OCR Text |
Show With a sigh, Gustaf Ingals -pulled the curtain across his window, shutting out the moonlight moon-light which flooded the little cabin. He felt blindly for his little lamp it should be on the table ah, yes, he had it now. With frost cracked fingers he struck a match, lit the wick, and the small room was illumined with a feeble, timid light. On the table sat his supper, prepared beforehand and covered by a napkin. Gustaf was"' very systematic in the matter of his supper. It was always fully prepared before he went outside to see that all was right with his small -fishing boat and his trees. He felt more attached to his trees than to any human being, now. They had been the only guests at the party when Gustaf brought his new bride, Anna, to the cabin, and had laughed, in their quiet way, to see two such happy people. Later they had whispered whis-pered fairy tales to young Peter. Not so long ago, they wept with Gustaf when Anna had been 1 Ifill OH'Ol' "f iWLiLW i Willi Will lllll I I I. II I I I III II II II HI, , could see the stars poking- their heads through the black ceiling of the sky. Anna had loved nights like this. Anna, whose frail body could not stand the grief placed upon it by their only son's death. Indeed, she had out- lived young Peter by only a month. Gustaf told the trees of his sorrows and loneliness and they sympathized with gentle, windy sighs. "If I could have just one Christmas gift," he told them, "1 would have I would have the life of every German on Norwegian Nor-wegian soil." Gustaf could think of nothing else that he would want or need. They had been the cause of all his grief. If all of them-were removed, people peo-ple would again have a real Christmas, not this mockery of one. The trees whispered among themselves, planning and plotting, plot-ting, it seemed to Gustaf. In the meantime, the little lamp, tied to one of the long tree branches, swung back and forth in the wind. High above, the pilot of a German Ger-man bomber saw the tiny speck of light among the trees and decided de-cided that it demanded immediate immedi-ate attention. Huddled on the bench, the lder man listened to the steady descent of the plane and wondered. Planes had flown over many times before, but never this low. As the winged monster dropped nearer to the ground, the very earth trembled with the vibrations of the mighty motors. And then, maybe Gustaf's weary eyes flickered for an instant, in-stant, or perhaps just the shadow shad-ow of a swaying branch fell across them, but Gustaf will always al-ways swear that as surely as he sat there, the great trees reached up and grasped the plane in their green grip, and, with a roar of ripping metal, catapulted the huge thing over the little clearing clear-ing and the cabin into the deep fiord beyond. The people who came from the near-by village claimed that the plane, lured by the gleam of Gustaf's lamp, circled cir-cled too low and hit the trees accidentally. He never told the villagers his version of the story. He had a feeling that they wouldn't have believed him, anyway. Indeed, who would have not called him mad if they had been told that .he, Gustaf Ingals, hadbeen given giv-en the gift of a German bomber and the crew, and by the trees that grew around his cabin! So he told no one. But he and his trees knew that it was a gift, a Christmas gift, and just the thing he had asked for. taken away, forever. Huge trees they were, and tonight to-night they looked almost like brightly decorated Christmas trees. The snow that sparkled on ' their broad branches reminded re-minded him of the tinsel his mother used to spread on the heavily burdened Christmas tree remembered. The snow, sparkling spar-kling in the moonlight, seemed to be the only decoration which the cursed Nazis could not condemn con-demn nor forbid. Gustaf was in deep thought as he pulled out his chair and settled himself at the table. This was Christmas eve, the second Christmas which he had spent alone. Young Peter had gone to the bottom of the Baltic in a torpedoed ship just two years ago. Gustaf finished the last small piece of cheese and then in his slow, methodical way, he rose, cleared the table, and scoured his dishes till they shown with a luster which would thrill any conscientious housewife. house-wife. He carefully, lit his long pipe with a splinter from the fire. "Christmas eve," he mused aloud, "Christmas eve, with no party, no friends, no country, no family " His voice wavered uncertainly. un-certainly. "Tears will not help. Norway was not built by tears, and it will not be revenged by tears. I'm just one man among many. My family is not the only one broken by the Nazi pigs. It's just that I'm lonely. If I only could talk to someone who would understand or just listen!" Suddenly he rose. He had a plan, a crazy plan, perhaps, but it would help (him to forget that he was alone on Christmas eve. He hurriedly bundled himself in his warmest clothes and banked the small fire on the hearth. Then, picking up the lamp, lie quietly stepped outside and closed the 'door. He was going to his trees. They would understand under-stand his loneliness and share the burning hate of the conquering con-quering invaders who .had taken almost his entire purpose of living, liv-ing, the things he cared for most. Perhaps the fresh, chilling air would remind him of Christmas carols and perhaps there his soul could find the peace which all Christian peoples should feel on the morrow. He went to the largest tree. There was a narrow bench built around it. He would sit there. He settled himself on the side most sheltered from the wind. Far up through the needles he |