‘But this was in winter – was there not snow on the ground?’
He nodded weakly, twice.
‘It was the middle of February. They left us on the night of 14 February. It was a difficult situation. Either Harald Olesen had to find a safe hiding place for two parents and a baby of two or three months or they had to get out the skis. I think he had planned the latter. The day before they left, he said in passing that it seemed that he and Deerfoot had to take a trip to the mountains.’
I looked down at the emaciated man on the bed, my question no doubt clear on my face. He smiled disarmingly and then sometime after spoke again with great effort.
‘I understood from what he said that this Deerfoot was some kind of guide whom he used when he took the refugees over to Sweden. I have always imagined in later years that Deerfoot was a young man in his twenties or thirties, but I have no idea where Deerfoot came from or how old he was, and certainly not what he was called. I don’t even know which route they took, as there were many possibilities. They might, for example, have driven east towards Østfold, or north to Hedmark or Oppland. What puzzled me was that Deerfoot was mentioned several times in 1942 and 1943, but never again later. I mentioned him one time after the war, but Harald replied dismissively that things had gone awry for Deerfoot. So without knowing anything for certain, I have always presumed that something terrible happened on that trip, and that as result, Deerfoot and the three refugees died that winter in 1944.’
It certainly did not sound implausible, but I was not going to let this new character in Harald Olesen’s life go that easily.
‘Did you by any chance see this Deerfoot when Olesen came to collect them?’
He shook his head as firmly as his strength allowed.
‘No, no. Harald was alone when he came, and only had the couple and the baby with him when he left. I have never seen or spoken to Deerfoot. That much I do know.’
Then quite suddenly his strength left him. Anton Hansen lay listless on his bed for several minutes, gasping for air. I patted him gently on the shoulder, thanked him so much for his help and told him to rest. He nodded with the ghost of a smile on his lips. But just as I was leaving, he mustered his strength and waved for me to come back.
‘If you see my wife, then tell her that it is perhaps just as well if she doesn’t come here again, but do say…’
His voice faded out, but carried on in a whisper after a pause.
‘Say that I still love her very much and am very sorry for everything that has happened after the war. Please can you tell her that?’