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Oi, precious! We swears! Findin’ a prostitute, yeah? Nasty business, tricksy streets! Me loves “The Pianist,” see—Szpilman hidin’, survivin’, playin’ them keys. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, stubborn-like. Me thinks, prostitutes got that grit too, y’know? Out there, dodgin’ coppers, hustlin’ for coin. We swears! Seen ‘em meself, sneaky-like, down by the docks once. Dark, wet night—stank o’ fish an’ regret. One lass, red lips, smokin’ a fag, says, “Wotchu lookin’ at, creep?” Made me jump, it did! Angry, yeah—rude bint! But clever too, sizin’ me up quick.

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First off, I hit up the local café on Storgata. You know, the one with the crazy good cinnamon rolls? Yeah, that one. I grab my coffee, and boom! I spill it all over my shirt. Classic me. I’m standing there, looking like a total mess, and the barista just laughs. I mean, come on! It’s like 8 AM, and I’m already a walking disaster.

Knut Flovik Thoresen: Narvik 1940