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and businesses; but many
also left to continue fighting with the allies, some leaving on British
warships and others crossing into neutral Sweden. Sten, overcome by indecision,
sat at home and obsessed on his duty and obligations to his family and to his
country. What could he do at home but try to take care of his wife and child,
and pretend that foreign invaders didn't control his life? Did that accomplish
anything that would advance the flag toward the goal of defeating and ousting
the enemy? On the other hand, if he left to fight, it would be abandoning his
loved ones left behind to tyrants. Able-bodied men could still make it out of
the country, but it was near impossible for families, especially with small
children, to make the trek. While the Nazis insinuated themselves into the
affairs of everyday life, Sten went about his business, paralyzed with
incertitude and slowly sinking into a state of depression and anger.
    "Sten," Olaf whispered. Sten's unfocused eyes
looked out at the rippled surface of the lake. Louder. "Sten."
Rousing from his reverie he turned to face the youth. "Sten, what should
we do?"
    "Wait." That was probably the most difficult thing
for an eighteen year old and his discomfiture was phatically signaled in Olaf's
reply.
    "But Sten..." Sten did not have the psychological
resources at this time to deal with the youth or even to provide any solace for
him, so he simply ignored him and swung back to the lake, the binoculars to his
eyes, once again lost in his musing.
    Life under the Germans was not so much of a vice grip for
him, as it was a suffocating encumbrance, an impediment to living the way he
wanted. It was, he thought, as if all his actions took place on a giant cobweb
of infinite dimensions, each movement held back by sticky strands, never
knowing if he would reach his destination and always, in the back of his mind,
the spider. Would today be the day it came? Would he feel it's paralyzing
sting, and then, immobilized, watch as the light faded while the beast
methodically spun its cocoon of death until all was shut out except the cries
from his own terrified mind and the receding sound of marching jackboots.
    He thought back to what had led him to this place, how he
had come to be waiting on the shore of a lake in southern Norway on a frigid
February morning.
    From a few casual comments at a local bar, to hushed
discussions while walking to work, to the first meeting in Swenson's barn after
the cows had been brought in for the evening, Sten was drawn in and inexorably
led down the path. With the help of Brits parachuted in under cover of
darkness, the network grew. Sabotage and clandestine operations, small blows
for freedom and for personal revenge, were all that he was able to do. It
accomplished something positive for the allied war effort but only provided a
small measure of relief for the anger and humiliation that raged inside him,
for somehow it did not seem honorable, this skulking about at night, these
small attacks here and there. It was not honorable in the manly way he so
desperately wanted. When a man is denigrated and held in submission,
embarrassed before his family and made to endure things that no self respecting
person should stand for, he needs to confront his enemy, look him in the eyes
and say to him that you can't do that to me or to my family, I won't let you,
I, Sten Hierdahl defy you, challenge you, conquer you, shoot you, destroy you.
    The binoculars creaked in his hands and it was only then
that he realized how hard he had been squeezing them. He relaxed his grip,
returned his attention to scanning the lake. Yes, I have aged a decade in
the last few years.
    "Anything yet, Sten?"
    Sten stared out intently, his forehead furrowed and the
corners of his eyes creased from the effort. Holding the glasses in one hand he
wiped a sweaty palm on his pants. The sky was lightening and the mist
dissipating.
    "Sten?" Olaf fidgeted.
    "Yes. There it is."
    "Can I look?"
    Sten handed