could a seven year-old Norwegian girl have done that was considered so traitorous to her countrymen? She shook off the thought after arriving and being met by a State Department representative. He put her up for the night in an apartment with State Department personnel. There was a kernel of darkness in this newly liberated country. As much as she tried to overlook it, Phyllis knew this kernel would pop into trouble.
But hopefully not tomorrow.
TWO
First thing in the morning, Phyllis got a call from the State Department man she’d met last night. Neither the Army nor the State Department was sure where to find a billet for Phyllis. She was a civilian working for the War Department and wasn’t employed by any currently functioning entities. He told her she could stay a few more nights in State Department lodging, which was fine. She had a nice apartment with a large living room, bath and bedroom with twin beds all to herself. But it was expensive to stay there, so she was anxious to find a more permanent place to live. Also her luggage hadn’t arrived, but delays were as common as shortages and she thought no more about it.
Army Headquarters was in a building confiscated by retreating German officers. Phyllis rode the German bus to the mess hall for breakfast. Hasty introductions on the bus led to delightful conversations over bacon and eggs, toast and tea. Tea again. She missed coffee, but the PX had just opened and coffee wasn’t available yet. After spending a year in England, she’d had plenty of tea and was ready to start her days with a strong cup of coffee once more.
They’d all commented on the dishes. Bold, black swastikas decorated each plate. One of the mess hall staff had seen her staring when her order was ready and mentioned the Nazi emblems would be scraped off soon. An involuntary shiver filled her with momentary dread. The swastika, the symbol of evil. She fought another shiver that threatened to make her appetite disappear, but she was hungry. Phyllis picked up her fork, cut into her eggs and began a new conversation with Jay, the woman sitting across the table. Before long, swastikas were forgotten and they made plans to see Oslo together that day.
Jay Lawlor and Phyllis both had a day off before a new workweek started, so they took off to see what they could see. They had met in London when Phyllis was working for the American Embassy and Jay was a diplomat with the British government. Now Jay worked in Oslo for the British Embassy and they were surprised yet thrilled to meet again. The world really was a small place, especially after the devastating war in Europe.
Gasoline and electricity were rationed, but a few trolleys were operating again. An ancient trolley with as much rust as paint lumbered to a stop on a public street outside Army Headquarters. Creaking brakes indicated a mechanical problem, but it didn’t deter the riders within. Phyllis and Jay hopped aboard the vehicle packed with ordinary Norwegians going to work. It was standing room only. Phyllis stood next to a seated woman whose plain brown jacket showed evidence of having been repaired many times. Men wore hats shiny with age and all shoes were in disrepair, needing to be replaced. A few people with crossed legs exposed stiff paper stuffed into shoes when the soles had worn out. With the curious glances her way, Phyllis knew her relatively new clothes made her stand out as a foreigner. She was glad when downtown Oslo came into sight and she and Jay got off the trolley. Once it had squeaked away, Jay touched Phyllis’ arm.
“Did you see the stares we got?”
“Yes,” said Phyllis. “It gave me the willies.” She pushed back her curly brown hair while looking down at her corduroy jumper and white buckskin sandals. “Didn’t think I’d be overdressed today, but I guess I am.”
Jay nodded. “I never stood out much as a redhead in London and Scotland, but I must look like an alien here.”
Phyllis laughed. “But a pretty alien so I think we’re safe enough.” She nodded towards the street. “Let’s get going. We’re burning daylight.”
They began walking down a street filled with people hurrying in different directions. A mass of cables crisscrossed overhead with lights hanging down every hundred yards or so. Broken bricks in the street and sidewalk made for treacherous walking.
“Be careful not to muss those saddle shoes. Get those at Harrod’s?”
“I did,” said Jay, “and it sure looked like a couple of those women on the trolley were ready to rip them off my feet.”
The three-story buildings they passed were covered in grime. The occupation hadn’t been hard on only the Norwegian people; every vehicle, every bicycle, every building, even the few dogs they saw looked exhausted. Everything needed a thorough wash, a fresh coat of paint, and a good meal. But the people couldn’t have been friendlier. Everyone Phyllis and Jay passed smiled at them. Ladies nodded while gentlemen tipped their hats. Halfway into the block, they stopped at a small café for lunch. With a hastily repaired door and tape across cracks in the windows, the café had obviously just reopened. The shy proprietor met them at the doorway and escorted them to a corner table.
“God dag, mine damer. Jeg heter Arne.” The timid man with threadbare clothes and frizzy gray hair handed them a thick piece of paper, an unreadable menu. He smiled hopefully, pushing the paper closer. Phyllis and Jay exchanged embarrassed looks.
“How much Norwegian do you know?” Phyllis handed the menu to Jay. “I just got here. You’ve been here a few weeks. Have a go at it.”
Jay shook her head. “I know how to say ‘good morning’ and ‘where’s the bathroom’.”
Phyllis laughed. “That may not get us any food.”
“Well, I can point,” added Jay, “but there’s no guaranteeing what we’ll get.”
“Not a linguist?”
“Not even a little.”
The man’s smile widened. “Engelsk? American?”
They understood that and nodded.
“Ah!”
He held up a finger and hurried into the kitchen.
“This isn’t like Mick’s place back in London, is it?” Phyllis glanced around the bleak interior with few tables and chairs. No one else was in the place. It hadn’t been bombed, but showed signs of long disuse with barren walls and few foodstuffs on shelves. The forlorn atmosphere was just this side of desperate.
“No,” Jay agreed, “but he’s probably happy to be open again. I’m sure there was nothing to sell during the occupation.”
Footsteps from the kitchen had Phyllis and Jay turning their heads to see the proprietor propelling a reluctant young boy towards them. His blonde hair stuck up in several places and his shorts were ragged. The frown on his face indicated he wasn’t happy to be there.
“Engelsk!” The man proudly pointed to the boy. “Sonn.” He placed his hand on his chest.
Phyllis smiled. “Your son?” She extended her hand to the boy. “Nice to meet you.”
The man nudged the boy forward to clasp Phyllis’ hand.
