Satellite People (7 page)

My interest was of course piqued and I immediately asked when this had happened. She shrugged apologetically, but thought it must have been shortly before she was forced to leave the house in
spring 1949.

I was not quite sure what to think, but noted down the story with interest. Ingrid Schelderup herself seemed quite upset by the memory, and repeated a couple of times that she was quite certain
that it was as she remembered. She then calmed down again when we started to talk about the others who were present.

Magdalon Schelderup’s relationship with the Wendelboes seemed to be more balanced, and if there was a man he respected other than himself, it was Petter Johannes Wendelboe, she thought.
But still she found herself wondering why the Wendelboes were such frequent visitors to the house, as they seldom said very much or made their presence known. But then there was hardly a relaxed
social atmosphere at Magdalon Schelderup’s gatherings. Laughter and jokes were not encouraged among the younger members of the family, either, with Magadalon Schelderup at one end of the
table and Petter Johannes Wendelboe at the other. She had never asked about any details from the war, but had always assumed that they had both seen and done difficult things. Neither of them
became any less serious or authoritarian as they got older. But whereas Wendelboe appeared to be utterly unchanged, she had the impression that Magdalon’s moods had become even darker in
recent years.

‘There were two Magdalons: the one who was all seriousness and work, and the one who was the world’s most charming man. Unfortunately, I have not seen the latter for many years
now,’ Ingrid Schelderup added in a quiet voice. She had had no idea, however, that her former husband felt that he was now in danger.

When I asked her who she thought might have killed Magdalon Schelderup, she became grave and thoughtful.

‘If things are as you say with the secretary, well then there is an obvious motive for his current wife, in terms of both jealousy and money. But that is, of course, simply something I
hope, not something I know. I can give you my word with regard to myself and my son. And as for the others, I suspect all and none of them.’

I was starting to realize that this would be a long and difficult investigation. But for the present, I had no more questions for Ingrid Schelderup. She also asked for permission to leave, and
was granted this once she had given me a telephone number and a promise to stay in town.

XII

I had initially thought of calling in the Wendelboes separately. However, when he then came marching in with her in tow and seemed so determined, I did not dare protest.

Petter Johannes Wendelboe said that he was sixty-seven years old, and despite his white hair he was still a straight-backed and solid man with lithe, dynamic movements. Else Wendelboe was
sixty-three, petite, and still a natural blonde. It struck me that she must have been extremely beautiful in her youth. I noted down that her maiden name was Wiig.

They said almost in one voice that they had been married since 1932, had three grown children and five grandchildren, and lived in a large house in Ski. Petter Johannes Wendelboe was a trained
officer, but had changed career to become a businessman at an early age. He had held a number of different shareholder and board positions, but had now retired and left the business to his eldest
son.

In terms of their relationship with the Schelderup family, he told me that it was the war that had brought Magdalon Schelderup and Petter Johannes Wendelboe together. They had continued to meet
regularly through the years since the war, but were not necessarily what one might call close friends. In recent years, in fact, any contact had been entirely social and routine. Wendelboe had had
shares in Schelderup’s company for a while, but had cashed them in without it leading to any conflict when the company had become firmly established in the mid-1950s, following an optimistic
expansion.

The Wendelboes had been in Bergen visiting their daughter for the past few days, but had flown back today and driven out here in order to make the supper. They hesitated in response to my
question as to whether the Schelderups were as keen to visit them, but then answered that they had had very few social gatherings at home with people other than the closest family in recent years.
But when they did have parties, the Schelderups were of course invited, and as far as they could remember had always come. And so they felt that it was perfectly natural to visit an old war comrade
whenever he had invited them.

I tried to ease the atmosphere a bit by asking what they could remember of Magdalon Schelderup’s dead brother from the 1930s and 1940s. They both started. Mr Wendelboe replied that they
certainly could remember him, but it did not give them much pleasure. The first time they had met Magdalon Schelderup, he had confided in them how ashamed he was to have a brother who traded with
the Germans and earned money from it. Thanks to Magdalon Schelderup’s record in the Resistance movement, nothing more was ever really made of this. He had, however, on several occasions
expressed sorrow over his brother’s failings, and had, when he inherited his brother’s wealth, given a sum of several hundred thousand kroner to a charity for those bereaved by the
war.

The rumours rumbled on for several years, and when Magdalon Schelderup started his political career in the Conservative Party there were some who opposed it and had tried to use this against
him. They had, however, not succeeded. He had been elected to the Storting in 1949 as he had hoped and had pulled out again four years later, even though he could have been re-elected.

‘But something unexpected happened on Liberation Day itself, in which Magdalon Schelderup was involved,’ I probed. The Wendelboes exchanged fleeting glances before they nodded. But
Petter Johannes Wendelboe’s voice was still calm when he continued.

‘It promises well for the investigation that you have already managed to unearth the story, though it can hardly have any connection to the murder today. It was a strange and tragic
incident, but did not seem to cause Magdalon much concern afterwards. His explanation was reasonable enough and the guilty party was a mentally disturbed man, who gave an insane statement. So there
was little doubt as to the outcome. But things like that are often a burden. And though I never heard Magdalon mention it later, I do think that it plagued him.’

I gave him a quizzical look, but he said nothing until I asked for further details.

‘Our group in the Resistance was small, but still had a dramatic and important history. We never had any more than six or seven members, and now that Magdalon is gone, my wife and I and
Herlofsen are the only ones left alive. The group was established as early as winter 1940–41 and managed to carry on operating without being caught until Norway was liberated. Magdalon joined
in summer 1941. He contacted me himself. It was a very difficult year. We lost a member in the spring and another in early autumn. Both were found shot dead in their own homes. The murderer was
never found, either during or after the war. We have to this day simply called him the Dark Prince. He was given the name because he only fired in the dark of night, and no one ever saw him in
daylight.’

I was fascinated, in part by the story and in part by the expressionless face and controlled voice with which Wendelboe told it.

‘For the remainder of the war, Magdalon and I and the other members of the group slept in rooms without windows, with the door locked. As I understood it, he continued to do this for many
years, even though he was not a man who was easily scared. The Dark Prince never made another appearance after 1941 and we never found out whether he was a German or a Norwegian defector. During
the war we believed and hoped that he was a German who had either been killed or left Norway, but afterwards we thought it was perhaps more likely that he had been a Norwegian. The modus operandi
was not German. They generally came in uniform with dogs in the early morning. We hoped that maybe the Dark Prince was one of the Nasjonal Samling members we liquidated later. We suspected one of
them. But we still do not even know if it was a man. I would dearly like to know for certain before I die who the Dark Prince was.’

I was writing all this down as fast as I could. Fortunately, Wendelboe spoke relatively slowly. It had become a two-way communication with short questions from me and long answers from him. I
vaguely registered his wife, who was sitting on the sidelines on the sofa, nodding from time to time.

‘So this Resistance group also carried out liquidations?’

Wendelboe nodded in confirmation and looked even more serious when he continued.

‘Our country was at war, young man, and no one could predict the outcome. We did what we had to whenever we could. Even when it cost the enemy their lives and us our peace of mind and a
good night’s sleep for many years to come. But we are talking about a total of five men over the course of four years, and in all cases there was no doubt about the guilt and evil of those
men. I will carry those five names with me to the grave. And I will also take with me the knowledge that they all had the lives of good Norwegians on their conscience, whether directly or
indirectly, and would have deserved to be shot by the Norwegian state if we had not killed them during the war.’

Petter Johannes Wendelboe had leaned forwards in his chair so that his face was now alarmingly close to mine. It was not hard to see why his presence resulted in a subdued atmosphere at dinner
parties in the house, or to understand that he was a man Magdalon Schelderup had respected. I had no desire to ask Wendelboe whether the five would truly have been executed after the war. I had a
feeling that he was not entirely satisfied with the treason trials.

‘The names are not strictly relevant here. Now, is my understanding correct, that both you and Magdalon Schelderup took part in liquidation operations in the latter part of the
war?’

He nodded.

‘Yes, we both had to carry that burden. My wife did not participate in any such operations, but each and every man in the group took part in one or more. Even the young Hans Herlofsen was
involved in one liquidation only a few months before liberation.’

I made some more quick notes. Hans Herlofsen obviously had a more dramatic past than his present jovial demeanour betrayed.

‘And was this in any way connected to the situation on Liberation Day?’

Wendelboe shook his head firmly.

‘Not at all. That was completely separate, and far more tragic than anything we experienced during the war.’

For a moment, there was silence in the room. Then there was a loud sob, which I realized must have come from Mrs Wendelboe. Her husband sent her a couple of long looks, then carried on talking
when she did not.

‘In 1944–5 there were three leaders in our group: Magdalon Schelderup, Ole Kristian Wiig and myself. Ole Kristian Wiig was the youngest of us, but also the most ideological and the
best. During the war we often talked about it and agreed that the world would be his oyster afterwards if he only survived. And I believe so even more keenly in retrospect. Unlike Magdalon and
myself, Ole Kristian encapsulated the political spirit of the time. He had a background in the Labour Party youth league and was precisely the kind of new young man they appointed to important
posts in the years immediately following the war.’

I now noticed that Mrs Wendelboe had started to weep. She was crying silently, but all the more intensely for that. Within seconds the tears were flowing. And, annoyingly, it was her husband who
once again had to tell me the reason.

‘Ole Kristian Wiig was my wife’s younger brother. So we knew each other extremely well, even before the war.’

I shifted my gaze to Mrs Wendelboe, who was sitting as still as a statue on the sofa. The only movement in her face was the tears that continued to stream down her cheeks.

I mumbled my condolences and asked whether they had had any more siblings – and immediately regretted doing so. Mrs Wendelboe’s eyes blazed. Her composure in the midst of her grief
was impressive. She remained seated with stoic calm for a short while, but when she then spoke, her voice was firm.

‘No. There were only the two of us. He was so kind and bright that I was more than happy always to be in his shadow. Ole Kristian did not have a family himself, but instead was the best
uncle in the world to my children. For the full five years of the war I lived without a thought for myself, but in constant fear that something might happen to my husband, my children or my little
brother.’

There was another moment of silence. Her husband and I waited patiently until she was ready to continue.

‘I remember the incredible relief that I felt on 8 May 1945 as if it were only yesterday. Ole Kristian lived close to us in Ski and had a key to our house. He was the one who came running
across the lawn, overjoyed, to wake us with the news that the Germans had capitulated and that all our suffering was over. I remember thinking to myself that the sun had never shone so brilliantly
on Norway as it did that morning. Ole Kristian left us for a few hours, and then the light vanished just as suddenly from my life. And it has never returned. It feels as though I have been living
in a twilight ever since, even on the brightest summer day.’

Mrs Wendelboe once again fell silent and sat motionless on the sofa. It was a relief when her husband finally came to her rescue.

‘It was an extremely sad and emotional experience for us all. It happened that very afternoon. We’d set about preparing a celebratory meal. Ole Kristian had gone to sort out a few
things, but had promised to be back by three. It was an unusual day, of course, but we started to get a bit anxious when half past three came and went without any sign of him. At a quarter to four,
we sighed with relief when Magdalon Schelderup’s big black car swung into view down the road. We assumed that Ole Kristian was with him. But our joy was short-lived. We could soon see that
Magdalon was alone in the car and that he was driving towards us at a dangerous speed. My wife took my hand and said that something was wrong, even before Magdalon stopped the car. We could see
from his face that something ghastly had happened. Magdalon was not a man who was easily moved, but on that day his emotional turmoil was clear to all. He came over to us and embraced us, told us
that there had been a terrible accident and that Ole Kristian was dead.’