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Boldwood Books - Helen Parusel

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178 pages

English

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A forbidden romance in occupied Norway…

Narvik, 1940. After Laila awakens to the sight of warships in the fjord, it isn't long before she turns resistor to the brutal Nazi regime. She is horrified when local girls begin affairs with enemy soldiers, yet against her own principles, she finds herself falling in love with German soldier, Josef.

Josef is not like the others. He becomes involved in helping her and the locals with resistance activities, risking his life on more than one occasion.

But then Laila finds out she is pregnant. With Josef sent to the Russian front, and Laila cast out by her family, she turns to a home for women which promises to care for her and her unborn child. But instead, she finds herself caught in a system of evil far beyond what she thought possible…

'This debut shines a light on a little known, but no less vital, corner of the war - events we should all know about. Fascinating.' Mandy Robotham, author of The War Pianist

'The layers of deception Laila encounters at the Lebensborn home were masterfully done and had me glued to the pages. A powerful debut, and a must-read for fans of historical fiction.' USA Today bestseller, Andie Newton

'Atmospheric and gripping.' Jacquie Bloese, author of The French House.

'...both a poignant love story, and a fascinating exploration of the experience of being an occupied nation during a time of war... An accomplished and gripping debut!' Louise Fein, author of People Like Us

'A heartbreaking tale of love, loss and overwhelming courage. I was captivated, and couldn't turn the pages fast enough." Siobhan Daiko, author of The Girl from Venice

'The compelling story of Laila - a woman of great hope and courage - who showed how love, loyalty and compassion can endure despite the evils of war.' Catherine Law, author of The Officer's Wife

‘The story tore my heart out but I love the strength and determination in the most vulnerable characters … A gripping and exciting read.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ netgalley review

‘This book is powerful, thought provoking and is written in such a beautiful way … we just NEED a sequel as simple as that.’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ netgalley review

‘A beautiful story of heroism, bravery, womanhood, motherhood, and love amidst the chaos of war. It’s such an addicting and beautifully written story. I stayed up way past my bedtime to finish this book!’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ netgalley review

‘A superbly written book … It is truly a sublime read that creates a picture of beauty, sadness, loss and the ability to overcome. I LOVED IT!’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ netgalley review

‘A marvellous historical debut that enthralled me … a fabulous debut’ ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ netgalley review

Sujets

Historical Fiction

20th Century

World Literature

Historical

Women

Segunda Guerra Mundial

21st century

Scandinavian

Woman

World War II

Norway

The Women

Family Life

Narvik

Seconde Guerre mondiale

Informations

Publié par	Boldwood Books
Date de parution	17 mai 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781837515257
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0900€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

A MOTHER’S WAR

HELEN PARUSEL
To Mum, who always believed I would someday write a book.
CONTENTS

Part I

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

Part II

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part III

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Author’s Notes

More from Helen Parusel

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Helen Parusel

Sixpence Stories

About Boldwood Books
PART I
1
NARVIK, NORWAY, 9 APRIL 1940

220 km inside the Arctic Circle

The sounds of the fjord were different that night. Laila lay in bed, listening: a faint drone beneath the whine of the wind, a low hum from the churning sea. She heard a shout. Her body stiffened. More shouts. She kicked back her eiderdown and swung her feet onto the wooden floor. Her long, white nightdress twisted around her ankles as she darted to the window. Ice and snow covered the glass. She pulled at the window but the old frame jammed. A jiggle and a yank; she forced it open. Raw air gushed in and covered her face in a cold mist.
Through the swirl of snowflakes, she saw a mass of grey-black silhouettes hulking across the fjord. People with torches and binoculars were gathered along the shore. A man pointed and the crowd ran from the water’s edge.
Laila gripped the windowsill, digging her nails into the splintered paint. Her eyes searched the darkness. A deep roar erupted and echoed across the fjord; a shape on the water exploded and flames split open the night sky, illuminating the scene.
Battle ships. Rows of them.
Battle ships looming over the fishing boats that leaped and rolled in the storm beneath the snow-tipped mountains.
She watched transfixed, unable to move or think until her bedroom door flew open. Mama, small and grey, stood in the doorway, the neck of her nightdress clutched in her hands. Her voice shook. ‘My God, what’s happening?’
As Laila reached for her, a blast shook the house; vibrations shuddered through her body. She swung back to the window; nearby houses crackled orange, dense black smoke spiralled above. Horrified, she saw the Andersen family topple out the front door of their burning home.
Laila froze.
Heartbeats passed.
Something inside her shifted and adrenalin ignited.
Papa wasn’t here. She must act. Get the family to safety.
She strode over to her mother and grabbed her shoulders. ‘Mama, we have to leave. Now.’
Light, swift footsteps. Olaf, in his red pyjamas. ‘Is it the Germans? Are they here? Or have the British come?’
‘I don’t know. We must get out of here.’
Hanna ran in with their baby sister cradled in her arms.
‘Get dressed, everyone,’ Laila said. ‘Quickly, your warmest clothes. We’ll meet in the kitchen. Hurry.’
Laila took baby Inge from Hanna and propelled the family down the hall. She tore off her nightdress, climbed into ski pants, and swathed the baby in blankets, hugging her against her chest. She rushed down the narrow stairs. With the family now dressed and gathered in the kitchen, Hanna glared at Laila.
‘We can’t just leave,’ she said. ‘That’s crazy. Where should we go?’
‘We’ll go to Aunt Kirsten. It’ll be safer away from the coast.’
‘But Papa took the car.’
‘We’ll walk.’
‘No. It’s too far. We should go to the cellar and wait for Papa.’
‘And wait till the house collapses on top of us?’
Laila turned to her mother and clasped her hands. ‘Are you strong enough to walk, Mama? Could you—’
‘Of course she’s not,’ snapped Hanna. ‘She’s still recovering from—’
A flash of light, the earth trembled, the window shattered, and their six blue coffee mugs tumbled from the shelf and smashed onto the floor. The family stumbled into the hall, plucking coats and scarves from hooks on the wall, and Laila took her father’s torch. Then she grabbed some paper and a pen from the commode and scribbled a note.
The lamp with the beige, fringed shade lay on the floor. Mama gazed at it a moment, picked it up, and placed it back on top of the commode.
Moments later, they stepped out into a blizzard of snow and ash. Laila’s throat burned from the smoke; her eyes watered. A blur of images swirled around her: people ploughing through the freshly fallen snow, small children in their arms, or pulling sledges bearing elderly and infirm relatives; the timber houses aflame, the wind flinging snowflakes and burning embers into tornados of black speckled with white.
Worst of all was the noise. The boom of the explosions and the staccato of gunfire that bounced between the mountains. But the most terrifying sound was the wail of men, which the wind tossed through the air from the sea.
The caravan of bundled figures trudged through the snow, stooped against the storm. Ahead of Laila, a small child flung over a man’s shoulder dropped a doll which had been dangling from one mittened hand. The child wailed as the father, busy shouting instructions to the rest of his family, strode on. Laila, clutching Inge tight, bent down and scooped the doll from the snow, and stomped as fast as she could after the child. Laila’s breaths came in short, painful smoke-filled gasps. Coming up behind the father, she held up the doll to the child’s outstretched arms. The child choked back a last sob, clutched the doll with both hands, and gazed at Laila as she and her father headed on. Laila turned back to her own family.
At a crossroads outside of town, the caravan split up in different directions. Laila and her family departed along a narrow, winding country road. They were on their own.
Away from the blaze of the port, the path darkened, and Laila flicked on the torch. The note she had left said they were on their way to Aunt Kirsten. Maybe Papa had already seen it and was on his way with the car; headlights would appear behind them, and they would all pile in with relief at being with Papa again. Safe.
But they heard no engine. They saw no lights.
Laila led the way, baby Inge in the crook of her left arm and the torch in her right hand, swaying the beam from side to side, keeping them on the snow-entrenched road that wound between the trees. They followed the small circle of light, a pinprick amid the towering pines that massed like implacable guards alongside them.
‘Stop.’
Laila turned at her sister’s shout. Mama had dropped to her knees in the snow, her arms still linked to Hanna on one side and Olaf on the other. Laila stamped back, treading through her own footprints, watching her siblings try to hoist Mama back to her feet, but her limp body sagged between them. Fear twisted in Laila’s belly. Fear as cold as the Arctic wind that whipped around them in circles. Had she made a terrible mistake leading her sick mother into the freezing night? Her impulse had been for the family to flee the flames. What if her mother died here?
‘Mama, Mama.’ Laila balanced Inge on her hip, and with her free hand helped to hoist Mama, then dragged her to a fallen tree trunk beside the road. With a sweep of her arm, Hanna cleared the snow, and they lowered their mother onto the log. Laila shone the torch on Mama’s face; her skin was translucent, her frosted lips purple-blue. Snowflakes clung to her closed eyelashes. The children called her name again and again, but she didn’t reply. They rubbed her hands, her arms, her face. Olaf screamed his mother was dead. But no. They could see her wisps of breath.
‘Mama, please,’ Laila said through numb lips. She massaged her mother’s chest. They couldn’t lose Mama. Mama, who knitted Selbu rose pullovers, baked pannekaken with blueberries and spoke of mystical folktales; trolls and huldra .
Mama moaned, her eyes fluttering open. ‘Please. A short rest. Please.’
In the sallow torch light, Laila saw Hanna’s hard, accusing stare. Laila looked away and upwards; the sky had cleared, and a half moon cast a watery, silver glow on the shifting snow. It was Anton who should have been here to make the decisions. Pain jabbed at her heart. How she missed her elder brother.
When Mama could stand again, they continued their journey. Laila focused on counting her steps, her boots scrunching hollows in the snow. She liked the soothing rhythm of counting. One step, then another. She and Hanna, their arms under Mama’s shoulders. Olaf carrying Inge, who cried and whimpered and slept.
‘Nearly there,’ repeated Laila over and over. ‘Nearly there.’
The torch light dimmed and flickered. It flickered again. And was gone. Laila halted and shook the torch, beat it against the palm of her hand, then flung it to the ground.
Darkness.
Hanna cried out.
Laila strained her eyes, making out the jagged outlines of mountains, backlit by the palest glow. ‘We’ll make it. The sun is rising.’

* * *
Aunt Kirsten flew out the door in her dressing gown, her slippers disappearing into the soft snow. ‘Thank God you’re here! Uncle has been listening to the BBC.’ Then reaching for her sister, ‘Astrid, let’s get you inside. Where is Ivar?’
‘Papa drove to see Grandpa yesterday, but we haven’t heard from them,’ answered Laila.
Aunt Kirsten ushered them into the sitting room, lit the fire, and served steaming fish soup whilst Uncle twirled the dials of his radio searching for the latest news.
Late morning, Laila heard the rumble of a car motor and the crunch of snow. Everyone rushed to the front door and there stood Papa with Grandpa. Screams of delight followed, then hugs and tears. Laila was weak with relief to have the family reunited.
No one left the farmhouse for five days. What started as a hum soon became a roar as each day, planes flew overhead. The family huddled around Uncle’s radio, desperate for new