Lovers often use each other to fill their own emptiness. Don't they realize it yet? How the desolate Norwegian snowscape fits them so beautifully, caught amid the icy lakes and loaded guns. Only in darkness can they reach the deepest part of themselves, a kernel of peace that makes lies look even more promising than truth.

It has been three months since Major Herman Krause of the Ordnungspolizei, or the Order Police, arrived at the Dalgaard family farm. Rather, German troops have commandeered Johan Dalgaard's property, much to the farmer's dismay. Due to the world war driving tensions even higher, Johan frequently lashes out at his own children: a frail boy named Aksel and an older sibling who suffers without complaint.

Is it wrong to find solace with one of the invaders? Perhaps from an ethical standpoint, yes. This never should have happened between them, but after work, the police major mutters strange, marvelous lines of poetry and then provides a faithful translation of his own.

"There were cliffs and straggling woods, bridges over voids, and that great gray blind lake that hung above its distant floor like a rain-laden sky over a landscape," Herman reads in a whisper. "Between meadows, gentle and long-suffering, one path, a pale strip appeared, passing by like a long, bleached thing. And down this path they came."

A sense of finality passes over him, and before long they fall into cold yet comfortable silence, curling against each other like vines around an olive bough. Anchored by the words of Rainer Maria Rilke and Orpheus, Eurydice, Hermes, he bows his head as if in prayer, blue-green eyes shut tight, with a few strands of chestnut hair falling over his brow.

"I'll be on patrol again tomorrow," he starts to say, barely audible over the crackling hearth. "You shouldn't ask me for the details, but I know you're always curious." For a moment, it feels like he could've been any other man. If only. "I'm worried about losing you though. This won't last forever, so don't look too closely."